The Wounded Coast was dry and cold, wind rattling the dying rushes and setting the dead trees rustling. Hawke squinted into the sharp wind, crouched low over the rocky outcrop and looking down to the smog shrouded ruin below. Armored men moved amongst it, and he strained to find a sigil, a uniform, anything to identify them.

"Slavers." Merrill fluted, halfway up a tree and craning her neck to look down. "They carry whips and chains."

Hawke sighed, feeling the responsive tension about a meter behind him as Fenris' hand went for his sword. No sneaking around this group, then. "You needn't concern yourself, Hawke. I'll be done with these in a moment." His voice had the cold snarl of anger in it, and Hawke shook his head. "There's mages down there, Fenris. And if they're Tevinters, they're probably prepared for you. We do this as a group, or not at all."

Zevran gave a deep sigh, leaning back against the cliff face and idly cleaning his nails with an obscenely oversized dagger. "Shall we talk them to death, hmm? Or get this wrapped up nice and fast so we can get back to the city and commence with the drinking and revelry?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow back at him. "Not looking forward to a fight, Zevran?"

Zevran rolled his eyes up to the sky, his Antivan accent tinged with self pity and humor. "How time changes us, friend. Were our elven friend not spoiling for a fight, I would suggest avoiding them entirely."

"They've got someone." Merrill's soft voice floated down from the tree. "A girl. Tied up."

Zevran sheathed the dagger. "Well, then. That changes things entirely. Shall we?"

The fight was fast and brutal. As skilled as Fenris was, he tended to turn slavers into ruined piles of meat as opposed to corpses, and Hawke was usually leery of bringing him along if they thought they'd come across some. The stink was incredible, the blood already congealing into black sticky pools on the sand. Merrill, the only one still clean of the group, was crouching in front of a girl, unconscious and bound. "Hawke – may I borrow your cloak?"

Zevran had finished wiping off his blades and had sauntered over to look over Merrill's head, giving a low whistle. "Can I assume and hope we are taking her with us? We can't leave her here, most obviously."

Hawke removed his cloak, thumping wearily over to the group. Fenris was keeping his distance, warily eying the campsite for signs of a second group or patrols. Hawke let him stand guard and crouched by Merrill, blinking in surprise as the slim mage undid the last rope and rolled her on to her back. She was very white, with a sheen of illness, her skin milky pale in the overcast afternoon. She had blonde hair, cropped the length of her shoulders, and her hands, feet and knees were smeared with dirt, shockingly dark on that pale skin. Merrill opened one of her eyes, and it was a dilated, ocean blue. She sighed. "She won't be coming out for a while. She's in shock. And cold, surely." She wore a white slip, barely covering her, torn and stained with dirt, the fabric an odd stretchy type Hawke had not seen before. She looked very young, and assumedly highborn, for she had no calluses on her hands or feet and no scars of any kind. She also had the kind of ripe plumpness that came with wealthy living. Hawke sighed with annoyance. "No, we can't leave her here. We'll bring her back to my house and get Anders to have a look at her. Hopefully she'll wake up and shed some light on how we can give her back to her family." He draped the cloak over her, tucking it under her and awkwardly gathering her up into his arms. "Ugh, heavier than she looks. Or taller. Either way, I'm bloody well hoping one of you is going to carry her for a while."

Hawke surrendered her to Isabela when he got home, the Rivaini woman's amber eyes glowing with delight as he laid her out in one of the spare rooms. "Is she for us? What a beautiful thing! Plump as a pretty little pigeon!" Before he could stop her, she reached out and lifted the top of her slip, looking down at her breasts. "I do like nice nipples. Did you look? They're bright pink!"

Merrill made a little noise of horrified amusement and Hawke lifted his hand to stall Zevran, eyes bright with curiosity as he headed towards the bed to confirm Isabela's claim. "No one is looking at her nipples. Stop that. She's a fugitive, obviously, and she's in no position to fend you pair of ravenous beasts off." Hawke stopped and reconsidered. "That said, could I possibly trouble you to run a bath for her? I was going to let Merrill help her, but I think she's going to be a little too – um – odd. If she regains consciousness." Hawke looked sideways at Merrill. "Sorry, Merrill."

"Oh, that's quite all right. I understand."

Isabela smirked. "Anything you say, handsome. I'll be the most attentive bathing assistant you could hope for. Are we waiting for Anders?"

"He's just come into the parlor." Fenris offered from the door, voice colored with disdain. "He's fending off the dog."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Warburton likes you. You could give him a hand."

"No."

Zevran was negotiating Hawke's liquor cabinet with the relaxed impertinence of someone so sunny in nature he assumes he will not cause offence. "It has been a long day, yes? Let's leave the fair nameless maiden to awake and start with the drinking."

"Fair nameless maiden?" Varric thumped into the room, arms wide, smile broad. "This I have to hear. The wounded Coast was eventful, then."

"We have an unidentified almost-slave." Hawke nodded towards the bed. "She hasn't come around yet."

Varric made a noise of interest, wandering closer to the bed, followed by a frazzled and intent Anders. The mage was in Healer Mode, brow furrowed and lips drawn tight in annoyment. "Must we all gather around the bed? If she wakes up now, she'll panic. Take the drinking out to the parlor."

He'd normally be subjected to some good-natured ribbing, but Healer Anders was somewhat more formidable than Apostate Anders, and the wisdom in his words was undeniable. Hawke stood, resigned. "Need anything, Anders?"

"Send Sandal in. He's the only one I can trust not to stand around making smart comments." He thumped to his knees besides the bed, setting aside his staff and putting a gentle hand on the girls head. He looked sideways at Hawke, frowning. "Out. I'll come out and let you know when I'm confident there's anything to tell."

Isabela sighed, bored. "You're no fun. I'll go get that bath running." The assembled group got to the feet wearily, heading out to the parlor, greeted by a deliriously happy Mabari warhound and a curious Bodahn. "Master, will the young lady be all right? She was so pale!"

Hawke shrugged, slumping wearily into an armchair as his friends found seats beside him and around him. "I don't know, Bodahn. Anders has asked if he could have Sandal for a while to fetch and carry, if you don't mind."

"Course not, Sire. Hear that, Sandal? Be off with you! The mage needs help."

"Enchantment!" Sandal said agreeably, toddling back into the spare room. Zevran, slouched comfortably against the side of the fireplace with a full bottle of brandy, watched him go with some amusement. "Your boy is a very different one, Master dwarf."

Bodahn nodded animatedly. "Oh, yes! Very talented, my Sandal." He looked distractedly back towards the kitchens. "If you don't mind, messeres, I might just check on why dinner is taking so long."

Merrill, crosslegged on the rug, was staring down at the fabric in front of her, and Hawke furrowed his brow at her. "Merrill? What's up?"

"Oh – nothing, I just don't –" She paused, one hand clutching at the rug. "I don't feel – good."

Hawke sighed. "You can borrow my bed, Merrill. Go upstairs and rest."

"Thank you, Hawke. I'll-" She stopped dead, and keeled over, hitting the rug with a thud. Hawke was on his feet in a moment, a touch slower than both Varric and Zevran, who'd been within arms reach. Varric hauled her half upright, dragging her roughly onto his lap. "Daisy? Daisy! Wake up, you daft elf!" He gave her a light slap on the cheek, heavy brow furrowed in concern. Hawke looked back at Bodahn, hovering in concern. "Go tell Anders Merrill collapsed. Quick. The slave can wait."

An odd, sinister rattle came from Merrills throat, and Varric jumped, spilling her back onto the rug, where she arched her back, fingers twitching, eyes snapping open. Hawke heard the thud of Anders barreling into the room, as Merrill straightened up and stood, with a kind of weightless grace that she'd never owned. Her eyes burned. Anders froze. "She's possessed." He whispered. "Maker, no."

"Can you do anything, Anders?" Fenris had unsheathed his sword and was advancing on her, mouth grim, and Hawke lifted a hand. "No. Don't. Perhaps it just wants to talk."

"A wise man, Hawke." The voice was a dry, throaty chuckle, immediately familiar, and everyone went still. "Flemeth." He said, trying his best for conversational. "I hope you're planning on leaving that body again."

"Oh I am. Dear boy. Don't you worry." Merrill's sparkling eyes turned to Fenris. "Put the blade away, pretty elf, lest I smite you with it."

Hawke put a restraining hand on Fenris' gauntlet, which he immediately shook off, but he sheathed the blade and backed away a little, eyes dark and angry. Flemeth/Merrill looked back to Hawke. "I've seen something surprising in my visions. Would you like me to tell you?"

"Does it warrant taking possession of my friend?" He said warily.

"Oh, it does. It concerns the future. And Thedas. All very important, obviously. You have a girl with you. A newcomer."

"Yes?"

"She comes from – somewhere else. Not this land, not this world. And yet she must stay. She will bear a child that will decide the fate of these lands."

"Where did she come from?"

"That is hers to tell, if she wishes." Merrill/Flemeth flicked her eyes around the room. "And yet this child must be conceived by a certain person. At a certain time. This is extremely important."

"We don't even know her name. I'm not going to make her sleep with someone of your choosing."

"Then perhaps it would be wise to put the choice in her lap? With a significant stress on the fact that it has to happen, of course." Her brows gathered, the stare became malevolent. "If you cannot convince her, Hawke, then I will."

"And who is supposed to father this child?" Hawke asked, feeling belligerent. "Me? She seems cute enough, sure, but I don't think she's going to be amendable to the idea, and I am not forcing anyone."

"Oh, not you, dear Champion. Interestingly, that's where the vision becomes – indistinct." She looked around the room. "There are three options. The apostate, the slave, the assassin."

"Well that is settled, then." Zevran said brightly. "I can be very persuasive. She will be willing."

"How can you be so blasé about this?" Anders asked tightly, his hands clenched on the top of the chair an odd shade of white. "What the witch is suggesting is essentially rape."

"You are not listening, friend." Zevran said pleasantly. "I am rather confident in my abilities. She will not be forced."

"And you would be a father? You?"

"Take your squabbles elsewhere." Merrill/Flemeth said tersely. "I did not say he would be the one."
"So – what decides it?"

Merrill/Flemeth gave a smile. "Oh, I don't know. The vision is uncertain. Though if she lies with the wrong one, she will not conceive. So to be practical, I would highly suggest all three."

Varric choked on his drink. Hawke blinked. "But – what?"

Flemeth/Merrill rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "Must I repeat myself? You are not boys. I'm sure you will cope. And I daresay she will survive." She flicked her fingers, irritated. "The circumstances are dire. This must be done. I tire of this inane chatter. I must be elsewhere."

"Wait – you said it had to be conceived at a certain time. When?"

"Tomorrow night." The immense pressure filling the room dissipated, and Merrill crumpled onto the floor with a whimper. Varric immediately gathered her back up, supporting her head, her soft moans of distress the only sound in the suddenly silent room. There was the tread of leather, a clink of gold chains, and Isabela sauntered in, drying her hands. "We're all good to go! Can I get her in the bath, Anders?" She froze, looking around, taking in Merrills fetal ball on Varrics lap and the faces of those around her. "What'd I miss?"

Hawke had slumped with his head in his hands, the ache of the whole situation throbbing in his temples. Merrill was refusing to be comforted and Varric talked to her soothingly, in low tones, away from the others, pressing his hip flask into her hands in an effort to relax her. Fenris had taken off as soon as Flemeth did, and Hawke wasn't looking forward to that conversation. Anders was back to concentrating on his patient with the tightlipped intent with someone trying hard not to think. Isabela, typically, was perplexed. "I don't get it. You're all acting like something dreadful has happened. It's ridiculous. All she has to do is have sex. That's all. No ones going to hurt anyone. No ones going to die. Honestly, the way you carry on you'd think you were a pack of Chantry sisters."

"And what if she isn't willing, Isabela?" Hawke glared at her. "What are we supposed to do? Hold her down?"

Isabela winced. "Look. Cross that bridge when we get to it. Let me tell her."
"No. Absolutely not."

"This may come to a surprise to you, but there are people in the room who have had to have sex before, and consented, but not particularly wanted to. Some discomfort, maybe, but it doesn't have to be the screaming wailing bleeding horror that you're imagining."

Zevran winced. "You have a way with words, duckling."

"I just think you're imagining something that isn't going to come to pass. She might be perfectly reasonable and agree to it. It's not like the three are hideous."

Hawke exhaled, one hand on his head. "You're right. But one day is pretty rough, in order to get to know someone well enough to have a child with them."

"The witch said she was from another world. Maybe that world is more practical about matters like this?"

Ander's head appeared around the door. "She's awake."