A/N: This chapter contains implied depression, injuries, and trauma-related flashbacks that reference physical violence.


A greedy, dank darkness clings to Hawke when she tries to wake, like the brackish, sucking mud on the Wounded Coast. But wake she does, drawn upward by pain's relentless call.

The pain deepens as she wakes; the shallow breaths she manages scrape their way through a sore throat, and turning her head a mere inch sends a blazing wave across her face. Her right eye won't open at all.

Did I lose it? she thinks, muzzily. Am I blind?

The thought does little to concern her. A thick mist shrouds pain and worry. She's aware of how much she hurts, and she knows she should be hysterical with worry, but nothing can reach her through the mist.

Almost nothing. A sticky taste like twice-burned sugar and dirt lingers in her mouth, and a raw hollow borders her heart. That hollow place sends a bolt of fear right through the mist to wake her fully, gasping and clutching at her chest.

"It's all right, you're fine, you're safe!" Rough hands grab her wrists and hold fast. Hawke glimpses a blur of gold hair and candlelight, but on its heels comes the image of a gauntlet, throwing off light from the fire as it drove toward her face.

She turns her head to dodge the blow, struggling against the hard grip on her wrists. The mist burns away, leaves her defenseless against all her pain and terror. The blood in her mouth, it's choking her, she's choking.

"Out of my way," snarls someone else, and the hands around her wrists let go. "Hawke. Can you hear me?"

The voice is gentler now, if unsteady, and familiar. Hawke tries to place it, but her head pulses in time with her fevered heartbeat and she can't remember who's speaking to her.

"I hear —" She cringes as the pain surges on the right side of her face, greedy as a flame. Her heart slows, soothed by the voice and the warm hand gently stroking her hair, but the emptiness around it remains.

"Don't speak," says the person touching her, so kindly, so lovingly. "Anders healed you, but you require more —" They break off, and in the silence, Hawke finally, shamefully, recognizes them.

It's been years since I heard you call Anders by name, love, she thinks, and turns her head carefully into Fenris' hand. He sighs, his breath warm on her skin.

Other voices whisper behind Fenris. Hawke's breath catches. For a moment, sheer dismal humiliation distracts Hawke from the pain radiating through every inch of her body: how many people saw what happened downstairs?

Everyone saw. Everyone saw her, defenseless and useless, a weak little mage too slow to get herself out of harm's way. The man's face looms large in her mind, swelling to fill her skull: handsome and bland and laughing, laughing as he hits her again, and again, and again.

The echoes of the blows linger in her spine, in the hot vises around her lungs, and in her broken face. Now the filthy-sweet taste makes sense: it's one of Anders' potions. He saves it for people who shouldn't feel anything for a long, long time.

Her humiliation crests, bitter and rough as sand in her throat, and she starts to cry — but without the breath for a proper sob, all she manages is a slow leak. Her tears track down her cheeks, cold against her hot, swollen skin, and the rustling behind Fenris grows.

"I'll talk to Corff," mutters someone — Varric, Hawke thinks — as a set of heavy footsteps pace away. The door closes, and still Hawke cries, silently, hating herself more the longer Fenris murmurs her name and strokes her hair.

"Rhyssa," he says, at the end, and Hawke cries harder, shuddering under his hand — how unfair of him, he never uses her first name, and it undoes her completely now. When she opens her mouth to gasp, she feels air against the empty spaces where teeth used to be. She can't bloody open her right eye, her nose is a useless knot of agony.

And her mana is gone, torn from her like a tree ripped out by the roots. If she had breath to spare, she'd scream, and damn her broken ribs.

"Did anyone see him come in?" says Aveline. "Was he with anyone?"

"Not now, guard-captain," Anders stage-whispers. "Your investigation can wait."

"It bloody well can't." Her voice cracks like dry twigs underfoot. Hawke winces — she's too loud, Aveline, too loud by far — but her friend keeps going, voice implacable. "There's precious little to go on, the man's dead."

"Stop," Hawke whispers, between gasps. Fenris' hands pauses mid-stroke, and Hawke forces her left eye open once more. Her sight is blurry — Fenris is just smudges of color — but she can see. "No name," she says, ignoring the pain as best she can. "In Kirkwall…business."

A wash of red-gold and silver kneels beside the bed. Varric's bed, Hawke decides — that's a silk coverlet under her fingers. "What did he say to you?" Aveline asks, her voice mercifully hushed. "Did he say what his business was?"

Hawke shakes her head. The pain's locked her jaw shut, and the thought of trying to say another word makes her stomach clench. Shaking her head is hardly better: a fresh wave of dizziness almost makes her retch.

"She can't talk, can't you see?" says Anders. "Maker, Aveline, it can wait. She needs her rest."

I need you all to be quiet, Hawke thinks, but can't say. If she speak, she'll scream. Fenris' hand is so heavy on her head, so very heavy.

"I —" Aveline's blur stands abruptly. "Yes. I'm sorry, Hawke. Please…"

Hawke lifts her hand, twitches her fingers in a wave that means It's fine and Please go at the same time, and exhales slowly, relieved, when Aveline disappears from view.

Anders' blur immediately takes Aveline's place, and lifts a dark-brown mass into Hawke's line of sight. Her stomach twists — Fenris' hand, dark and dripping, something heavy falling to the floor — and she shuts her good eye. The mass is a bottle, and she knows the contents.

"Hold her head up," Anders tells Fenris. "Careful — yes, just like that. Hawke, this is going to taste terrible, but the more you drink now, the better you'll feel when you wake up."

It'd be hard to feel worse, she jokes silently. Fresh tears leak from under her lids. No, not ready to joke about this yet, not at all. She swallows obediently when Anders put the bottle to her lips, gagging as the taste floods her mouth, praying that the mist will come again and hide her from the last few minutes.

Fenris eases her back to the bed, his fingers brushing the hollow under her ear. "Rest, Hawke," he says.

She's hardly good for anything else, but she has no way to tell him that. Instead, she waits, silently, for the potion to take hold.

"Corff's cleared everyone out, but we should go now. Got a cart waiting." Varric's voice, wavering and far away. "You ready to carry her, elf?"

Fenris makes a scornful noise. Hawke almost smiles. She hadn't realized how comforting that noise was till this moment.

Vaguely, she feels Fenris lifting her, cushioning the uninjured side of her face against his chest, and then he makes his steady, unhurried way out the door. The potion tugs her down, into the clammy darkness from before, but Hawke welcomes it this time. She'll stay there as long as she can, away from the pathetic spectacle she's become.

The mist rolls over her, grey and quiet. The voices around her fade into nonsense. She knows nothing of the long, careful ride home.


Her second waking is far gentler. The mist rolls away, leaving Hawke behind like the abandoned shells and stones after the tide changes, but what pain she does feel is manageable so long as she doesn't move.

She's in her own bed, under layers of wool and silk, naked except for bandages wrapped around her chest and head, and she isn't alone.

Fenris. She's too heavy-headed to say his name, but she makes some small noise, and a warm, rough hand curls around her wrist. Anders' hand, judging by the careful way it seeks out her pulse and doesn't weave its fingers through hers.

"How long?" she whispers, slowly, to avoid slurring her words. Speaking sends prickling heat through the right side of her face, but when no reply comes, she swallows — blood and dirty sugar, nothing unexpected — and tries again. "How long, Anders?"

The hand around her wrist tightens before letting go. "Two days since the Hanged Man," he says. "You woke here and there, long enough for me to get more potions into you, but not long enough for you to really know what was going on. A blessing, if you ask me."

I didn't, Hawke thinks. Experimentally, she tries to open her eyes. They both work, after a fashion. Breathing comes more easily now, though her nose is still a useless lump. Her ribs throb when she inhales, but they also itch, a sensation that's more comforting that Hawke ever imagined.

She's healing. A brief surge of hot relief clenches her hands into fists, until she realizes the hollow space in her chest remains.

Her mana is still a dead field around her heart. Hawke thinks of Lothering, of the fields poisoned and burned, and shuts her eyes before she can embarrass herself by crying again.

"This is going to sound like a ridiculous question," Anders says, "but I need a serious answer. How do you feel, Hawke?"

"Like hell," she mutters. Her lips are swollen and stretched tight, every word sends a new wave of heat through her face. Why is Anders, the healer, making her talk? "Shouldn't you know that?"

He chuckles, a dry, exhausted sound. "I do know that, but I can't see everything right away. If something new hurts, then I need to know. And the sooner we get you talking, the stronger the new muscles and bones will be. Just a bit, don't overdo it," he adds, his voice a little lighter.

Hawke's far from ready to joke along, but she curls the left side of her mouth into a little smile. Two days, Anders said, with her waking throughout. He must have been here the whole time, pouring mana into her. The least she can do is give him a smile.

"Is there anything?" he asks.

Hawke shakes her head, and immediately regrets it. Strange, how one can be so dizzy just lying on their back in bed. Through her good eye, she watches her dim room swim around her. The curtains have been pulled shut, but a fire and a few candles on her desk glow peacefully. Her room should not be this dark.

Think, damn you. Think. A cunning, slow pain, not the vicious heat in her face and ribs, throws up obstacles whenever she tries to put more than two thoughts together. Her room should not be this dark. Where has the light gone?

The pin drops after what feels like an age. Her room is dark because her mirrors are gone, and the light they threw so cheerfully from one corner to the next has vanished with them.

A leaden, ashamed knot fills her throat. Is she really so delicate, so vain, that someone had to hide what was done to her? The answer comes swiftly: yes, she is. She loved her mirrors, loved her reflection within them, and now she can take pleasure in neither.

"Do you want something to eat?" Anders hasn't noticed her distress; bitterly, Hawke realizes she can only credit that to her face being too battered for any recognizable emotions to show through. That, or she's too generally distressed for one kind to win out over another. "I'm afraid it's just broth and more broth for now, at least till your teeth grow back, but Orana is ready and waiting."

"Teeth." She has a vague memory of spitting blood, and something hard falling from her mouth. She shivers, claws at her sheets as her stomach lurches.

"It's all right." The exhausted note in Anders' voice disappears, to be replaced by faint alarm. "I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry. You're doing quite well, all things considered."

She can't help a startled, mangled laugh. "Good for me," she says, hating the self-pity in her words, unable to hide it. "I'm so glad at least that's going well. But Anders — the magebane. How long?" She can't bear to press more, not while the song within her soul is absent.

Anders shifts, eloquent in his silence. "I don't know. Without knowing the exact mixture…I'm sorry."

Hawke rolls her head carefully in his direction. Her sight's not so bad that she doesn't see the regretful wince when he sees her face, but he gives her a tired smile and covers her hand with his.

"It's all right," she lies, with another attempt at a smile. "You've enough to worry about. I should try being a better patient."

"I've had far worse," he says, chafing her hand. "And you're one of the few who's never thrown up on my boots, so let it out."

"Was it Isabela?" she asks. "Who threw up on your boots?"

"Oh, she was one of many," Anders says. "But not because she was injured," he adds. "I'll tell you the whole story some time."

"Can't wait." Hawke's stomach rumbles. It's the only sound besides her voice and Anders', and now she's abruptly aware of what she hasn't heard, or seen.

"Where's Fenris?" she asks, heavy with a whole new reason to be angry with herself. "Is he all right?"

Anders' mouth thins, but he replies without his usual venom. "He's quite well. Probably pacing outside the door. I asked him to give us a moment alone."

Battered face or not, Hawke manages to give Anders a cold look. "And why do you want that?" she asks. "There's nothing we need to talk about that can't wait."

"The man who attacked you used magebane, and that's not a potion most people can get hold of easily," Anders says. "He knew you were a mage —"

"Like the rest of Kirkwall." Wherever Anders is going with this, Hawke has no interest in following. She wants Fenris, food, and a bath, in that order, not the newest edition of Anders' manifesto. No matter how grateful she is for all Anders has done.

"No one in power's moved against you," he says. "Not even the Knight-Commander. There's still balance. But now…Meredith will see this as a weakness she must exploit, and you must be ready."

"Ready for what?" Hawke asks. She stares at the canopy of her bed, strangling her growing ire. "Anders, now is not the time. Would you ask Fenris to come back in?"

Anders' face darkens, brows drawn low and his eyes hooded. "Are you sure Meredith didn't have a hand in this?" he says. "Consider it. I'm not worried for nothing."

Hawke breathes slowly through her mouth, knowing by the steady throb in her jaw and cheek that she's talked too long. "Maybe not," she says, as gently as her raw throat allows. "But a templar wouldn't have to use magebane." All a templar would have to do is catch her alone, tired from yet another fight with bandits or slavers. A simple disruption, her body tossed into the sea — nothing would be easier. It's only a surprise that Meredith hasn't tried it before.

But I've never been alone. There's always a friend at her side, or she's in a crowd, or safe within her home. Meredith may be holding on to sanity by her fingertips, but she's not clumsy. Not yet, maybe not ever.

Magebane is very clumsy. Magebane leaves a stinking mess behind — unless you have something to cover it up. Like blood, and a panic.

Hawke shudders, ribs creaking. The last thing she needs now is mystery, no matter how fixated Anders is on making her face it. If that makes her a coward, so be it.

"We'll talk later," she says. "Please, get Fenris, Anders."

Anders keeps frowning at her until she turns her head away, gingerly resting the flushed right side of her face on a cool pillow. Then, he rises with a quiet sigh, gives her a light, stubbly kiss on her forehead, and crosses to the door.

She has time to draw a single breath before the bed dips under a familiar weight. When she opens her eyes, Fenris — tired, worried, beloved Fenris — fills her sight.

"He shouldn't have told you to leave," she says, then winces when her jaw sends up a fresh wave of heat. Fenris' face constricts, a new layer of worry shading the old. "You must be tired of these vigils," she says, through a tight throat. "Isn't it time for me to fuss over you? Not that I want you to be hurt — oh, Maker."

It isn't pain that makes her pause, but revulsion: her jaw feels slippery, and the thought of speaking any longer horrifies her. Fenris, still silent, touches her good cheek with the tips of his fingers.

The sensation passes, not before a few tears make their way down her cheeks. Hawke brushes them away, careful of her bruises and the bandage wrapped around her head, and gives Fenris her new half-smile. "I hope you don't regret waiting around till I finally woke up," she says, as brightly as she can.

"My only regret is not moving faster," Fenris says, voice clenched tight as a fist. "I should have…" He lowers his head, hand still on her face. "Forgive me."

He killed the man who attacked her, and he's apologizing? Hawke almost laughs. "There's nothing to forgive," she whispers. "You were there."

She's going to cry again. She's going to cry, like a weak little girl, and she can't stand herself any longer. Fenris shouldn't have to deal with her tears, on top of everything else. Maker knows she's taken enough years off his life by now.

"Not soon enough."

Fenris is as stubborn a man as she's ever known, but never more than when it comes to blame. "You shouldn't have needed to be there to begin with." Only a few words are left to her, but Fenris must hear this. "I should have thought faster, been faster. Not needed to be rescued."

A muscle in her jaw twitches, sends pain twisting down her neck. She holds back a gasp by the barest margin. Fenris gives her another look that's equally fierce and tender, but stays silent for a long time.

Long enough for the dregs of Anders' potions to fade, and for the depth of the emptiness within her to become blazingly clear. She's drained her mana in the past, and been left shivering and dreamless afterwards, but this isn't over-extension, this is absence. Her mana has been scooped cleanly out of her, without leaving a trace behind.

It strikes Hawke that Fenris may prefer this version of her: the curse of her magic is gone, but she herself remains. Herself, unspoiled.

Unfair, she tells herself, and turns away from the thought with a shudder.

At last, he asks her if she's hungry, a question she can answer with a simple nod. He leaves her long enough to go to the door and whisper to someone outside, and moments later, Orana appears with a bowl of steaming broth.

Fenris eases her up to sit against her pillows, pausing whenever dizziness leaves her gasping. When she's upright at last, Orana tiptoes forward with the dark bowl held in both hands.

The rising steam soothes away the worst of the aches in her cheek. She breathes in deep, humming with pleasure as her breathing eases. Mother always did claim that chicken soup was good for all ailments. Hawke sits back, careful to keep the bowl balanced, then catches her reflection on the surface of the clear broth.

Mottled bruises cover the entire right side of her face and neck. Her right eye is nearly obscured by swollen flesh, and a shiny, raw patch of skin gleams on her temple.

And this is after days of healing, she thinks. The scream builds in her chest, but she shoves it down, and down, until the urge to let fly the jagged sound diminishes into something she can ignore. I will not scream. It's just a face. I'm alive, and that's what matters. I need to stop being a vain twit and eat.

Fenris is watching. She lifts the bowl to her mouth, and keeps her eyes closed until she finishes drinking every drop.


After two more days of broth, fitful dozes in between healing, and waiting for any sign of her mana to return, Anders judges Hawke to be fit for visitors, and her relief briefly overwhelms any qualms she might have over being seen. She's as starved for fresh faces as she is for sunlight, and there's little chance of her getting much of the latter. The thin sliver of sky she sees from her bed is the color of slush, and she doesn't think she'll ever be rid of the sound of rain.

Hawke feels a little of Fenris' coiled tension ease at Anders' pronouncement. For the past three days, Anders and Fenris have communicated in nothing but glares and monosyllables, with any belligerent hostility resolutely crushed — or, at the very least, deployed while she's sleeping — but she senses how Anders' presence picks at the edges of Fenris' composure. The signs are small, a stiffness in his replies, an extra layer to his silence, but her guilt compounds every hour. If she hadn't been hurt —

"It's as good a time as any to test your legs," Anders says, fixing her with an assessing look. "If you think you're up for it, Varric and Isabela are downstairs — and there's something you should see."

He gives her a maddening little smirk, but Hawke refuses to take the bait. Her recovery will be free of mysteries, even the friendly kind. Anders can go stuff his hints. "I think I can manage a walk, if you don't mind lending me your arm," she says, turning from Anders to Fenris. "Getting downstairs doesn't seem too onerous."

"You haven't walked more than a step in almost five days," Anders says, still with his little smirk. "Don't jinx yourself."

"My arm is yours," Fenris replies, not casting a single glance in Anders' direction.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed is easy, but she hesitates before lowering her feet to the floor. For four days, her bedroom has been her entire world: safe, dim, and quiet. Anything beyond her door is a question mark — not quite a mystery, but an uncertainty. So long as she stays in bed, no one can see her, no one can hurt her. If she goes downstairs, there's no telling what will happen. Better to stay in bed until she's ready.

And when will that be? A week from now, or a month? Face it now and get it over with. Don't be a coward.

Fenris' thumb sweeps over her knuckles. They have so little need for words; he can find all the answers he needs when she meets his gaze. If she wants to stay in bed, Fenris will not argue.

But Anders will, and that'll end the tenuous peace between him and Fenris. That thought, more than any real eagerness to go downstairs, is what makes her stand, and let Fenris help her into a heavy wool robe.

Anders' assessment of her strength was entirely accurate: her legs tremble by the time she reaches the landing, and only Fenris' strong arm keeps her standing. Twice, she nearly gives up and turns back to her room; the landing is too bright after so long in near-darkness, and far too cold as well. She's as exposed as a goldfish in a shallow pond.

The moment she reaches the top of the stairs, Varric turns away from the fire, and calls her name, his voice so warm it borders on joyful.

"Hawke! Good to see you!" The dwarf hustles to the bottom of the stairs, grinning. "Another hour and I'd owe Rivaini five sovereigns."

"You bet on Hawke's recovery," says Fenris, flatly unamused. Anders makes a disgusted noise at Hawke's shoulder.

"It was a friendly bet." Varric shrugs without taking his eyes from Hawke's face. Watching for her reaction, she guesses, and far more worried about it than he's letting on.

Perversely, Hawke's relieved. Varric and Isabela's ridiculous bets are normal, a part of her life before she saw fists coming at her face whenever she closed her eyes. They could have bet on the color of her bruises, and she'd be grateful for the scrap of familiarity.

Her face twinges when she tries to smile back at Varric, pain arcing through her cheek and past her ear. Maybe not her bruises, then.

"Only five sovereigns?" she says, stepping down to the floor. "That seems low."

Varric opens his mouth, but it's Isabela who replies, popping her head around the side of Hawke's chair by the fire. "Oh, we started at one when Anders said you'd make an appearance, and it's gone up every hour." She pouts in Hawke's direction and tugs at an earring. "If only you'd stayed in bed another day."

Hawke huffs. "Sorry to disappoint."

Isabela keeps pouting, even while relinquishing Hawke's seat to her, then leans against the side of the fireplace. Fenris takes the only other seat by the fire and draws it close, leaving Varric and Anders to take up places on either side of the fire.

No one speaks.

Hawke spends far too long staring at the fire, wishing she were still in bed and unreasonably annoyed it's fallen to her to play hostess. Surely, after seven years together, they can start a conversation on their own.

She ignores an itch under her bandages, and sighs. The rain patters distantly, endlessly against her windows, and unless she wants that to be the only sound she hears, she might as well try to get them talking.

Besides, she considers darkly, it's her fault they're not talking, isn't it? There can only be one thing on their minds, but they're awaiting her cue.

"So." Hawke digs her fingers into the arms of her chair as everyone's gaze turns toward her. "What do I need to see?"

Isabela pushes off the wall with a sly grin that doesn't quite mask her impatient relief. "Oh, we've been waiting to show you this. No, stay where you are, just give me a candle or something — yes, that's perfect," she says to Anders, as he conjures a bluish flame in the palm of his hand.

Hawke's mouth goes dry with envy as Anders' mana brushes against her. Nothing stirs in her at all, though, and she watches with hungry eyes as he follows Isabela and Varric toward the foyer. She rubs at her breastbone absently, dropping her hand when Fenris glances her way.

"News travels fast in this city," Isabela calls from the dark foyer. "Varric and I have been your gatekeepers — a lovely job, by the way."

"How wonderful for you," mutters Hawke. "Wait, what do you mean, gatekeepers?" She squints to follow Anders' flame, then sucks in a breath when the light falls on a squat wooden cask. "Maker, what is all this?"

Isabela bumps her hip against the cask, smirking. "Come and see," she says, her voice an irresistible dare.

It's not a mystery if it's ten steps away, Hawke tells herself, and rises slowly. Fenris' hand brushes the small of her back, a wordless reminder of safety, of certainty, and despite her still-weak legs, Hawke walks to the foyer without issue.

"Is that…Fereldan red ale?" she asks, her mouth dry for a whole new reason. Maker knows she'd barely be able to taste it with her nose still swollen, but the flavor glows in her memory. They drank that ale on the farm in Lothering, even Mother.

"Certainly is," says Varric, rapping his knuckles against the cask. "Lirene — you remember her, Fereldan Imports? She sent it over as a get-well gift."

"I see." Hawke, rubs her sore cheek until she winces. "She's done well for herself," she adds inanely, unsure how to feel. On one hand, she's missed real ale, but the memories of the farm sting, and she has a sinking feeling about the reason why the cask is taking up space in her foyer.

"Damn well," agrees Varric. "But that's not all. More light, Blondie."

"Not all?" Hawke fists her hand in the collar of her robe. "I — oh."

Trunks, sacks, and boxes fill nearly every inch of the foyer. She and Fenris stand in one of the few empty spots.

"What's all this for?" Unease sours her stomach; she knows the answer, and she wants none of it. Not the ale, not the Antivan leather boots sitting on top of what can only be a fainting couch, none of it.

"Kirkwall's enraged on your behalf," says Varric, far too reasonably. "And so the residents have sent a few…trinkets, to wish you well."

Hawke tears her eyes from a portrait of Divine Beatrice to glare at Varric. "Trinkets?" she says, hearing her voice rise and crack, feeling Fenris' hand settle around her upper arm. She tugs her robe tighter around her chest and tries to breathe evenly. "These aren't trinkets, they're — "

There's a long, wavering moment where Hawke thinks her scream will finally escape; she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood to keep herself silent till the threat passes.

"It's very kind," Hawke says, when she trusts her voice again. She isn't lying. The gifts range from thoughtful to ostentatious, and no doubt more than half of them were sent as status symbols, but they're kindnesses nonetheless.

How can she explain that if she had a drop of mana in her, she'd set it all aflame? A fainting couch and a new set of armor won't give her that night back. Nothing in this room can help her rebuild the lazy, peaceful warmth she'd started to call her own. Maker, but she's a fool. She thought things might be getting easy.

How wrong she was, yet how selfish she is to hate the gifts in front of her.

Isabela scoops up a bottle of perfume and tosses it in the air, catching it one-handed. "Kind's one word for it," she says, as Anders finishes his circuit of the room and comes to stand beside her. "Desperate's the one I'd use." She flips over the card attached to the bottle's cork. "To the Champion: a reminder. Ooh, naughty."

"You wouldn't believe who's come by," Varric breaks in. "Hence Rivaini and I playing gatekeepers."

"Bloody vultures," mutters Fenris.

"Which is why I don't feel guilty accepting this largesse on Hawke's behalf." Varric waves at a trunk brimming with bolts of silk. "Whenever we tell someone to get lost, they try to buy their way in. It's almost funny."

"Almost," Hawke murmurs.

Varric shuts his mouth.

"Anyways," says Isabela. "No one's getting in till you say so. Until then, why not take advantage of some…misguided generosity?" She tosses the bottle one last time, then uncorks it to take a sniff. "Oof, this smells like hot compost."

Anders startles. "Cork that," he hisses. "Dammit, don't you know what that is?"

"Someone regifting gone-off perfume?" Isabela corks the bottle, then wiggles it in Anders' direction. "What?"

"You idiot, that's magebane."

Fenris' hand tightens on Hawke's arm, but she barely notices. She's gone cold, every inch of her freezing save the swollen skin on her face. "Let me see," she says, unable to take her eyes from the bottle.

"Hawke, don't!" Anders shouts.

"It can't do me much harm now, can it?" she whispers, her pulse like thunder in her throat. "Isabela, let me see."

The bottle is heavier than she expects, thick violet glass etched with spidering, curving lines. Hawke traces the lines with her thumb, squinting to make out the symbol.

Heat surges through her the moment the symbol clarifies: a chained serpent, fanged jaws spread wide. Fenris says her name, again and again, but she's far away, feeling her mana die once more as the man laughs, and pulls back his arm to strike her. Such cheerful, casual malice, as bright as the light shining on the curve of the bottle.

A reminder.

"Who brought this?" she asks Varric. Her lips aren't just swollen now, but numb, and she can't hear her voice over the roaring in her ears. "Who?"

She's shaking so hard her teeth chatter. Fenris won't stop saying her damned name, like that will help anything, but no one answers. No one can tell her who.

The gauntlet swings toward her, the reflected firelight dazzles her eyes. Hawke opens her mouth to scream, far beyond caring about the pain. No sound escapes her, none at all, and why would it? She can't scream, she can't make a sound because her throat is full of blood and her mana is gone and she's going to choke to death before anyone knows what's happening —

Her scream bursts out of her, five days delayed, so loud it strains her ribs and scrapes her throat raw. She throws the bottle with all her strength at the far wall. It shatters, the potion within hissing sweetly as it drips from the wall to the floor.

"Hawke," says Fenris, as if she just stabbed him.

She drags her hands down her face, unable to look at him, unable to look at anyone. But they're all staring at her, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and silent.

"Get —" Her voice stutters out of her throat, a crumbling ruin. "Get Aveline," she says.