Author's Note: Since I've always found it baffling that mages weren't instantly recognized in Thedas by the WHOPPING GREAT MAGIC STAFFS THEY CARRY, I made up the concealing spell; in this fic, Bethany uses it to basically make her staff invisible so long as she's not using it.


Bethany swallowed a sigh, forcing herself to smile genially at the stiff-lipped pair of guards on either side of her. Despite her initial insistence that she would be able to make it back to the inn perfectly fine by herself, the sindaco had sent the two with her. Feila had mentioned how delicately Antivans had been known to treat women, but she was feeling more irritated than flattered by the attention. It didn't help that they had managed to flirt with her three times in the five minutes they'd been with her. "Thank you, you're too kind," she said. "But I really am all right on my own." It's barely four blocks away, she added internally, exasperated.

They would hear none of her protests, however. "Our town is a peaceful one, but no lady should walk the streets at night unescorted," the taller one insisted, seeming flabbergasted at her continued if polite resistance. At least he'd given up trying to get her to link arms with him. It seemed that her friendship with the Prince of Starkhaven had labeled her a Lady in the eyes of the sindaco and his men, Grey Warden rank or no. She felt the comforting weight of her staff on her back and smiled slightly. The concealing spell her father had taught her had saved her life more times than she could count, especially in Kirkwall. The armed guard was a bit sweet, but unnecessary. She found herself wondering if the guardsmen would be so solicitous if they realized they walked with an apostate. Even the Circle frowned upon mages in the Wardens that hadn't been "loaned" to the cause by the Templars.

The man on her left came to a sudden halt, swiveling his head right and then left. "Do you hear that?"

His companion frowned, but Bethany heard it as well- the shouts of men and the crash of swords meeting in battle.

"Wait here, my Lady," the taller guard commanded; drawing their blades, the guards rushed off down the street.

Bethany hesitated. She could give them the slip and get back to the inn, but then they might scour the streets looking for her. She might even get them in trouble. Still, she wasn't about to wait around like a lump on a log while there was fighting going on. Someone might be in dire need of a healer. She hurried after the guardsmen, her lighter footsteps unheard over the clank of their armor.

They rounded a corner and came upon the fighting, where they stood trying to make sense of it in the flickering light of the torch one of the guards carried. Bethany recognized the tell-tale flare of lyrium and gasped. "Those are my friends!" she said sharply, startling both guards.

"My Lady, we told you to-"

"Help them! Those two are Grey Wardens!"

Shoving the torch into her hand and pointing firmly at the ground in a silent command to stay put, the guard waved his sword aloft and shouted imperiously, "Stop this at once in the name of the sindaco!"

He was of course ignored.

The other guard took a bone whistle from around his neck and blew it twice sharply; calling for backup, no doubt. This, at least, seemed to give the fighters a bit of a pause, and two of them turned and fled into the shadows. Yelling, the guards hurled themselves into the fight. Bethany hesitated, unsure if she should risk using her magic inside the town walls. Fenris and Alistair seemed to be handling themselves just fine, fighting back-to-back in a style that seemed to have become a swift habit in their travels. One of the men, who'd been hanging back and shouting orders, tried to slink away down a side street. Bethany looked towards the guards to make sure they were preoccupied, and sent a hasty localized paralyzing spell at the man, locking his feet to the street instantly.

He yelled in alarm, struggling ineffectually to free himself, and Bethany hurried over to him. "Who are you?" she demanded, lifting the torch to see his face better. The spell would not last long. "Why are you attacking my friends?"

"Get away from me, woman!" he raged, trying to hit her in the face. She ducked, dropping the torch, and at that moment the spell dissolved. He stumbled, found his balance, and shoved her aside roughly, dashing off down an alley.

"Bethany!" A strong arm steadied her, and she caught a glimpse of Alistair's familiar armor out of the corner of her eye.

"He went that way!" she shouted, pointing down the alley. "Stop him!"

"No need," Fenris said shortly, coming forward with a blood-soaked blade. His face tightened in concentration, and the lyrium marks dimmed. "We know who he is. He should be easy for the city guards to apprehend."

The pair of guards staggered over, panting and staring at Fenris as if he was a ghost. "Who is he?" one of them finally demanded, casting a glance back at the strewn bodies of the mercenaries.

"He said he was the local magistrate. A tall man with graying hair."

The guards exchanged a quick look and stepped aside to converse in low voices.

Bethany retrieved her torch and turned to face Alistair, concerned. "Are you all right?" She looked him over for injuries before turning her attention on Fenris, who was not so covered in protective plate mail. "What was that about?"

"We had a run-in with him at the brothel," Alistair sighed. "He tried to, ah, proposition Fenris, and was not pleased at being turned down. And now he knows about the bounty on Fenris's head." He noticed Fenris eyeing him oddly and realized his hand was still on Bethany's shoulder. He let his hand drop awkwardly. "Did you debrief the sindaco?"

She nodded, but the guards came forward once more before she could elaborate. "You are certain this man was the magistrate?" one asked, looking concerned. "Did he give his name?"

Alistair frowned at him. "No, I never caught his name. Why?"

"Ask the owner of the Cat's Fancy," Fenris put in. "He's a regular customer; she'll know who he was."

"Why?" Bethany asked suspiciously. "What's the problem?"

The guard coughed. "The local magistrate, Serrah Veil, is the sindaco's cousin."

"And that shields him from justice?" Fenris demanded scornfully, causing both guards to bristle.

"Never mind," Alistair interrupted. "Let's get back to the inn and let the guardsmen do their job. Come on. We all need the rest. It's been a long night."

xxxxxxxxxx

They returned to the inn, exhausted both physically and mentally. Fenris shoved all thoughts of Sebastian's letter to the back of his mind. That was something he would deal with in the morning. For now, all he wished to do was sleep.

Bethany had stepped over to the innkeeper to ask for their rooms, and now she returned, rubbing tiredly at her face. "The others just sort of packed into the rooms, so I hope you hadn't been hoping to bunk in any one specific room. I tried to save the biggest room for you, Alistair, but apparently Kel claimed it."

"He is the biggest," Alistair admitted. "I don't need a big room, Bethany."

"There's one room left, and I think I can share with Feila. There's only one bed, but I can shove her over and make room."

Fenris hesitated, suddenly a little more alert. His gaze flickered between Alistair and Bethany thoughtfully. If not for Isabela's constant attempts to play matchmaker with her friends back in Kirkwall, the idea might never have occurred to him at all, but suddenly he saw an opportunity here. Bethany and her Captain were very close. Closer, perhaps, than just friends. He should let them have the extra room to themselves. Something in his stomach twisted at the thought, but he ignored it.

He opened his mouth to offer to sleep on the floor in Feila's room, but noticed Alistair sending a suspiciously weighted look his way before switching that look to Bethany. Both men hesitated.

Bethany arched a brow at them and put her hands on her hips. "Something on your minds?" she asked with a note of impatience.

"No," Fenris mumbled, embarrassed and confused.

At his denial, Alistair shook his own head helplessly.

"The room's at the end of the hall. Good night, boys." Without a backwards look, she headed up the stairs, rolling her eyes at the hopelessness of them both.

There was a long moment of awkward silence after she'd left. Still not looking at the other man, Alistair finally said, quietly, "I... thought you two would like the other room."

"Us?" Fenris turned a startled look his way. "You two are the ones who-"

"It's not like that," Alistair sputtered, flushing. He sighed suddenly, running his hands repeatedly through his hair to fight off his exhaustion. "Bethany's special. She's..." He hesitated, grasping for an explanation. "She's like a sister. Or... what a sister should be like. You know?"

Thinking of Varania- and Alistair's mention of his own sister -Fenris nodded slowly, heart constricting in his chest. The idea was... a novel one. The more he dwelled on it, the more peace it brought him. The ragged hole inside of him Varania had torn out felt smaller than it had before.

Disturbed by these thoughts and emotions, he strode past the taller man abruptly, climbing the stairs. "Dibs on the bed," he said in a rare moment of teasing.

"Hey!" They bolted up the stairs in a race for the room, ignoring the innkeeper's call of rebuke for the noise.

xxxxxxxxxx

The fire in the hearth crackled, and a log popped loudly as the flames found some sap. Alistair jumped at the noise, already on edge. He sat tensely in the middle of the bed, fingers clutching nervously at the blanket, warmed by the fire's proximity. There was a brief knock on the door, and he swallowed hard, closing his eyes.

I don't want to do this, the fearful part of his mind murmured desperately.

He told it to shut up. "Want" had nothing to do with it. If he didn't do this, Brosca would die.

Riordan will deal the final blow! his mind insisted. There's no need for this!

But he knew there was no guarantee Riordan would succeed. If he was killed, it would fall to the only other Grey Wardens in Ferelden. His choices were bleak: he could die, or allow Brosca to die. And even if he thought he might find the courage to be the martyr, a part of him knew it would never happen. Brosca, fearless, stubborn, and protective of her friends to a fault, wouldn't let him near the Archdemon.

So it was do this one simple thing, this one act that most men would leap at the chance to commit, or let his friend go to her death.

He wouldn't do that. He couldn't.

The bed shifted with added weight, and his fingers clenched once more at the blanket. He couldn't seem to make himself open his eyes, still quailing on the inside. So many doubts hammered at his skull. He didn't know what he was doing. He'd do it wrong. He'd hurt her, or finish it too quickly. Why did it have to be her? She'd laugh at him. He wasn't even sure he could stand the sight of her face after all the cruel things he'd heard her say.

I can't do this.

I must.

A hand landed on his chest, gently easing him onto his back, and warm breath fell on his face. Digging for courage, hoping he didn't look as petrified as he felt, he opened his eyes.

He stared into solemn green eyes and felt a jolt of shock go through him.

"Relax." The deep voice made him shudder reflexively, the soft timbres affecting him in an almost alarming way.

"Fenris? What- what are you doing here?"

The elf's mouth moved in a smile, brief but genuine. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Maker, no," he gasped, then shut his mouth, embarrassed at such a hasty response.

Fenris chuckled, and Alistair's heart began hammering against his ribs. His eyes slammed shut once more as the other man stretched out on top of him, heavier than he looked, and put that mouth right by Alistair's ear. He began speaking, his voice low and rough and unintelligible, and everything in Alistair suddenly burned with a fierce want he didn't fully understand. He raised a shaking hand to touch that shock of odd white hair

and jolted upright in his bed in the inn with a gasp, nightshirt soaked with sweat.

He clapped a hand to his mouth, eyes darting towards the floor and the figure lying there. They'd drawn straws for the bed, and Fenris had seemed undisturbed by his loss; he claimed to have slept on many hard surfaces in his life, and wouldn't put up with Alistair's last-minute arguments. He was curled up in the fetal position now, wrapped up in a blanket, back firmly pressed against the wall and sword lying inches from his fingers. He was breathing deeply, eyes still shut. Slowly Alistair relaxed, grateful he hadn't awoken his roommate.

The dream teased at his mind, barely tangible, little more than flashes of imagery and sensation, and he shivered violently. The details weren't there, but try as he might, he could not keep the overall sense of the dream at bay.

He'd dreamed of that night again, the night he'd lain with Morrigan. Only this time it hadn't been the witch who'd crept into his bed.

He buried his face in his hands, feeling the heat of his flushed cheeks. "Andraste save me," he whispered, barely audible. Where had such a dream come from? Fenris was attractive; any fool could see that. But he was a friend. A comrade in arms. Alistair had no right to be having... those sorts of dreams about the elf.

He stifled a groan behind clenched teeth. How in the Maker's name was he supposed to act normal around Fenris tomorrow? How would he look him in the eye?

Wracked by guilt and worry, it was hours before he was able to sleep again.