The silence in the darkest bowels of the prison is rarely broken by an uplifted voice. The men, and women, who are placed here to await execution have already abandoned hope. Confined to solitary cells, they only see the sun in brief glimpses from a tiny bar-covered slit of a window; the light that briefly breaks briefly through seems more like a mock than a promise. Small wonder, then, that the prisoners who come there, to those small, cold, cobbled cells, bear the last days and hours of their lives in quiet despair.

Elayne is the exception. The former guard-captain has always placed her faith in the Maker, for good or ill, and her soft, lovely voice whispers the Chant as she awaits her death on the morrow.

Even the prison guard, heart hardened by the hundreds that have passed through on their way to eternity, pauses in his duties as he sees the pious woman, long red hair gleaming in the reflected light of the meager torches, on her knees before the hours of her death to praise her Maker.

But eventually, he too, moves on, to other tasks, leaving Elayne alone to her prayers.

It has passed to the night's darkest hour, the hour when the Fade touches reality the most strongly, when men not abed are likely to see demons lurking in the shadows or maleficars doing their accursed work.

Elayne herself feels faint and feverish as she continues to pray for absolution, her mind tormented by the anguished dread of her unworthiness before the Maker's sight.

She feels a chill of a sudden, as an unexplained draft of fresh, cold air rushes over her and she hears a faint, tortured groaning. She shivers and clasps her hands together all the harder, and pleads, "Oh Maker, turn not from me in my hour of need, send these torments away, that my soul may be pure—"

And suddenly stops, for what appears before her but a vision of the utmost horror—a visage with a wicked, ghoulish grin, marked with scars both new and old, the nose a grotesque caricature that zig-zags haphazardly across his face, and—

Elayne sees no more, having fainted dead away, overcome by terror and shock.

When she awakes, it is to the uncomfortable sensation of being carried, slung across a broad, muscular shoulder, an arm with a grip of iron holding her thighs, clutching them to a warm chest that does little to ameliorate the coldness from the frigid air.

She shivers and opens her eyes, but sees nothing in a darkness that seems like a presence, malevolent and thick, blanketing her in evil.

"Ah," the deep voice carrying her rumbles. "You're awake. That's good. Don't know what I'd have said to Marcus if you'd have died on me, after all the trouble I've gone to so far. You're not the lightest person in the world, and this secret passage isn't short. Speaking of short," the voice sounds amused, "I know I'm not the handsomest dwarf in the world, but the fainting was a bit much, don't you think?"

She seizes on the one thing she recognizes in his confusing speech. She knows of only one Marcus, but surely—

"Marcus?" she says sharply. "Marcus who?"

"Why, my lady, which Marcus do you think? Marcus the grocer? Marcus the book-seller? Marcus the sentry?"

"No," the voice continues, "legendary Marcus Stuart, the greatest dragon-slayer who ever lived. It is he—

She was broken from her reverie by a female voice.

"Lady Cassandra!" it said loudly.

She marked her place in the book and looked up, turning to the source of the interruption. She should have known better than to think she could have a quiet, peaceful evening re-reading Varric's newest chapters.

"Yes?" Cassandra said, looking irritably at the Inquisition messenger.

"The Inquisitor requests your presence in the tavern. At your earliest convenience." The messenger bowed. "Is there a reply you'd like me to relay?"

"No," Cassandra sighed. As the messenger departed, she wondered what emergency she was being summoned for. A meeting in the tavern was unusual, but not unheard of. She hoped there weren't any complications relating to their trip to the Western Approach tomorrow.

As she got up, she spared one more regretful look at the elegant, graceful handwriting that would, in the next chapter, bring Elayne to the dark, handsome, and rakish Marcus, where he would introduce her to his merry band of dragon hunters, including the dwarven rogue who had abducted her from prison.

She smiled as she absent-mindedly traced the letters with her finger. She hadn't lied to Varric. It was one of the best gifts she had ever received. That he had favored her with such a thoughtful gesture, after she had been so churlish to him…well, a good friend was hard to find.

And it wasn't just that it was thoughtful—it was that he had seen even what she hadn't, that she had needed the comfort offered within, the reminders of her brother, his stories, and happier times. She hadn't the way with words like he had, but she hoped she had conveyed to him some of what she was feeling when she had went to thank him.

Some of what she was feeling, of course. To have gone to him and said what she was actually feeling was utterly out of the question. You saw beyond the outside to what was in my heart… and it exhilarates and scares me. Especially when I see how easy it was to penetrate my defenses.

Yes, utterly out of the question.

As she stepped into the tavern, Cassandra became aware of something very quickly. She had been tricked. Not in so many words, of course. The messenger had never said what, specifically, she was being summoned for. But "at your earliest possible convenience" implied an urgent situation.

The only urgent situation she saw was that the card table was one short to play Wicked Grace.

"Cassandra!" Trevelyan hailed her with a smile. "I'm glad you got my message. As you can see, we needed another player." He gestured to the table, between Blackwall and Hawke. "Have a seat."

Josephine paused in shuffling the cards to give her a wink. "Commander Cullen was to be our final player, but he excused himself at the last moment. Said he had urgent matters to attend to. However…I personally think that was just an excuse to ensure he kept his clothing on this evening."

"Wait a second," Hawke said as she glared across the table at Varric. "I wasn't told we were playing strip Wicked Grace."

Blackwall, always chivalrous, hurried to reassure her. "The ambassador was just joking," he said.

Hawke waved off his concern. "Oh, I don't care either way," she replied. "I just would've liked to have known ahead of time if we were, so I could've worn my good underwear."

"I never wear any," rumbled Bull. "Always prepared that way, you know?"

"Quite sensible," the Champion grinned. "I like the way you think."

Before the conversation could devolve any further, Cassandra decided to speak up and extricate herself from the situation. "Inquisitor, I appreciate the thought, truly, but I have to pack, and—"

"Cassandra, I'd bet a sovereign that you're already packed and have been for the last two days. Am I wrong?"

"Well, I'm mostly packed," she equivocated. "But I always save a few things for the night before."

"So how long does that take? Five minutes?"

She sighed, but then brightened as a thought struck her. "Perhaps I could get Leliana—"

"No!" the Inquisitor interrupted. "She's too good. We'd all leave the table naked if she played. She's as good Josie," Gareth squeezed his fiancee's hand and smiled, "but without any of the mercy. Please, Cassandra?"

She was about to demur again, when another voice broke in.

"Lady Cassandra, you simply have to stay long enough to tell me your side of the story."

"My side of what story?" Cassandra asked, looking suspiciously at the Champion.

"Well, Varric here," Hawke said, jerking her thumb at her friend across the table, "tells me you enjoy book-stabbing."

"I never said—" the dwarf tried to interject.

"He also tells me," Hawke said, shooting Varric a look, "not explicitly, you understand—but he also tells me you called him on his bullshit." Hawke gestured toward the seat on her right. "Sit down and tell me how you did it. I want to take notes."

Cassandra sighed and sat.

When the game broke up, several hours later, and with Cassandra several silvers poorer, a slightly inebriated Hawke took her by the arm.

"Let me walk you back to your rooms," Hawke said. "We're leaving tomorrow, and this might be my last chance to autograph your Tales of the Champion. If you still want me to, of course."

"It would be a privilege," Cassandra said.

When they arrived at Cassandra's rooms, Cassandra went to pull out her stabbed Tales of the Champion from under her bed, while Hawke unabashedly looked around her room.

"Ah!" Hawke said, discovering the open copy of Swords & Shields on her desk. "You know he wrote this for you, right?"

"Who, Varric?" Cassandra said, casually. "He did imply that, yes."

"He worked on it almost every free second he was here in Skyhold. He would write, and then re-read it, and mutter, 'She wouldn't like that,' and tear it up and start over. Do you know how many other people he's done that for?"

"No, but—"

"None," Hawke interrupted. The Champion gave her an impish smile. "I just thought you should know."

Cassandra's could feel her cheeks redden as she handed Hawke her book to autograph. "Champion…I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong idea."

"Have I?" the Champion raised one crooked eyebrow before bending over the desk to sign her name with a flourish.

"There," she said, handing the book back to Cassandra. "First one I've ever autographed. I'm flattered to be asked by the Hero of Orlais."

"My part in that was greatly exaggerated," Cassandra demurred.

"Yes, and everything Varric wrote down in his book about me was the Maker's own truth," Hawke replied with a snort.

"Shit, Cassandra," Hawke said, abruptly changing the subject, "don't you get tired of all this nonsense?" She sat down in the desk chair, and rubbed a hand wearily across her face. "I feel old." She raked her fingers absent-mindedly through her short black hair, hair that was beginning to be streaked with grey. "I'm not even forty yet, and I'm beginning to look like an old woman."

"It is…difficult," Cassandra replied, settling on the word, "being called to do the Maker's work."

"The Maker's work?" Hawke laughed, but it was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "The Maker must have an odd sense of humor, then. All I see is cleaning up after people who were too arrogant, selfish, or stupid to leave well enough alone."

"No, no, don't say anything," Hawke waved Cassandra off when she tried to speak. "I have my own ideas and opinions about the Maker, and I certainly didn't come here to debate theology with you."

"So what did you come here for?" Cassandra challenged.

Hawke sighed and looked down at her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. "Would you believe me if I told you I wasn't even sure any more? I was going to tell you not to screw him over –he's had a hard life, harder than he lets on, but even so, he has the biggest heart. He just covers it up so people can't hurt him. All the cynicism, all the sarcasm? Just for show. But you know that already, don't you? Or suspect at any rate."

At the conclusion of this surprising speech, Cassandra was ready to argue. How dare Hawke imply what she had? But beyond that, for her to warn her not to hurt him? What kind of person did Hawke think she was?

But then Cassandra looked at the Champion—truly looked. It was easier when Hawke had her head down. Her mobile, expressive mouth and vivid eyes were usually all you saw when you looked at her—eyes that sparkled with life, a sly smile that was quick to find humor.

But now, looking down at the Champion as she abstractedly chewed at her nails, Cassandra saw a small, fragile woman. A woman, if not old, as Hawke averred, at least a woman older than her years.

Cassandra opened her mouth to apologize, then thought better of what she was about to say. She suspected it was the last thing Hawke wanted.

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," she said instead, softly.

"Lucky?" Hawke looked at her, smiling a smile that was more like a grimace. "Probably far luckier for him to have never met me. Seems like whenever I turn up, things go to shit." Her chin trembled for a moment, before she looked away. "Fucking listen to me. I always turn into a sad sack anytime I drink."

Hawke rose to her feet then, blinking, looking at the floor. "Probably time for me to get back to my room."

Cassandra extended her hand, and when the smaller woman grasped hers, she said, sincerely, "It was good to talk to you. And…even though I still think you're mistaken, if it matters, you have my word that I won't…" she paused, recollecting Hawke's words, "I won't 'screw him over'."

"All I can ask," Hawke said, giving her hand a final squeeze before releasing it. "See you tomorrow, bright and early?"

"I'll be there," Cassandra agreed.

As Hawke descended the stairs, she shook her head, then laughed. "I was right," she muttered. "Just like a Nevarran Aveline. Who'd have fucking thought?"