Gamlen's bathing room was nothing more than a closet with a glorified rust bucket. The wood always smelled wet, the soap looked unnaturally green, and the scrubbing brush was caked with crust. No wonder dear uncle reeked of old cabbage. Usually she bathed at the public bath house by the Hanged Man. They carried a decent honey oil perfume and not so self-conscious couples sneaking trysts in other tubs provided mild entertainment. Hawke liked to bring the latest romance novel and soak until the water went cold, but it only took one whiff from the Proprietress to be prodded out the door with a broomstick. Just her luck.

Hawke spent three hours scrubbing down her skin and wringing out her hair. She changed the water twice and wasted a whole bottle of perfume but she still smelt ammonia. Tired of pruning in murky water, she stepped out of the cramped tub. All the towels had been used, so her only choice was to drip-dry onto the un-swept floor. Gamlen would yell at her later, but damn him, the ale cask could be leaking gold and he'd complain that he had nothing to drink. Although that was not an exact metaphor. Hawke went out of her way to annoy her dear uncle.

"I'm going out," Hawke announced as she left the bathing room, dressed in her freshly pressed leathers.

Mother turned from the hearth, eyes lined with worry. "Already?" She tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the black pot and set it on the stool. Hawke's robes had been boiling since last night with Father's old herb remedy, but surely it was a lost cause.

Hawke pretended not to hear her mother and went into her room to fetch her staff. She stumbled as Ramsay bounded into her, but quickly recovered against the door frame. The mabari yipped, nipping at her pant legs in a plea for her to stay. "I have to go, killer, but I promise we'll play later," Hawke chuckled and grabbed her staff.

She headed for the door, but Ramsay scurried around her, blocking her path. He whined pitifully, puppy eyes wide and pleading, but she saw the faint wiggle on the tip of his stout tail.

"Should have named you Rascal," Hawke laughed as she scratched his ears. Happily, he groaned and rolled onto his back, earning a belly rub.

Mother approached, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Charlotte, you didn't make it back until after midnight and you looked just awful-"

"And you still stink worse than the chamberpot," Carver's voice boomed from Gamlen's bedroom. These walls were made of paper.

"Carver," her mother called back in warning. She turned back to Hawke, rubbing her hands together. "Charlotte, you haven't had a day off in weeks. Stay and help me with chores."

"Doesn't sound like much of a day off, does it boy?" Hawke scratched Ramsay's favorite spot and his leg thumped rhythmically. "At least the work I do makes coin."

"Not everything is about coin," Mother grumbled. Hawke suddenly felt a sharp pinch on her chin, and she was dragged to her feet. "What's this?" Mother's thumb ran over the fresh notch in Hawke's eyebrow. "Carver didn't give you this."

"Looks good doesn't it," Hawke grinned.

"Stop it," her mother said, pursing her lips. She released her chin and glared at Hawke. "You were doing something illegal last night, I know it. Did you use your magic?"

Hawke was careful not to look Mother in the eyes. "I told you, my friend needed a favor done. Nothing big. It just took longer than expected." Nonchalantly, Hawke wiped her hands on her vest. Ramsay needed a bath.

"Who?" Carver asked as he came out of his room, squinting accusingly. "I asked that dwarf at the Hanged Man last night and he had no idea where you were."

"Aww," Hawke cooed, slinking up to him. "My baby brother does care." She reached up, threatening to pinch his cheeks, but Carver swatted her away. "Well, fear not. I don't need a keeper."

Carver snorted. "You're right, you need several."

Hawke playfully punched her brother in her arm. "Just don't guzzle away all my hard-earned coin. We already have a family drunk."

"Charlotte Hawke!" Mother said sternly. Carver snickered, which earned an equally silencing glare. "We do not speak ill of family and we do not keep secrets." Her mother crossed her arms, planting herself firmly between her two children. "Now I've given a lot of leeway for this dwarven expedition of yours, but the lying has to stop. You answer me right now. Are you in any trouble?"

Hawke bit her lip. How did one tell her overprotective mother that her eldest child spent all day trudging around in the sewers to be captured by the Carta, and almost sold into slavery because she needed an illegal vial of lyrium.

The easy answer was you didn't.

"I can assure you everything is fine." Hawke forced an awkward laugh, hoping that her mother couldn't tell the difference. She retreated to the letter desk, and crawled under it. There was a false panel in the floorboards where Hawke kept all her funds for the Deep Roads expedition. She used to keep it under her pillow, but she caught Gamlen sneaking sovereigns out last week. Blasted man.

She plucked a coin out and pressed it into her mother's palm before sliding the jar back into hiding.

"Maker's Breath. This is a whole sovereign," Mother cried, eyes wide in disbelief.

"I know," Hawke grinned. "I'm already halfway to buying my share. Why don't we celebrate with something nice- Oh, I know! Real beef for dinner; not any of that meat paste that the butcher scrapes from the floor."

Ramsay barked in agreement.

Her mother frowned, but pocketed the sovereign. "Don't think you can bribe me, missy."

"I'd never dream of it," Hawke chuckled, pecking her mother on the cheek. "Just a few more weeks, I promise. Imagine sweet meats every night and real feather beds with satin sheets." She ducked for the exit before Mother could protest anymore.

"Stay out of trouble," her mother said, wrinkling her skirt in her fists. Quickly she added, "and keep your little brother safe."

Carver slammed the door behind them, shaking the whole hut. Hawke silently questioned him, but shrugged it off as she started for Darktown. He was in one of his moods; hunched over, kicking up dust as he dragged his feet. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he was muttering darkly to himself.

"Gamlen's house is held together with mud. Be gentle," she joked, trying to lighten his mood, but his scowl deepened.

"You think you're so clever," he groused. "You can fool Mother but you can't fool me."

'So that's what he's on about,' Hawke thought.

"It's not about fooling. Dear Mother has enough stress as it is." Hawke smirked at her brother. "But I am clever."

Carver's shoulders stiffened, and for a moment it looked like he'd argue. Instead he looked straight ahead and kept walking.

Carver never had a problem keeping secrets from Mother as long as he was in on them. He was probably steamed that he was left home the last few days, but yesterday... How did one even start that conversation? Hawke had every intention on telling her brother everything. She just wanted to be sure he couldn't stop her.

As they weaved through crowds, Carver continued to mutter under his breath. Hawke sighed, knowing that he was trying out different arguments on his tongue before unleashing them on her. It was an unconscious habit that he had since he could talk. Hawke usually couldn't resist teasing him for it, but today she was actually making an effort to be civil.

"You can't keep this up forever, you know."

Hawke rolled her eyes. This again. "I wouldn't want to. Sounds exhausting." And here she was hoping for creativity.

"Will you stop deflecting and actually talk to me?" Carver grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

She shrugged off his grip and crossed her arms. "Alright talk to me- or at me, rather."

Carver gave an exasperated sigh and mirrored her. He liked attention, but hating making scenes, and now passing Kirkwallers were staring.

Lowly, he said, "Mother's hardly been sleeping because she's been so worried about what messes you're sticking your nose in. And I'm not stupid, Charlotte. You've had me on every step of the way and all of a sudden it's 'you look tired. Here's some coin. Why don't you take a few days off?'"

"You do have some drool crusted on your face," Hawke chuckled, and licked her thumb. She reached up to wipe it off, but Carver swatted her away.

"I'll get it," he grumbled, and he scratched his cheek self-consciously.

Hawke sighed deeply. Deflecting was just one of many bad habits she was trying to break. "Carver, I know some of the things we do are questionable at best, but I never lied to you." Carver inhaled sharply at that and Hawke quickly added, "Okay not about anything important. Maker's truth. I'll even tell Mother if it'll make you feel better and we can debate my depraved morales after we're drowning in coin."

She continued back towards Darktown, and Carver quickly stalked behind. "You think a little coin is going to make things better?" he was shaking his head, but it seemed like the edge of his anger was pacified.

"Well, it won't make things worse," Hawke said with a shrug. "I know I said you can come, but tell Mother, and I'll have to do a dramatic reenactment of what you and Peaches did in Barlin's barn."

His eyes bulged comically. "I never- I don't know what you're on about-" Carver's face flushed and he stammered so hard he couldn't finish the sentence.

Hawke laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "Glad we understand each other."

Silently, she thanked the Maker that she had managed to side-step that fight; though she didn't have a back-up plan if blackmail failed. Mother always lamented the fact that she rarely got along with Carver. They could hardly sit at the same table without flicking food at each other, but Hawke was curtailing her food-flinging, curse-slinging ways in an effort to repair their fractured relationship. She had better luck bailing a sinking ship with a teaspoon.

Hawke tried everything she could think of to piece her broken family back together, but she just wasn't Bethany. Nothing made her mother smile, and everything set Carver off. Hawke was shit at dealing with people, but she knew how to put food on the table, though that was getting harder to do every day out of Athenril's employ. She had some offers from the Coterie, but Hawke was done stealing for scraps. The Deep Roads expedition meant more than a huge chunk of coin. It was security, safety, freedom, respect. Maybe it might be enough to buy her mother's smile back.

But now 15 percent was going directly to elven mage hater. Hawke cursed under her breath, causing a passing Sister to take offense. She curtly apologized to the woman before moving on. Fenris had been on her mind more than she cared to admit. That man made her so mad that she could hardly think straight in his presence. Or maybe it was because his gaze was so intense she felt like she would crumble beneath it…or how his voice like naked skin on velvet. Hawke bit her lip, containing a shiver. The Chantry Sisters should recruit him as one of those criers on the corner. That man could recite the chant and Hawke would faithfully listen every Sunday. Hell, she'd even line up for salvation as long as he was making her scream for the Maker.

Hawke nervously glanced at her brother, but he was blissfully unaware of her intrusive thought. It was not even in the realm of remotely possible. Even if she could get over his wild wolf temperament, she was pretty sure that he preferred the company of dust mites. On top of that, he had that whole 'mages are the bane of society' thing, which was a complaint she was used to hearing from people, but still a mood killer.

Carver didn't need to know everything.

The Hawke siblings entered Anders' clinic to find him attending a typical Darktown vagrant. He was an unkempt, moonshine-drenched man with a mud-caked beard. His face was coated with a healthy helping of dirt and his clothes were ill-fitted and chock-full of holes and patches. The man whimpered as Anders firmly gripped his arm, hands aglow. "You'll be fine," Anders said evenly, but Hawke wasn't so sure. The man's arm was bowed in three directions.

Carver wasn't impressed. "Why do you keep finding men that glow blue?"

"It's my favorite color." She shot her brother a mischievous grin which caused him to snort in response.

The sound of Hawke's voice broke Anders' concentration, and he gave her a brief smile. "Ah, Hawke. Just a moment."

"Thanks muchly, ser," the man told Anders. "The missus would have my hide for sure if I lost my job at the mine."

Hawke watched Anders in awe of him. She couldn't say that helping others wasn't her strong point. If anything, killing had become her trade. Sometimes, she felt no different than darkspawn. When their tattered faces haunted her dreams, it was easy to say they weren't people. At least not anymore. But under Athenril's wing, Hawke learned there was more to smuggling than carrying cargo through checkpoints. It meant reading people, to know which lie misdirected, or what bribe would pacify. It was finding people's lines and knowing when to cross them. And of course, at times, it meant getting away with murder.

Athenril wanted to ease Hawke, Aveline, and Carver into their first week with a standard grab and dump operation. Hawke couldn't remember what she was carrying, but she recalled being so nervous she kept bumping into Marco. The only other time she remembered being so uncoordinated was when Amanda Cartwright invited to her back to her bedroom after the Solace festival dance. A giant knot twisted Hawke's stomach, but she couldn't tell if it was because she didn't know the first thing to lovemaking or that Mandy's father despised her more than Ramsay hated fleas. In hindsight, she should have known that Mr. Cartwright would barge in, bellowing and red-faced, while she was face-deep in Mandy's crotch.

There was no shame quite like explaining to her parents why she was crawling through the kitchen window, naked.

Hawke had a similar feeling strolling down Kirkwall's docks. They reached the factory to drop off their payload when Coterie ambushed them. Her father had taught her a hundred different ways to kill a man, and she practiced those techniques hundreds of times on Carver, but before that night, killing was just a theory. Nothing could prepare her for the resistance flesh put up against her blade, or the reverberation of a broken bone, or the vomit-inducing reek of burnt flesh.

And how eerie one looked reflected in glassy, dead eyes. Hawke often wondered at what moment a person became a corpse. Where was that moment between life and death? Sometimes that question consumed her.

Anders gasped as the the blue glow faded from his body. The vagrant flexed his arm in amazement. There was no indication that it was ever broken. The man thanked Anders, shaking his hand before heading out the door. Hawke followed the man with her eyes, throughly impressed with the healer's abilities. Anyone could take a life, but to give it back- that was true power.

Hawke wouldn't lose anyone again.

"An'eth'ara!" A small elf popped in front of her.

She jumped back, so consumed by her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed Merrill. "Hey…you. What are you doing here?"

Carver gawked at the little mage, who was on her toes, bouncing excitedly. He had met both Anders and Merrill briefly at the Hanged Man, and he was civil enough until Hawke said, 'by the way, they're mages.'

"Do you mind? I meant to ask permission this morning at your house, but somehow I ended up here. There are so many corners in Kirkwall and it doesn't help that all human houses look the same…" Her green eyes widened in horror. "Not that your house isn't nice. I mean, I haven't seen it, but I'm sure it's lovely."

Hawke laughed in spite of herself. Gamlen's hovel was barely a step up from Darktown shanties. "Dangerous detour, don't you think?"

"You're telling me," Anders grumbled. "Found her asking for directions from some brutes down the street." He looked around, displeased with the clutter around him and promptly started rearranging vials and beakers into something that resembled organization. "Give me a moment, Hawke."

Merrill continued bouncing on her toes, inexplicably enthusiastic. "Such a funny phrase, 'down the street.'"

"How so?" Carver asked. Strange, the usual hardness in his voice was absent.

"Well down is not a direction I can go unless I have a shovel." Hawke and Carver exchanged amused glances which caused Merrill to sputter incoherently. She fumbled into her pocket and squished a wadded cloth into Hawke's hand. "I wasn't sure what a customary apology was for humans, but I hope it'll do."

A gift? What had she done to deserve that? Eagerly, she unwrapped it to find- "Bread." To be specific it was the same bread that Merrill had given her yesterday. Hawke coughed, biting down a laugh as Carver eyed the elf, noticeably confused. "Thanks…I've already eaten but this will be a good snack for later."

"I'm so relieved you like it," Merrill nodded, positively beaming. "I'm so sorry, Hawke. I'm afraid I'm not very good at lying."

"I didn't notice," Hawke chuckled.

"But didn't Fen-" Merrill started, but stopped suddenly. "Right…sarcasm. I'll get it one day."

Carver cleared his throat, announcing his presence. "You can tell me what's going on anytime now."

Anders turned towards them, wiping herb-stained hands on his robe. Apparently he was done cleaning, but Hawke couldn't see a difference. He stared at Carver warily. "I know he's your brother but are you sure you want him here?"

Carver raised his eyebrows in alarm. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Thanks, Anders. That didn't sound ominous at all." Hawke gave her brother's shoulder a reassuring pat.

"If you think it's best," Anders said with a sigh. He led them to the back room, which was nothing more than a damp, dirt hole. Even though it was noon, they needed the light of several lanterns. In the center was a makeshift bed that Anders had dragged from the clinic. There was a large, elaborate spell book still open to the Fade potion. Apparently Anders had acquired it from his days at the Ferelden Circle.

A blue concoction glowed faintly on the table. The thrum of it's power gave her goosebumps. Anders grabbed it and carefully stirred it into a goblet of water. "I need you to understand that this isn't going to be like dreaming. You'll have form and therefore you're going to be vulnerable-"

"The Fade is very perilous. Everything will either try to trick me or eat me," she finished for him. Anders had already explained most of this yesterday in the sewers. Hawke was only half-listening, but she had the gist of it. She already knew that being a mage meant that she didn't dream like everyone else. She was conscious, which meant she knew the details of all of her dreams. Carver once asked if it was like always being awake, but she couldn't say that it was. She was a ghost, walking through the Fade but not able to touch it.

"You're joking," Carver groaned as Hawke settled herself on the bed. "Seriously, why do you want to go to the Fade?"

Hawke hid a grimace. She promised to be honest, but his fixed stare was making that difficult. "Well-" she started, ready to spout another lie, but she bit it back. "When I wake up…I'll be a spirit healer."

Carver's mouth gaped open. "Charlotte-"

"I'm doing this," Hawke said firmly. "I'll be fine. Just…believe in me."

"Believe in you," Carver cried in disbelief. "This is just another vanity project."

Hawke flinched, but didn't reply. She should have known that he wouldn't understand and now they had aired their dirty laundry for an audience. At least Anders and Merrill had enough respect to look away.

She motioned for Anders to pass her the goblet. "Remain vigilant," he said, handing it off. "Meditate on your virtues."

"Cause I have virtues dripping out my ass," she muttered darkly. She raised the goblet to her lips when Carver touched her shoulder.

He looked down at her, his face between a scowl and something that could be mistaken for concern. "Think of Mother," he murmured. Hawke thought that there might have been more to that sentence, but that's all he said.

She was thinking of Mother. Defiantly, Hawke knocked back the potion in one gulp. Violent coughs erupted from her. It tasted like bitter metal with a hint of blueberry. The lyrium burned coldly in her throat and soon she was paralyzed. Hawke swayed backwards, hitting the pillow, but she continued to fall. Darkness clouded her eyes and the last thing she saw was Carver shouting her name.


Hawke plummeted down, flailing wildly. She reached out, trying to catch her fall. The air was thick, wet, like waking up in a cold bath. Was she even breathing? She couldn't make out the shapes around her but the ground was swiftly approaching. Her stomach dropped, readying for impact.

She collapsed to her knees, but the crash was softer than she expected. The texture of the grass felt odd in her palms, the air shallow, odorless. She dared a peek through her dark bangs and gasped. This was Lothering, or some curious version of it. The hills didn't stretch as far as she remembered, the colors unnaturally saturated. Many of her neighbor's houses were missing. Was this…her dream?

She turned to see an unsightly orange house, her childhood home. Mother hated that house. The color made her nauseous and every other week something was falling apart, but it was all they could afford when they moved to Lothering. Father said that the color made it easy to find his way home and the constant projects kept his carpentry skills sharp for business. Hawke couldn't remember how many days she spent watching Father work the wood.

Almost as soon as she thought of Father, she heard the familiar sound of a hammer pounding. She turned to see her father straddling the fence, a few nails jutting from his mouth. He was a fierce looking man with shaggy dark hair, and a full scruffy beard. Hawke had forgotten how tall he stood, how broad his shoulders were. His children looked nothing like him. Where he was pale skinned with bright blue eyes, Carver, Bethany and Hawke were tawny skinned with eyes dark like the night. The only thing they seemed to inherit was his hawk nose.

Bethany squealed, racing from the hills as Carver and little Hawke chased her with wooden swords that their father made. Was that…Wardens and Archdemon? Maker, she hadn't played that since she was 14.

"Stop it," Bethany cried. She turned around suddenly, causing her sibling to cease their assault.

"C'mon, Beth," little Hawke grinned, a fresh cut on her mouth. "It's no fun if you stop."

"I'm always Archdemon. It's someone else's turn." Indignant tears pricked her eyes as she adjusted her lopsided pigtails.

"Maybe Carver should be Archdemon. His breath is stinky enough," little Hawke said, scrunching her face up at her brother.

"I can't be. I'm the only one good with a sword." Carver stuck out his tongue.

Their father, who had abandoned his tiresome task, snuck up behind them and pounced. "I'm the Archdemon and I shall devour you all," he roared. They all screamed, trying to clamber away, but it took only a stride of his long legs to pluck Bethany and Hawke into his massive arms. The girls shrieked and giggled while Father twirled them round, blowing raspberries into their necks.

"Unhand my sisters, you fiend," Carver cried heroically and jabbed his sword forward, smacking Bethany's thigh.

"Ow," she cried. "Carver!"

"You'll have to do better than that, ser knight," Father said, carrying the girls off while Carver pursued, batting at his legs.

This should have been the part where her mother ran out of the house, panicked by her children's screams. Her hair would still be dark, and her worry lines just faint imprints. Dark eyes would curve upwards in a relieved smile and she'd call out, "Malcolm, what about the fence?" Hawke turned towards the door, expecting her to be there, but another woman was in her place.

"Bethany?" Hawke's lip quivered.

It couldn't be, but there she was just as Hawke remembered her. Shiny, straight hair clipped meticulously above her shoulders, her favorite red scarf tied neatly around her neck. "I know you," Bethany said. No, her voice sounded wrong. Her sister's voice was always warm and loving, even with her scoldings. This woman was cold, detached.

Hawke glanced back at her family. Carver had tackled Father while little Hawke and Bethany joined their brother with playful bites and prods. "Mercy, my little warriors. My bruises have bruises," Father laughed.

With a wave of her hand she dismissed the shadows, but the impostor remained. This was not right. If she was not part of her dreams, there was only one thing she could be. Hawke drew her staff and readied a fire spell at her sister, snarling. "You're going to regret desecrating my sister's image."

"But you called me here," Bethany said, raising a hand in peace. "You say we were sisters. That seems…familiar."

Hawke knew she should strike the demon down, but she hesitated. No one knew where people went after they died, but it was a common theory that everyone's soul was connected to the Fade. Hawke wondered if she ever had the chance to explore this realm if she would ever run into her father and Bethany. Was it possible?

Hawke lowered her staff. "Bethany?"

"Yes…I believe I was once called by that name, but not anymore." She closed her eyes, faintly glowing blue. "I am Compassion."

Tears pricked Hawke's eyes and she reached out to embrace her sister. If anybody could embody compassion, it would be Bethany. "B-but I don't understand. Humans can't become spirits, can they? I mean it doesn't work like that, does it?"

Bethany was surprisingly cold, and there was no strength in her embrace. "I'm unsure," she murmured, pulling away. Her face was still blank. "All I know is what I am and that you need help."

"But…this can't be right," Hawke shook her head. "Me, embody compassion? Valor, honor, maybe…somethings wrong."

"Charlotte, you have deep wells of compassion within you, but I cannot be your guardian as long as it is blocked."

Did she? Hawke wasn't so sure. Both of her siblings had called her a heartless shrew on many occasions. Hawke didn't think herself mean-spirited, but she protected her own before she worried about anyone else. There were times she wished that she could be more like her mother and sister. Could she learn? "So," Hawke bit her lip. "What must I do?"

Bethany closed her eyes, and Hawke had a strange feeling like she was naked, like the spirit was peering into her. "You feel responsible for my death."

Hawke's heart panged, and suddenly she could see her sister's life slipping from her fingers. "I screwed up, Beth. I won't hide from that."

"It's hardened your heart," the spirit said. "You must let me go and accept me as I am."

"Well before today, I thought I had," Hawke murmured. She was shattering. "It's been so hard to fill your shoes. It's agony for Mother. I wish she could see you now."

"You will make Mother smile again." Relieved tears burned Hawke's cheek. Her sister always knew what to say.

Bethany brushed the tears from Hawke's cheek and cupped her face. "You are not yet worthy, but you can be. I can see you."

"I can do this, Beth," Hawke nodded, folding her hands into her own. "How do I convince you?"

"It's not a matter of convincing. You are or you are not."

Hawke gritted her teeth. "How?"

"I know this is difficult, Charlotte, but this realm had rules. You are not worthy as you are. You must tell me why I should I help you."

Hawke gave an exasperated sigh. Of course there were rules- stupid, vague rules that made her want to tear her hair out. She pulled away and paced in a small figure eight, trying to scour her mind for something that would appease her sister. "Because I'm strong?"

Bethany shook her head. "Strength has no merit here. I can see you."

"Because I want to help people," Hawke tried.

Bethany's face was uncharacteristically stern. "Do not lie, Charlotte. I can see you."

Hawke gave a frustrated grunt, and continued to pace. She thought of dozens of reasons, but all of them felt false. What could she possibly mean? Finally she threw her hands up in the air. "Obviously, I'm not getting it, so if you can 'see me,' tell me what to do."

Her sister shook her head unhelpfully. "You are not worthy as you are. You must tell me your truth."

"My truth?" Hawke uttered. Did becoming a spirit mean becoming obnoxious and cryptic? "My truth is that I'm a shitty person and no one knows that more than me." Her eyes welled up and she wiped frustrated tears with the palm of her hand. This was useless. She was useless. Hawke couldn't save her sister, but her hands were still stained with her blood.

'No,' Hawke told herself. She couldn't think like that. She looked at Bethany through her tears, and she stared back blankly. Her sister would not want her to blame herself. Determination surged through Hawke. "I failed you. Nothing can make that right, but give me a chance. You know I can do this."

Bethany gave a hollow smile. "You are worthy."

Hawke sighed in relief, feeling like weight had been lifted off of her. Bethany pulled her in; her arms were happiness and all of her worries melted away. She stoked Hawke's hair; a pleasant pressure pulsed at the back of her head.

"You need to let me in," she whispered. Her words were strangely soothing, like being carried to bed after falling asleep in front of the hearth.

"I…" Hawke suddenly realized her mind was groggy. "Anders said…"

"I know this is what you want. Trust me.."

Bethany folded her head against her chest. It felt like home. Hawke wanted nothing more than to say yes, but there was a panic in her bliss that she couldn't name. Her thoughts refused to string together, as if she was a fly stuck in a spider's web. "Bethany…somethings wrong."

Bethany's nails felt more like talons combing her hair. "Everything is alright. It will always be alright," she whispered. Hawke dizzily pulled away, but the spirit gripped her tighter. The pressure in the back of her head twinged painfully.

"You're…not…" Hawke tried to finish the thought, but a sharp pang stopped her. She felt as if a blade was slowly splitting her mind in half.

The spirit's lips curved into a stolen smile. "I can protect you," she promised, but now Hawke knew that was a lie. She was trapped in a demon's web and what little resolve remained was being worn away with every crooning word.

The faces of her broken family passed through her mind. Mother would never recover. Carver would never forgive her. 'No,' she thought stubbornly. She was stronger than this.

A frayed grin spread across Hawke's face. "Maybe you should buy me dinner, first."

The facade of the fiend quickly melted away, and she found herself ensnared in the clutches of a desire demon. The fire on her head whipped wildly, and her face was flushed with shock or fury. Could demons feel either? "It is too late," she sneered. Her tail wrapped around Hawke's torso, like a vise. "I already have you."

Her talons dug deeper as she tore Hawke's mind, but she summoned fire to her hands, and engulfed the demon, singeing herself in the process. Desire screeched, raking Hawke's chest with sharp talons. She cast a volley of ice into the demon's chest. It's tail whipped back, releasing Hawke as she tore crystal spikes out of her breasts.

Hawke's own chest was ragged, and blood trickled out her skull where the fiend had bored into her. Her head was light and she had the queerest sensation that she was floating. Did she lose too much blood?

"No," the demon roared, striking at her. "They will not have you!"

The ground fell from beneath Hawke's feet and she plummeted into darkness.


"Charlotte!"

Hawke woke with a jolt; a splintering headache thudded in the back of her skull and her chest stung. She wanted to soothe her pain with warm healing magic, but her arms were numb, tingling. She could hardly find strength to lift her head. Brawny arms cradled her. Her eyes fluttered open to see the silhouette of her father against the lantern light.

"Maker, did I drink a lake?" Hawke groaned.

Anders' relieved laughter filled her ears. "That's just the sleeping draught wearing off. You'll feel better after a meal." His cool hand rested on her forehead and she leaned into it. Strength returned to her limbs and she could hardly flex her stiff fingers. The pain faded, and her eyes focused enough to see her brother hovering over her.

Carver wasn't staring at Hawke but at Merrill who was leaning beside him with an oddly concerned expression on his face. "Is she…" he trailed off, as if he was afraid to complete that sentence.

Merrill placed a reassuring hand on her brother's shoulder. "She's fine. The scent of the demon's completely gone." Hawke hadn't realized that Carver had a dagger poised to her heart until Merrill plucked it from his trembling hand.

He dropped Hawke, her head thudded against the bed frame. She sat up, hissing, "watch it, jackass!"

"You selfish bitch!"Carver barked back. He stood up, angrily adjusting his clothes, but his fingers were clumsy, trembling. "What did it offer you?"

"What are you-"

His nose was rippled in fury. "A mountain of coin? Bigger breasts-"

"Why, did you want some?" Hawke clumsily shot up, shoving herself into Carver's face.

He glared back, refusing to back off. "You're always doing this- always dragging me into your messes-"

Hawke cut him off with a mocking laugh. "Then run back to Mother, you dangling shit string!"

Anders attempted to shove himself in between the siblings. "This is a place of healing and salvation. I will not-"

"Stay out of this!" they both shouted in unison.

Anders stepped back, red-faced with anger. Poor Merrill was huddled in the corner, like a kicked puppy. 'Shit,' Hawke thought. She wasn't one to explode but her little brother always managed to get a rise out of her. What a mess they made.

"I'm sorry," Hawke said bitterly. "We'll be civil."

"Good," Anders nodded, but she could tell he was irritated. He retreated to his desk, slamming his spell book shut.

Hawke was mixed with embarrassment and grief. Somehow, Carver and her always ended up like this. Why did they always end up like this?

"It was Bethany."

Carver flinched at her name, at first not understanding. When he did, he turned away, unable to hide the pain in his eyes. Hawke wasn't sure why she told him. It wouldn't have done him any good to know, but she still wanted him to. Maybe this was her way of getting revenge. Maybe she still hoped he'd understand.

Hawke sighed deeply. "Look, I admit this didn't go according to plan, but next time-"

"Next time," Carver shook his head, sniffing sharply. "Don't you think you've caused enough trouble?"

Just as she thought.

"Hawke," Anders approached them with bundles of herbs in his arms. "Perhaps you should consider what Carver's saying."

"What-" Hawke's mouth gaped open, completely blindsided.

"I'm not trying to insult you, but I don't think it's a good idea to continue. You weren't properly trained to deal with the Fade-"

"I did pretty damn well, didn't I?" Where was this coming from? This was just a little bump, part of the process. They expected this.

"I'm sorry," Anders repeated, but his voice told her that it was final.

She gawked at Anders and then at Carver who was mouthing a thank you to him.

"Fine," she spat. She moved to Anders' desk and shuffled through his drawers.

"Hawke, what are you-"

"Ha!" she said triumphantly and snatched the vial of lyrium out of the case in his bottom drawer. "This still belongs to me."

"Hawke, don't-"

She shrugged Anders away, causing him to drop a clump of elves ear and stormed towards the exit.

"Charlotte-" Carver called out, but she was out the door before anyone could stop her.

Hawke plodded to Lowtown, quivering in irritation. "Unfucking believable," she muttered to herself. Now she had the lyrium tucked safely in her coinpurse but no way to get into the Fade. She could try asking some of the Coterie mages, but they were more likely to loot the vial off her corpse. Why did Anders have to be a fucking waffle?

Hawke needed a pint…or three, and maybe she'd chance a bowl of Nora's mystery stew. Hopefully she'd run into Isabela or Varric. They always had a good story to tell.

"Hawke," Merrill's voice called out behind her.

She glanced back to see the little elf waving one hand as she scampered towards her. Hawke gritted her teeth, but stopped. The elf would get lost again if she ditched her.

"You can spare me the lecture," Hawke said acidly.

"Oh, you won't get a lecture from me," Merrill said. She fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, careful not to meet Hawke's gaze. "I know that Anders and Carver think they're doing what's best, but…I know what it's like to have no one believe in you."

Hawke's mind traced back to Sundermount, how spiteful the other Dalish were to her. Once again, her heart softened for the little mage. "Hey, we'll prove them all wrong, won't we?" Hawke said, nudging her. Merrill gave a shy laugh as she rubbed her arm. "While you're here, why don't I buy you a pint?"

"Actually…I wanted to say- You have the lyrium and I was thinking- I mean if you are still planning on-," Merrill began to babble, but she stopped herself. The little mage puffed up her chest and said, "If you want, I might be able to help."


Fenris was used to the dull ache that came with his lyrium tattoos, but today the pain was excruciating. His sweltering headache had worsened and all his joints were inflamed. His chest and throat were thick and he couldn't stop coughing. Cold sweat ran down his back and drenched his fingers. He took a cold bath hoping to soothe his joints, but it hardly helped.

So he wrapped himself up in all the blankets he owned, trying to fall asleep, but even that was useless. Perhaps that was just as well. He was afraid to dream, afraid to meet Danarius again. He could still feel the cold chains wrapped around his wrists from yesterday. He couldn't…he just couldn't…

Fenris needed a distraction. He dragged himself to the living room, but only managed to prop himself on the sofa. He scraped his runny nose on the rough blankets, mulling over his misery. Finally, he sheared a few strips off and plugged his nose, just to save himself the movement.

A sharp rap came from the door. 'Hawke,' he thought. He did nothing, hoping she'd leave. Everything was awful enough; he didn't want to be the butt of another inane joke.

He could just imagine it now: she'd slink in, shamelessly swaying those hips saying, 'Why, Fenris, aren't you dripping with good looks today?' Maybe not. He wasn't good at impressions.

The knock came again. He sighed deeply, his breath wet.

Moving was like being dragged against glass, but he heaved himself off the sofa. The room spun with each step and he stumbled towards the front door. "Go away, Hawke," he called out, but his hoarse voice cracked.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm prettier," a man replied.

Fenris perked up. Was that…? He fumbled with the locks and peeked out. Sure enough, the dwarf stood on his porch, crossbow slung across his shoulder. Varric laughed, pointing to his own bulbous nose. "That's a good look for you, elf."

Fenris' face flamed. With one swift motion, he tore the moist cloth from his nose and cast it aside. "If you need assistance, I suggest that you come back another day."

"Yeah, no kidding. You look like shit," Varric chuckled, pushing himself inside. "I should make you my Ma's Old Whiskey Sunrise. Guaranteed to knock that cold right out of you…or knock you out cold."

"I can hold my liquor, dwarf," Fenris spat, but it didn't have the bite that it usually did. He was too exhausted to argue. Once again, someone else had entered his home uninvited. Did Free Marchers have no concept of personal space?

Fenris followed the dwarf to his own kitchen.

"Here, let me fix you something," Varric said, and promptly clambered onto the counters to scour through his pantries before Fenris could protest. Of course they were empty. He jumped down, and patted down his breeches with a scrunched up frown. "You know I can cut a deal with my grocer if you're having trouble."

Fenris bristled. Yet again, no one seemed to be able to mind their own business. "I'd prefer if you would get to the point of your visit."

"Right, I'll keep my nose clean." Varric held his hands up in peace. "Anyways, Rivaini pops in last night, smelling like a ruminating diaper, and tells me this grand tale ending with your little arrangement with Hawke." He let out a hearty chuckle. "That woman's many things but it's obvious she has no business sense."

"I am not renegotiating," Fenris said firmly.

"You misunderstand me. Hawke's business is her own." Varric dug through his pack as he said, "Which reminds me, have you seen her? I have a job lined up but she hasn't visited the Hanged Man in a few days."

Why would he know anything of her whereabouts? "As you say, her business is her own," Fenris muttered.

The dwarf shrugged in reply and handed him a scroll. Fenris wiped his runny nose on his sleeve as he examined it. "What is this?" He kept his voice even, not betraying his underlying panic.

"Nothing personal, but one has to keep friendships and business separate. As you can see, everything is standard."

"Of course I see," Fenris said a little too eagerly. Streaky fingerprints frayed the edges as he struggled to conceal an angry tremble. Desperately, he scanned it, trying to decode the contract, but of course, nothing made sense. Why couldn't it just make sense?

"You need to sit down?"

"Yes," Fenris murmured, and scooted into the chair. He knew he was not equipped to agree to anything, but pride kept him silent.

"I'll give you some time to bring me revisions, but-"

"No need,' Fenris interrupted. If Varric left it with him he'd surely burn it. "Do you have a…writing utensil?" Fenris felt his cheeks flame.

"Writing utensil?" Varric echoed with a chuckle and plucked a small tube from his belt. "No, but I have a pen."

So that's what it was called. He took it from Varric, but had no idea how to hold it and gripped it in his fist as if it were a club. "You have to uncap it," Varric explained. "It's one of those new fountain pens from Orzammar that has self-contained inkwells." The dwarf took it for a second and twisted the cap to show a shiny golden nib.

He handed it back to Fenris, who still gripped it awkwardly in his fist. "What do I…I mean where-"

"Right here on the dotted line," Varric poked at the bottom. "Though you sure you don't need more time? It's a big decision."

"No I…" Fenris stopped to cough violently into his shoulder. He hit his chest, trying to contain it.

Varric shook his head and frowned. "I knew this guy named Vinny that tried to go into business with my brother. Bugger didn't read the terms closely enough and ended up signing over his house and all of his chickens. For all you know there's a clause that says you have to change your name to Nancy."

"Should I be worried, dwarf?"

"Just a cautionary tale, friend," Varric grinned.

Fenris paused for a moment to consider it, but any coin he gained from the expedition was more than he had planned. "There is no need for concern. I'll be fine," he finally replied. He felt like he was saying it more to himself than to Varric.

He took in a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured Danarius' signature, how elegantly the letters curved into one symbol. A wave of nausea hit him, and he steadied himself on the edge of the table. He gritted his teeth, waiting for it to pass. At least he had nothing to heave.

Tentatively, he put the pen to the page, but he pressed down a bit too hard, and a mess of ink came squirting out at once. Gracelessly, he tried to blot it out with his blanket. He was aware that Varric was now staring so he quickly scribbled the signature from memory. The pen wobbled, making shaky, unrecognizable lines. What a mess.

It would have to do.

Varric raised a questioning eyebrow as Fenris handed both pen and page, ink dripping from both. He prayed that the dwarf had not caught on to his deficiency. "Right, I'll get this to Hawke the next time I see her.

"Thank you," Fenris murmured. "Anything else?"

"No, that's all I needed. Take care, elf." Varric patted Fenris on the shoulder as he passed. He jerked back instinctively, but the dwarf was already fiddling with the front door.

Later that day, Fenris heard another knock at the door. When he answered it, he found a box filled with fresh blankets, groceries, and a bottle of hard whiskey with orange wedges.


Merrill's bed was nothing more than a thin straw-stuffed mattress. Every time Hawke shifted to get comfortable, the shaky wood frame complained, threatening to collapse. The wood in some of the walls were rotted and holes were stuffed with socks. Hawke wondered why Merrill would do such a thing when a fat, gray rat skittered into the bedroom, mouth stuffed with bread. It squeaked at her before it squeezed into a hole beside Merrill's mirror. If Gamlen's house was held together with mud than Merrill's house was held together by faith.

The only thing of value was a tall, beautiful vanity mirror in the corner of the bedroom. It's base was made up of intricate winding wood, and it's frame carved in a design Hawke had never seen. The wood above the mirror mimicked the waves of the ocean and a goat appeared to be jumping from it. A crack ran deep through the glass, distorting Hawke's face. She felt eerie looking at her reflection.

Merrill came from the living room fumbling with a pot of tea and a single cup. Hawke thought to ask if she needed help, but Merrill placed the dishware on the nightstand. "Thanks for waiting. That took a bit longer than I expected."

Indeed. There was only a pinch of finely ground lyrium in the cup, but no other indication that Merrill had been preparing a poultice. "Won't that just give me lyrium poisoning?"

"Oh, this isn't for you," Merrill chirped, drowning the lyrium in tea.

"Blood magic?" Hawke had an inkling, but was afraid to confirm it.

Merill cringed, as if waiting for the familiar lecture. "I'm open to suggestions."

All of Hawke's life she pictured blood mages to be dark-haired unfeeling villains with twirling mustaches like in her adventure novels; not adorable, quirky elves that babbled. Blood magic was the main reason that the Chantry cited for imprisoning mages. Even Father, who was by no means a religious man had warned against it in her training. She could already hear his voice: "there are always better ways, little bird."

Well, it wasn't like she was making deals with demons.

Hesitantly, Merrill sat next to Hawke. She stirred the lyrium tea with a cracked wooden spoon, blowing off the steam. Slowly, the red liquid turned into a familiar blue.

"So…do I need to bleed into the cup or eat the beating heart of a chicken?" Hawke joked, trying to hide her discomfort.

Merrill put a finger to her mouth and said, "I don't think I have a chicken, but there are plenty of rats if you'd like." Hawke's eyes bulged and she opened her mouth in protest but was cut off by Merrill's giggles. "I'm trying my hand at sarcasm. Did I do it right?"

Hawke laughed in relief. That was obvious. "Yeah, just fine."

Merrill tapped the spoon on the side of a cup before setting it aside. She took a deep breath and guzzled the tea in three gulps. Immediately, her eyes squeezed shut and she shivered, gritting her teeth in an effort to keep it down.

"It's lucky we have this lyrium. Normally a life must be sacrificed to send a mage into the Beyond." Merrill placed a hand over her mouth and burped.

Hawke gave another hearty laugh, but the blood mage answered with a blank stare. She was serious. Nonchalantly, Hawke cleared her throat. What had she agreed to?

"You should lie down." Merrill patted her pillow before hopping to her feet. Hawke nodded, but there was a nervous jolt in the pit of her stomach as she sank into the bed. The mattress was softer than Gamlen's floor but the sheets were itchy and the pillow wasn't much better than her straw-filled potato sack.

Merrill unbuckled her sleeve to reveal a pale forearm, lined neatly with deep, even scars. After a few moments, Merrill's skin began to shimmer and she could hear the tug of the lyrium. For a moment, she thought she felt Fenris.

The little mage drew a dagger from her belt, and placed it against her skin. Without wincing, she sliced a scar open. Warm blood poured over Hawke's chest instantly coming to life. The raw magic gave Hawke goosebumps as it rushed down her torso and arms, like a thousand ants marching on her body. Her skin crawled and she tore at her chest, but the blood was thick and held fast.

"Dar'eth shiral," Merrill whispered as the magic washed over Hawke's head.


Hawke plunged into the Fade, like a rag doll tossed overboard into the ocean in the middle of a storm. She screamed as she plummeted wildly towards the ground. Everything was twirling so fast, Hawke was sure she'd hurl. Suddenly her body jolted to a halt.

Her head still felt like it was tumbling, and she pushed herself onto her back, watching the sky spin. Dust irritated Hawke's nose and she sneezed twice. Where was she? Dizzily, she raised her head, as everything gradually slowed.

She expected to find Lothering, but she did not recognize this part of the Fade. All of the color had been drained from the terrain, washing everything in dingy yellow. The hills were shaped in a nonsensical formation. In the sky, houses were suspended in midair. She thought she recognized her family home, but this was impossible. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, scanning for something she recognized. Had Merrill sent her to the wrong place?

"I'm disappointed in you, Charlotte," a light voice came from behind. Hawke turned to see her young mother dressed in a plain peasant frock. All the worry lines had disappeared from the corner of her eyes and her dark hair was in a loose side braid. Mother hadn't worn braids since Father died.

"No, you've got it wrong," Hawke protested, pointing to her face. "Mother shows disappointment in her eyes. She's too nice to say it aloud."

Desire smirked, which was an odd thing to see on Mother's face. "My mistake. Perhaps I should try someone I know rather well."

Hair sprouted from Mother's chin as she grew half a foot. Her nose bulged out as Mother's face melted into her Father's. The fiend unsheathed Father's staff, twirling it in the same careless manner and winked. It was eerie how accurately she mimicked Father's cocky swagger and crooked grin.

"Father wasn't a blood mage," Hawke barked. She readied a fire spell and reached for her staff but it was not there. Shit.

Her father's laugh echoed through the air, causing Hawke to shiver. "How much do you know about dear Malcolm? After all, he was a private man."

Hawke shot a fireball at the demon, but she twirled in of the same manner Father would. 'She's lying,' Hawke told herself, but she was unsettled.

She raised her arms, drawing fire from the sky. Her father bounded back from the first meteor, and the second, and the third. Hawke gritted her teeth in frustration, trying to hone in on the demon, but her aim was still wild. How could this shadow recreate Father's graceful movements?

Father rushed towards her, staff low and ready. Hawke wrenched herself free from the fire spell and shot a dagger of ice. The demon shimmered, throwing up her arm and Hawke's magic crashed against the barrier. Desire kept rushing towards her until she closed the distance, swinging her Father's bladed staff. Hawke side-stepped the blow and grabbed the staff, but it twisted out of her hands. She was too close.

A dagger of ice blasted from Father's hand and she barely spun out of it's way. The demon swung again, clipping Hawke's side. She cried out, releasing a cone of cold as she dodged another thrust.

Desire recoiled, but a stray dagger impaled her stomach. Hawke lunged forward, grappling for the staff, but the demon shoved her back following it with a bolt of lightning. She ducked down, the spell cracked in her ears as it whizzed above her head. Hawke shot back up, ramming her elbow into the demon's jaw. Desire staggered, disoriented.

Hawke wrenched the staff from the fiend's hand. Finally, she had the advantage. She raised her arms, ready to hammer it down on the demon's head, but hesitated. Father's ragged stomach yanked Hawke's mind back to Bethany's death. Before she could compose herself the demon vanished.

'Idiot,' Hawke cursed.

Her eyes darted around the Fade but everything was oddly tranquil. She dared a few steps when her side twinged; her leathers now steeped in blood. Hastily, she waved healing magic over the wound.

"Must you be difficult?" Father's disembodied echoed in her mind, causing her skull wound to throb.

"Kind of my default state," Hawke hissed.

She could feel Desire cracking into her, pawing through her thoughts. She tried distracting herself with Gamlen's qunari cheese, where Bianca got her name, anything to keep the demon at bay, but still she was stripped bare.

"I see you." Hawke froze. Naked skin on velvet.

Instinct guided Hawke's hands and she clashed against Fenris' broadsword. She dug her heels into the ground, bracing against his heavy swing, but still she stumbled. Hawke twisted out of the way of his next thrust, but it grazed her side, reopening her wound.

"We'll be together one way or another," Fenris' liquid voice crooned.

Hawke's face flamed as she resisted the urge to curl into herself. This was as embarrassing as it was dire. Fenris was an exceptionally agile swordsman, and though Desire was only able to recreate a fraction of Father's grace, the extra power and speed might be enough to gain favor.

She retreated, trying to give herself time for a rain of fire, but the elf gave chase. Frantically, Hawke hurled a dagger of ice, but Desire blocked it with the side of her claymore. Hawke followed it with another fireball. Once again, the claymore shielded her except for a few mild burns.

Hawke rushed in, staff twirling, but it was parried with another heavy swing. She cried out, landing with a hard thud. This wasn't working. Fenris was too quick for anything more than a basic spell and she didn't have the strength to take him head on.

She barely rolled out of the way of another thrust, leaving a pool of blood where she fell. She scrambled up only to be knocked back with another battering swing.

The demon charged again, and Hawke panicked. She side-stepped out of the way as she swept the underside of the blade. There was enough force to misdirect the blade without the knock back. Desire lost her footing in the momentum and stumbled forward. The demon struck out again, but Hawke slid her staff up the blade driving it upwards. Her jelly arms were unable to keep hold of her staff and it feel a few feet away.

"Shit!" Panicking, Hawke cast a fireball, but the demon knocked her hand aside.

Hawke leapt back before another swing could cleave her in half. Her heart pounded in her ears as Fenris dashed towards her, blade ready to plunge into her heart. In a final act of desperation, she aimed a cone of cold before Desire. The demon slipped forward before it encased her feet. Fenris' green eyes widened in panic as it ran up the demon's legs. She opened her mouth to say something when an icicle speared through her jaw. A second icicle pierced clean through her chest, then her stomach, then chaotically into her arms an legs.

Fenris' face melted away to reveal a dying purple flame. For a moment all was silent except for the soft drip of blood tapping on frozen grass.

Hawke threw her head back and cackled hysterically in relief. She thought for sure she'd be a flesh sack. Hawke nudged the demon's corpse, still cackling. "What's wrong? Getting cold feet?"

The demon's skin flaked at Hawke's touch and floated up into the sky, like ashes up the chimney. The effect cascaded until demon was nothing but floating dust. Hawke wiped her eyes, her chuckles fading into silence. "Shame no one's around when I'm being hilarious."

"You are indeed your Father's daughter," an ethereal voice spoke behind her.

Hawke whirled around to find a spirit unlike the desire demon. Transparent blue light made up her body, and she could only see an imprint of the spirit's features. This unnerved Hawke, but she didn't feel threatened. Somehow, she seemed familiar.

"I came in search of an answer to a question asked long ago," the spirit spoke. Her voice echoed through the Fade, making Hawke shiver.

"Well I might have a few questions of my own." Hawke called a fire spell to her fingertips, ready to strike. "Like why does everyone and their mom know my father?"

"I watched over Malcolm's dreams for many years as I've watched yours."

"Great," Hawke chuckled wryly. "I have a stalker."

The spirit approached her, but Hawke threw a fireball in her path. "I don't know what you want but unless you want to end up like ice princess here," Hawke gestured to the icicle pile with her thumb, "you better keep your distance."

"I am a spirit of Fortitude. I do not associate with demons." The spirit almost sounded offended.

"Fortitude?" For a moment, Hawke was speechless. That couldn't be right. She accomplished what she came for, but what? Fortitude? Hawke laughed, because if she didn't, she'd cry.

"You find this amusing?"

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, yeah, considering my 'virtue' is putting up with bullshit."

Even though the spirit was featureless, Hawke could feel her cold stare. "Tis more than abiding harsh circumstances. You are a foundation in which others anchor, a haven for those lost."

Hawke snorted. "Lady, I'm just trying to survive."

"Perchance the goals are not dissimilar."

She studied Fortitude in consideration. It did sounds more reasonable than 'vast wells of compassion that need unlocking.' "Alright. Say I believe you. What do you want?"

"Do not think me a demon," Fortitude said sternly. Hawke raised a suspicious eyebrow, but didn't say more for fear of offending the spirit further. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the spirit said, "Might I know what happened to Malcolm, that would be enough."


Hey again. I wanted to thank everyone again for taking the time to read and review. I always get a little thrill every time I see people responding to it. (Am I supposed to reply? I don't know.) Anyways, I was down in California for the last month which was the reason it took me so long to churn this out. (That and I rewrote this chapter at least 15 different times.) There might be a few changes once I get this chapter back from my beta, so please forgive any errors that you might come across.

Anyways, please enjoy and hope you all have fun with Inquisition. (That's coming out in less than a week *ugly sobs*)