Author's Note: Dragon Age II and related characters are property of Bioware.

"They do what?" Hawke takes a step back, quite sure she hasn't heard correctly. "They brand each other after...?"

Fenris' armor-clad hand tangles in her hair and pulls her toward him, hard. "I wasn't suggesting adopting the practice. It was only an example of the sort of exchange of favors I-" She braces herself against the wall and quiets him, for a moment, with her mouth on his; his fingers, cool and sharp-edged in metal, trace her cheek. "Beside that, you already have markings. It would be a shame to spoil their symmetry."

The clasps of his gauntlets are simple enough to manage; uncovered, the lyrium etchings glitter in the firelight all the way to his fingertips.

"More likely you'll slice me to bits with your pointy fingers. But let me think of something, if it's a favor you want." She stoops, slightly, to let the heavy gloves down to the floor. "And these-" she grins, remembering, with a wave of her hand over her face- "I was eighteen, drunk off my head on summerwine, and somehow convinced Marrin at the tattooist's that if all the Dalish went and marked their faces when they reached adulthood, then I bloody well should, too."

"And your parents approved of this?" Fenris looks, she thinks, genuinely curious- but then, of course, he doesn't remember his family.

"Maker, no! My father was dead- newly buried, actually, hence my deplorable state of intoxication- and my mother.." she sighs. "Mother didn't have to say anything. She just looked at me, and went back to her room. At any rate, it took a week for all the scabs to peel and Carver called me a leper the whole time-" she makes a face, and Fenris kisses her again.

"You don't have to talk about it, if it is painful to you."

Carver... that's it! "No, it's not that. I just remembered that Carver sent his crest back from the Gallows a few days ago. It's there, on my desk." Ducking under his arm, she crosses the room to the desk, scoops the casting up with one hand. "He said he didn't need it any more, that little shit... that the Templars are his family now. His loss." She shrugs. "Give me your belt."

He pushes away from the wall and is halfway toward her by the time the command registers. "Give you my belt?"

"Give me your belt if you want your favor." She dangles the crest in front of her, red emblem bright against the darkness. "The emblem of House Amell, there for all the world to see. Guaranteed to incite fury in my most ardent admirers, and I'll even attach it for you with my dainty noble fingers."

He laughs, unfastening the buckle, and hands her the belt as he leans the greatsword against the wall. "Dainty like your mabari- but thank you, Hawke."

"This really is important to you, isn't it?" She slides the leather straps through the crest's backpiece, pulling it through until it sits snugly next to the fastening. "There- now it won't fall off."

"I want to remember this. I want to remember something other than these." He flexes his hands; the tattoos seem to move of their own accord. "This is the first time, for as long as I can think of, that I've done something because I wanted to, not because I had to- and it still took two bottles of the Pavali to work up the courage to walk through your door."

"So I'm not the only one who does impulsive things while drunk, then? Good." She draws back her arm and lofts Fenris' belt across the room, where it lands with a thump and slides beneath the bed.

His eyes track the flying object for a moment, then snap back to meet hers. "I did want that back, you know."

"Well, yes. Eventually." Laughing, she snatches up a length of crimson ribbon from her dressing-table; she snags his wrist with it, loops the fabric and ties a messy knot. "Consider this your reminder-" she tugs the ribbon. He doesn't move, and suddenly the room is so bright she can barely see.

Blue-white light streams from the lyrium tattoos, coruscant around Fenris' body- and Hadriana lay there, looking confused until the light faded from her eyes because his arm was there and then it wasn't and then it was, only in the middle of her chest- and so she does the only thing she can think of, which is to shove him back against the wall and kiss him until she cannot breathe and the taste of blood fills her mouth.

Even with her eyes closed (it would have been easier that way, not seeing it coming until it was already over) Hawke feels the energy receding; she stays just as she is until she feels him move again.

"I remember. When the magisters came for me, before I was marked," he whispers, so quiet she can barely hear even with her face against his, "they bound my wrists with chains and pulled me to the altar- just so."

He moves to raise his arm as she realizes her hand is still clutching the ribbon; she snatches her hand back from it, as though it was burning. "Fenris- I didn't'-"

"Of course you didn't know. I didn't know- I just remembered." The word comes out like a bad taste in his mouth. "I remembered it, Hawke, and I nearly killed you."

She reaches down to unfasten the knot and lets the ribbon drop, then takes his hand. "I'm fine," she says, though she trembles a little. "I'm fine, honestly. Lucky for me," she grins faintly, "you're distractible."

Her fingers lace through his, bare skin against fading markings, and he stares down at their hands for a full minute before she realizes. She starts to pull away; he squeezes her hand tighter. "No, don't- just look. Your hand..."

"What about it? There's nothing wrong with it." But she looks, anyway, until he laughs and she turns her head back to him, confused.

"Exactly. He lied to me." He smiles, truly smiles, for the first time she can recall "Danarius told me the lyrium would burn anything- anyone- I touched, so I never... I had forgotten, if I ever knew, how this felt."

With her free hand, she undoes the fastenings at her neck and lets her tunic fall open to the waist; she releases her grip, and his palm brushes across her chest, and that is enough. His hands are warm, eager against her bare skin as they stumble toward the bed, shedding boots and stocking and smallclothes in a pile as they go. Her fingers worry at the straps of his armor.

"After tonight," she gasps, breathless at the weight of him, "you'll remember."

And when she wakes, later, the bed beside her is cold and despite all her pleading he will not stay- but even as he goes, she sees her crest at his belt and a red ribbon bound around his wrist.