Malcolm's pale face was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as Anders approached the bed. It was clear that the effort of sustaining his magic for so long had taken a heavy toll on the Peacekeeper.

"Hurry, man," Malcolm ground out.

Anders knew he could not, however, allow Malcolm's exhausted fear to dictate his own actions. One glance at the knife hilt protruding from Hawke's chest was enough to let him know how dangerous the situation was. Another inch, maybe less, and the blade would have pierced her heart, he was sure, which made its removal all the more precarious.

Setting his bag of supplies on the end table, Anders spoke to Malcolm Hawke in calm, measured tones. "I need you to keep up the binding. Can you do that?"

Malcolm did not answer, but merely nodded once.

For Hawke's sake, Anders hoped he could. He removed several bottles of lyrium from his bag and glanced up at the door where the stiff figure of Cullen stood like a sentinel.

"I will need your help, as well," he told the Templar, and nodded toward the little row of potions.

"Understood," replied Cullen, and he came to stand between the table and the bed.

Anders first tore away the silken cloth of Hawke's gown, and he heard the Peacekeeper's grunt of disapproval when he pushed up her breastband, revealing the rounded flesh beneath. Despite himself, Anders felt his cheeks heat at the sight of her perfect breast. The healer in him was well acquainted with female anatomy, yet the man in him couldn't help that, even streaked with blood, he found her beautiful.

Clearing his mind of such wayward thoughts, Anders focused on building his magic within him. Usually, when he felt that hot push of stronger magic that had been merged into his being, he denied it. This time, however, he welcomed it - allowed it to come forth and prayed that neither of the two men would notice anything unusual.

With great care and precision, he sent the first tendrils of his magic along the blade itself, wrapping it around the cold steel in a white-blue cocoon. He saw immediately where its sharp edge had nicked an artery close to Hawke's heart, and even as Anders placed his hand on the hilt to remove it, he sealed the small cut through which Hawke's lifeblood had flowed.

Seconds later, the knife was in his hand and he murmured, "Cullen." A glass vial was pressed to his lips, and Anders swallowed the lyrium greedily, before telling Malcolm to release Hawke from the binding. The Peacekeeper staggered back, and may have collapsed to the floor, if not for Cullen's strong arms going around him like a vise. Anders forced himself to ignore the Templar's pleas for Malcolm to take some rest, as well as Malcolm's strong, swift denial.

Long into the night, Anders worked to repair the damage the dagger had caused, but he could do nothing to restore all the blood she'd lost from the devastating wound. Only time and rest would accomplish that, if she were lucky.

Just as the dawn's first rays of golden light shone through the bedroom window, Anders looked down at the fine, silvery line on her pale skin, the only trace left of her grievous hurt. A wave of dizziness overtook him when he attempted to stand, and he closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple, attempting to ease the pounding ache in his head. Intense healing work often brought on these headaches, at least ever since…

"Will she live?" Malcolm's hoarse voice interrupted his thoughts. He felt the Peacekeeper's hand on his arm, steadying him.

Anders forced his eyes open, and looked down at Hawke's ghostly white face. Would she live? For all their sake's he hoped so. Yet to ease her father's mind, Anders replied, "She is healed, but must be confined to bed for many days yet."

The words had barely left his lips when there was a commotion at the door, and Hawke's mother burst into the room, her red-rimmed eyes locking on her daughter's still form.

"Malcolm?" she queried beseechingly.

The Peacekeeper held out his hand to his wife, and she hurriedly came to him. Her sobs began anew as she looked down upon her daughter. This was no place for him now, intruding upon a family at such a time, and he began to gather his supplies. With bowed back, he moved toward the door, his head pounding harder with each step.

"Anders," Malcolm's stern voice stopped him, and he turned. "Thank you for… for my daughter's life."

Anders nodded his acceptance, and left as quickly as his weary bones would carry him.

It wasn't until he was back at the clinic, lying on his narrow cot, that the full weight of it hit him: Amber Hawke had nearly died, had nearly been taken from him before he'd even… before they had…

Unable to follow his thoughts to their not so logical conclusion, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Malcolm dropped into his chair and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. He'd not slept, but come directly to the Gallows to meet the Grey Wardens and secure Karl's safety. The mage was now on his way to Montsimmard, Maker watch over him. Karl's fate was in other hands now, much to Malcolm's great relief. Yet that did not change the fact that the morning's most important task was still before him, and would prove far more draining than signing a few papers for a mage's transfer.

He sighed heavily, weighed with the guilt that he had not informed Anders of Karl's departure. He'd thought it best if the two did not see each other again, and wished to keep the Healer as far away from the Gallows as possible, to avoid further scrutiny. He could do much to protect the apostate from the Knight Commander, but the job would prove easier if he did not rub her nose in it at every turn.

If only he could steal just a few hours rest before leaving for the dungeons, to interrogate the villain who had tried to kill his dearest daughter.

Cullen arrived then to announce the skiff was ready, and Malcolm rose from his seat with all the vigor he could muster.

The Knight Captain gave him an appraising look, before asking, "Are you sure we should not postpone the interrogation, Peacekeeper?"

"No, Cullen," replied Malcolm. "What best done is soon begun, as they say."

The trip across the bay was a blur, and Malcolm thought he may have actually dozed off at one point, but soon they were met at the docks by a contingent of city guards, who escorted them to the Keep.

They had no more than passed through the wide doors, when a troubled looking Viscount Dumar hurriedly approached them.

"What is it, Marlowe?" Malcolm asked.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," the viscount replied, nervously rubbing a hand over his chin. "The prisoner is... dead."

A string of curses threatened to erupt from his mouth, but Malcolm took a deep, steadying breath and simply said, "Take me to the body."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

Throughout the long day, Hawke had received a steady flow of visitors, despite her mother's protests.

"But you must rest, my darling," Leandra had entreated. "Look at you, you are weak as a kitten."

And she had been. Still was, in fact. Hawke could barely lift her hand from the covers, and her voice was no more than a whisper, but she had refused to drink the healing draughts Leandra pressed upon her unless she was allowed to see her friends.

One at a time, her mother had escorted them in, a pinched look on her face. Hawke could care less what Leandra thought of her choice in companions. What her mother could not know was that seeing the love and concern in their eyes did much to dispel the expression of another set of eyes. Black eyes, filled with a venomous hatred Hawke had never before experienced in all her days. They'd filled her fevered dreams, and haunted her even into her waking. Who was he? What had caused him to direct such loathing upon her - enough to want to kill her?

Fortunately, she'd not been left alone with her thoughts. Varric had been her first visitor, followed by Isabela, Fenris and even guardswoman Aveline. Hawke glanced at the bouquet of pink rosebuds Varric had brought to her, and wished she had the strength to pluck one from the vase and bring it to her nose and inhale the sweet scent.

She sighed, alone in her room now, pining for the one person she had not seen this entire, long day.

Anders.

Without him, Hawke knew she would be dead now, wandering the paths of the Fade, separated from everyone she held dear. She owed him everything, and yet… and yet she was also angry that the Healer had not even bothered to check in on his charge. More than anything, she wanted to get up from this blasted bed and march to Darktown to give him a piece of her mind. How dare he neglect her so?

There was a soft knock at the door, and a moment later Leandra escorted the object of her thoughts into the room.

Immediately, all of her peevish thoughts vanished as she got her first look at his face. She'd never seen anyone look so exhausted. Half moons of darkness shadowed the skin under his eyes, and the lines around his mouth stood out starkly against his pale skin.

"You look worse than me," Hawke teased softly as he approached the bed.

"I'll just leave you with the Healer, Ambrosia dear," Leandra said, and shut the door behind her.

Anders said nothing, but procured a blue vial from his robes and swiftly downed its contents. Once finished, he pulled the blanket away from her and settled his hands on her ribcage beneath her breasts. The wash of healing magic that filled her was ten times better than the potions that had been pressed on her all day, and for the first time since she'd awakened, she felt some of her vitality return.

"Anders," Hawke whispered. He looked on the verge of collapse. "Sit down." And she had to admit that she was pleased when her hand obeyed her command and patted the blanket beside her.

Anders sank gratefully to the edge of the bed. "You're awake sooner than I thought you'd be," he said wearily.

She didn't tell him she'd forced herself to stay awake so to avoid the nightmares of those soulless, black eyes, but instead said, "You can't keep a Hawke down, you must know that."

Anders shook his head, and the hint of a smile curved his lips. "You will stay down, in this bed, for the duration of the week," he ordered, his stern voice in opposition to his soft expression.

Hawke did not bother to argue, because she had no intention of staying abed for a week. Instead she took his hand and said, "Thank you, Anders."

She was gratified when his fingers slid through hers, and held her hand tightly. "Amber, I…" He hesitated, and she held her breath, waiting for what he would say, he sounded so serious.

In the end, however, he only said, "You're welcome."

⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼ • ⧽❀⧼

"If you don't mind my saying so, you need to go home and rest," Varric told the Peacekeeper as he settled into the chair in front of Malcolm's desk.

"Soon enough, my good dwarf," Malcolm replied. "First there is a matter of some urgency we must discuss."

Varric felt a thrill of fear run through him, as thoughts of his Rosebud taking a turn for the worse sprang to his mind. "Amber?" he asked.

"She is fine," he replied. "I've had hourly reports, and have been told she continues to gain strength."

Varric blew a long breath through his teeth. "Then what?" he asked. "What did that bastard have to say for himself?"

"Amber's attacker is dead," Malcolm said. "By his own hand. He was searched, of course, but the guards missed a hidden knife, with which he managed to slice through his own throat."

Varric whistled. "So, you don't know who he was? Or why…"

Malcolm pushed a torn piece of paper across the desk, and Varric took it up to inspect it. It appeared to be the bottom of a letter, with only the fragment of a sentence left at the bottom.

…some urgency, so I trust that you will carry out your orders, regardless of the consequence."

~Q

"Who's Q?" Varric asked as he handed the paper fragment back to Malcolm.

"I do not know, thought I intend to find out," Malcolm said. "More importantly, I think you know what I shall say next."

Varric did know. It was in Malcolm's eyes, as clear as a bell. "You want Amber out of the city," he said.

"Yes," said the Peacekeeper. "You will finalize your plans, and make sure you are ready to depart on this expedition of yours, the moment my daughter is well."

"Of course," Varric agreed. "But what will you do?"

The steel in Malcolm's eyes took Varric aback. He'd never seen the Peacekeeper look quite so, well, deadly.

"I believe you have things to do?" Malcolm asked in a voice filled with barely restrained rage.

Varric quickly stood, and with a slight bow, left the Peacekeeper's office. Even though he was a dwarf, and therefore in no danger from the Templars, he didn't like being in the Gallows. He didn't care much for riding in boats either, but what could he do? There was no way he would give up the envious position of having such a close tie with the Peacekeeper of Kirkwall over such paltry things, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

By the time Varric reached the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, he'd regained his good humor and was whistling softly to himself. His Rosebud would recover, and that meant all was right with the world, no matter what else was happening.

Next stop was to visit those two traveling merchants who had lately been hanging about the square. He'd heard their names, but couldn't bring them to mind at the moment.

As he stopped in front of their small cart, he didn't have the chance to ask before the older of the two stuck out his and said, "Bodahn Feddic, at your service."


A/N: Thank you again for all the kind reviews, and the new favs and follows. You all keep me smiling, for which I thank you greatly!