"It saved your life."
That has to mean something. That has to be enough.
It's still sharp in his mind, Fenris in a crumpled heap on the ground, surrounded by swords and daggers and armor -- by hunters that are after Hawke, always Hawke, for a war that he didn't start.
The haze of blood and magic is distant now, but he'll never forget the first, terrifying rush of it. He'll never forget, when the templars are gone, the way Fenris looks at him.
"At the cost of ruining yours." He's strapping on armor, but when there are no buckles left to adjust and no straps that need fastening, the accusation Fenris levels with a glance speaks more about what he really means, what he really thinks.
How did you learn this? How long have you deceived me?
And Hawke has no good answer, only what already feels hollow as he turns it over in his head again and again. "I wouldn't-- have used it if I had any other choice."
Fenris gives no pause. "You have left with me none as well."
This time, when he goes, Hawke fights for him, fights with him. There's a clasp of hands, Hawke holding onto each arm as Fenris, a flash of lyrium and anger, pries him away and turns with none of the uncertainty, none of the longing, of a stolen night many, many years ago.