It could have been a minute, it could have been a year, when Anne woke up. For a brief moment she opened her eyes, and all the memories came crashing back. Squeezing her eyes shut, her hands flew to head. But her left arm still felt wrong, and she suddenly jumped away from it.

"Milady," said a soft voice.

Her head twisted to Max's bed, where Tess was sitting next to that bald elf from before.

Horrified, she scrambled to sit up. Max isn't in his bed, Max isn't here...

Tess came over to kneel next to her, taking Anne's hands in hers.

"Max?" Anne whispered.

Tess and Solas exchanged looks, and grimacing, Tess looked back to her mistress. Anne started shaking her head.

"He can't be - "

"You were the only survivor of the Conclave," said Solas. "Ir abelas."

Anne ripped her hands out of Tess's and stood up. "No - no! Tess, have Charles fetch him here now."

She whirled around, her finger pointing in Tess's face. "Now."

But Tess was looking up at her, tears and pity in her eyes.

A sick feeling hit Anne's gut. She had never seen her hardened city elf cry. She could feel her face starting to crumble. "Tess, please?" she whispered. A sob retched out of her.

"I'll give a moment," Solas said, as Tess stood up to hold her.

But as Anne watched him stand up to leave, and her stomach plummeted. This wasn't what she was supposed to do - she couldn't go to pieces in front of a stranger. She shouldn't force him out with her crying.

She pushed out of Tess's arms and moved to the wall. Leaning against it, her palms stretched flat against the icy stone, she let the cold penetrate her body. It was almost numbing.

"No."

Solas's eyes cut straight through her and she winced, it had come out a little too sharp.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "No. Please..." She motioned for him to sit again, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Gathering her skirts like a good lady, she moved to sit opposite him.

Pulling several deep breaths into her cold chest, she thought about what was expected. What was needed. "We - I have to plan the funeral," she noted.

Tess stiffened. She had been watching from where Anne left her, but now she moved up to sit next to her mistress again. "Milady, you can't."

Anne's cold fists clenched, her spine going rigid. What else are you supposed to do when someone dies?

"There was no - there is no body to bury. The explosion - it left almost nothing behind," Tess said jerkily.

The images of charred remains dotting the snow came back to her unbidden. She could feel her stomach trying to heave, but she pushed it down.

Solas's eyes had been following her every movement. If he had an opinion, he was keeping it to himself. But at least she wasn't embarrassing herself anymore. He passed her a small bottle from the table, saying, "Here, it will help."

Anne took it and downed it in one. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she wished she was drinking alcohol. Her head was still spinning, she might as well have had a little fun to get it that way.

"There'll be a memorial tonight."

She nodded mutely, still working to arrange her face into a stolid mask. Apparently it was working, because he then started, "You have been asleep for three days, but the Mark appears contained, for now. You are clearly no mage, but it should not spread anymore."

He waited, as if for a response. Anne only nodded mutely.

"The Breach, however, remains open. And there are still rifts to be taken care of. But in the meantime, you are both stable."

Anne could feel her head going up and down until one word made her stop abruptly. "Both? "

Solas smiled thinly. "Yes, you are with child."

Whatever reaction they had expected, it probably wasn't for Anne to ask them both to leave. But this she couldn't have an audience for.

Just as Tess shut the door, though, Anne cried out, "Solas?" He sidled back into the room alone.

She didn't know if wanted the answer to this, but she knew she had to ask. "The Mark...sometimes it doesn't feel like it's just in my hand. I need to know - tell me -"

His eyebrows came together. "Where else have you felt it?"

Anne gripped herself, unable to look him in the eyes. "Everywhere," she whispered.

Solas considered her carefully. "I am a healer and an expert in the Fade, but I am not a midwife. I felt no magic inside you, beside the Mark. I sensed your child - it felt healthy and whole. If it has not damaged the baby before now, I doubt it will."

She sat back down on the bed and nodded. Solas took his leave again, leaving her to sit in her own thoughts.

As a couple, she and Max had prayed for this. Had asked for Andraste's blessing and the Maker's help in conceiving. Max was the youngest, but the Trevelyans had only had girls before him. And now she was carrying the Trevelyan heir with no Max to raise it with.

Tears took her over again.

She was so tired. She was so alone.

Suddenly she was exhausted. She couldn't stand to be alone with herself anymore. Laying down on the bed, she went back to sleep.

This time, she knew exactly what time it was when she woke up.

She could tell because Tess was moving around the room, setting out her darkest clothes. It had to be time for the memorial.

She sat up and let Tess move around her, undressing her, washing her, plaiting her hair, eventually helping her into a dark brown wool-spun dress. Anne moved through the motions, letting Tess guide her through it.

When Tess was done, she moved Anne to the threshold, put her cloak on, then opened the door. There was a gentle glow in the Chantry hall. Countless people lined the walls, all holding candles.

Anne walked out to Cassandra, who was holding two candles and two stones - one each for herself, and one set outstretched for Anne. With her was Leliana, a richly dressed woman, and the tall soldier from the bridge.

As Anne took the lit candle from Cassandra, Leliana moved to her other side to flank her. The Right and Left Hands of the Divine, she had heard somewhere a long time ago.

They started to walk through the path the people had created, and Anne followed them. Faint whispers echoed off the walls, words like "Andraste's chosen" and "the Herald". People were bowing, but Anne was only looking down into her little flame.

They filed out into village, then out toward the lake. The the soldiers outside were holding torches, creating a lit path. At the edge of the lake were several pyres, along with the Chancellor from the mountain. They streamed down to him, their candles like little lamps floating down the mountainside.

When all the villagers and soldiers had come, the Chancellor began the funeral rites.

Tears began to roll silently down her cheeks. So many dead, so few bodies left...

I should have died. I should have died with you, Max.

"No."

The voice from inside her stunned her. It was Max's. So firm, so deep, so annoyed...

Don't be angry with me, she could imagine begging. I just...

I miss you. She closed her eyes, pictured him standing behind her, maybe one hand over her belly.

"You're carrying our child - if you died, so would she."

She? She looked down and rubbed her abdomen. Yes, she decided. She. It's going to be a girl. A little girl, with her father's unruly brown hair and blue eyes.

She looked over her shoulder, as if into his eyes. We'll need a name for her. A good one.

"How about Brunnhilde?" he would tease. "I hear it's a very popular name in Ansburg!" His laughter would carry over the frozen lake, echoing off the mountains like the Chancellor's invocations.

No! Anne would yell, because of course she would take him seriously. We can't name our daughter that! That's something your great maiden aunt would be called!

"How about Dya for your mother and Jacquetta for mine?"

She always loved the way he said his 'J' names, like a real Orlesian.

I'm not naming her after anyone. It would be too hard to keep track of who was who. But I like Julienne.

She could hear him laughing at her attempt at the accent. She had never been good at Orlesian. It had barely been part of her upbringing - she had only started when her parents began looking for a match for her.

Yes, she'll be Julienne. She smiled.

"Will you learn how to say it right?"

Anne rolled her eyes. Yes, fine. Just for you.

"No, for her."

Anne smiled, squeezing her belly, Max's hand was over hers, she could feel it...

People were speaking, the Chancellor had asked for a responsorial canticle. His voice was still the loudest, but now she could hear the sounds of quiet sobbing, of people comforting each other.

Solas had said the Breach wasn't closed and there were still many rifts to close, and here she had spent the day hiding in her room.

Her face, already warm from her tears, grew hot with shame. She was not the only one mourning. She turned her head to look behind her and saw how large the group was, every person illuminated by their little candle or their torch.

She could feel herself slipping into the undertow of her grief and shame.

"You can't go to pieces now," Max said.

I can't do this. I don't know how to do this.

It was like he was next to her again, his arm around her like normal. "That doesn't matter anymore. You'll learn. You have to. If nothing, for little Julie."

She nodded weakly. You're right, you're always right.

"It's because I'm older. " She could hear the smile in his voice.

Someone brushed passed her and Anne realized the soldiers with torches were coming forward to light the pyres.

The rites were over, now it was time for the grieving to leave or stay as long as they wanted. As the heat from the fires grew, she retreated a little up the hill to stand with the other mourners.

Max had always loved singing, it was one of the first things they learnt they had in common. Smiling weakly, she started under her breath:

"A lilac grows on a poisoned thorn
In a dress dirty and torn.
Youngin's a playing, as the black crow flies.
Mama's a-weepin'
Hear the mountains cry."

A couple of the women near her had joined her.

"There was another, a wilder flower
Soft was her heart in its darkest hour
Tears on the ground where her love did die.
'Neath the bloody moon,
Hear the mountains cry."

More were joining in. Anne was surprised, she hadn't realized it was such a famous song.

"Oh dig his grave, narrow and deep,
Set a jug of whiskey by his thirsty feet,
And lay two pieces on his roving eyes,
Two women wailing, as the mountains cry."

Now the valley was carrying their song on the wind, with the sound of the roaring pyres. Anne blew out her candle and bent to place her stone in the snow. Her personal memorial to Max.

As if on cue, others moved forward to do the same. Now they were all singing.

"Oh the wind blows weary,
and the willows sigh,
Rivers of sorrow when the mountains cry,
Rivers of sorrow when the mountains cry."

She watched as people placed their rocks all around hers. Soon a real memorial was growing before her eyes. She realized some people were carrying more than one stone - they had lost more than one person in this fight already. A sick need to stand against this, whatever it was hit her like a bolt from a crossbow. As Charles and Tess place their stones in the pile, Anne moved to stand with them and raise a prayer to Andraste and the Maker. She had the only way to fight whatever killed Max, killed everyone, killed whoever she used to be. She would need all the help she could get.