They were a few hours outside Kinloch Hold, not even halfway to West Hill, when they stopped for a rest, and so Amelle could check on Isabela's injury. Isabela, of course, had insisted from the start her wound wasn't that bad, but it had been deep, and Amelle couldn't quite rid her mind of the memory that kept stubbornly surfacing of the abomination and its claws rending her friend's sleeve and skin. Worse, she didn't know whether or not the cut had been somehow poisoned—what did she really know about abominations anyway? Other than they were terrifying and disgusting and—

And they'd once been mages.

With this all firmly in mind, Amelle had decided she would keep a particularly close eye on Isabela's scratch until such time as her mana showed itself again, at which point she would heal it thoroughly and properly. Unfortunately, her mana was still quiet, still overpowered by that morning's magebane, and now that she was going on the second day straight of having no magic to speak of—and after that morning, no one would ever be able to convince her the tincture had ever been a bad idea—the place where her magic lived, that part of her spirit tethered to the Fade, had begun to ache in a raw, hollowed-out, scratched-over sort of way.

It was, she decided, definitely the magebane and not the sight of a young woman so losing herself to fear and panic that she gave over to a demon instead. Definitely not that woman's terrified screams, either. And definitely not the certainty with which she'd called Amelle a mage. Daylen had said only another spirit healer would be able to identify her—which made sense, in a way—so it was likely only the woman's fear and panic had been fuel for her words, Amelle was sure. And yet.

There was always that "and yet," wasn't there? Fear was powerful. Dangerous. Fear had kept mages locked in Circles like inmates in asylums for longer than Amelle could remember. But Analie Caddell had, with her own panic, only justified other people's apprehensions. She had given them reason to fear her—to fear any mage. For as much as Amelle found it personally insulting anyone could possibly be afraid of her, of what she was, she knew all too well how deeply afraid she'd been, put face to face with an abomination.

It was enough to make her wonder if she oughtn't to fear herself, sometimes.

But that was a train of thought best left unexamined for now, and Amelle pushed it away as she knelt by the tree stump Isabela had claimed as her seat, opening her satchel and rifling through the contents inside, pulling out ointment and fresh bandages. Red had already begun to bloom through Isabela's wrappings and, with a frown and a furrowed brow, Amelle started unwinding the strips from her friend's arm.

"It's not that bad, kitten. I've had worse."

But Amelle didn't reply. Isabela may have had worse, may have seen worse, but she hadn't. It was also next to impossible to ignore the niggling tug of responsibility over what had transpired. It existed an inexplicable way that made no sense in her head, but had dug in its heels somewhere around her gut.

Oh, she'd heard and heeded all the warnings her father had ever given her—Amelle knew well the danger of what she was. And of course it was all well and good to say "keep your head" and "don't give in to your fears," and if a voice in your head promises you something, you really are better off telling that voice "no, thank you," no matter how good it sounds. But those were only words. Never in Amelle's life had she been so scared, so terrified that if a demon ever whispered in her ear she might accept all it had to offer her. But after seeing what she'd seen, the possibility became real to her in a way it never had before, and that reality frightened her even more than the abomination itself had. The obvious answer to her conundrum was "vigilance." A vigilant mage would never turn so. But what happened when vigilance ran dry?

Amelle knew the dangers of being a mage; she'd just never been put face to face with them before.

She didn't like it.

The wound on Isabela's arm ran from shoulder to forearm, a long, deep line of red—not so deep it needed stitches, thankfully, but deep enough Amelle mourned the absence of her magic. After tying off a clean bandage, she offered her friend an apologetic smile.

"The best I can do right now. I doubt I'll need to try very hard to hide myself once we reach West Hill—I'll fix it up properly when we get there."

Isabela rolled her eyes, but there was a smile at her lips as she shook her head. "You are adorable the way you fuss."

Amelle snorted as she tucked her supplies back in her satchel. "I do not fuss."

"Are you kidding me, Hawke?" said Varric from the base of the tree he was sprawled against, notebook open against one lap, pen poised in midair. "You are a first-class, grade-A fusser. You agree, Broody?"

Fenris looked up from where he was polishing the templar sword Marshall Greagoir had insisted he keep as thanks; black blood still stained the blade in long, weblike streaks, dulling the gleam of the metal. "If Hawke is worried," he said evenly, "there is usually a good reason for it."

"See?" Amelle said, jerking a thumb at Fenris. "He doesn't think I'm—"

"That said, in the main, I would have to agree."

"Hey!" she yelped, turning to glare at Fenris.

And then the somber elf did the unimaginable. He laughed. Chuckled, really. But it was an expression of mirth all the same, lips curled into a whisper of a smile as he looked down at the sword he held. Then he looked up to find Amelle, blinking at him, and whatever there might have been of laughter was schooled away beneath a cough.

The heartbeat of silence that followed twisted itself upside-down in such a way Amelle Hawke was certain she knew the exact moment she'd lost her breath. The moment came and went, but before the silence could stretch into something truly uncomfortable, Fenris turned his attention back to the blade still in dire need of cleaning, giving Amelle several much-needed seconds to recover her savoir-faire.

She stood, sending a doleful, long-suffering look to her so-called friends. "I've got half a mind never to heal any of you ever again," she sniffed, slinging her bag over her shoulder

"Too late," sang Isabela, holding out her arm with a flourish.

"Better yet," she went on, "I'll wait until one of you is horribly, dreadfully, direly, life-threateningly—"

"You might be overdoing it with the adjectives, there," Varric pointed out, glancing up briefly before turning back to his work. "Just a little."

"Life-threateningly injured, and then I'll refuse to heal you. And what are you writing, anyway?"

"No, you wouldn't," riposted Varric with maddening confidence, his pen scratching rapidly across paper.

"You really wouldn't," Isabela interjected cheerfully, heaving to her feet to refill her canteen in the river.

"And I," Varric went on, "am writing a travelogue. The… highlights of our trip so far, you might say."

"Highlights," echoed Amelle, dubiously, taking a few steps closer to Varric. "Yes, I can see it now Spring in Ferelden: Bedbugs and Abominations. Very catchy title."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You know as well as I do there's not much money in telling the truth."

"Uh huh."

"If you must know," Varric said, pausing to heave a great, put-upon sigh, the authenticity of which was dubious at best. "The highlights I've chosen to include have been… slightly embellished."

"Embellished," she echoed again, eyes narrowing as one eyebrow rose to her hairline. "Slightly embellished how, Varric? A woman turned into an abomination before our eyes this morning—how exactly," Amelle muttered, crouching down behind Varric and leaning forward to read what he'd written upon those pages, "did you manage to embellish—"

She read the first few lines her eyes lighted upon, and stopped. "Maker's Breath, I cannot believe you—"

"What?" Varric replied, looking wounded. "What's the problem?"

"I am—I am not 'buxom'!" Amelle sputtered, wide-eyed and cheeks flaming with heat as she stabbed a finger against the book. "Or—or any of those other adjectives! You take those out right now, Varric Tethras, or I swear to the Maker I'll—"

"It's embellishment," Varric soothed, deftly sliding his notebook out from under Amelle's fingertip. "This way no one'll know it's really you."

Amelle blinked at Varric. Several times. "I can't—there are at least—at least a hundred flaws in that logic, and I… I will get back to you on what they are."

From across the campfire, however, Fenris did not comment. He looked, in fact, as if he were making an effort not to acknowledge their conversation at all as he cleaned and polished the templar sword. Small blessings.

Face still hot with discomfiture, Amelle crossed the short distance between them and knelt carefully in the grass. "Please tell me you aren't writing down your memoirs, too."

Fenris looked up, and then back down again—rather pointedly—to the sword he was cleaning. "I am not."

"Thank the Maker. Anyway, at the rate of completely undermining my own threats—are you quite sure you're unhurt? I know you said you were fine back in Kinloch Hold, but…" The sight of Fenris being hurled back by the abomination's blast of dark magic lived a little too vividly in her memory.

"I am well," he assured her, "but for a few bruises that will heal."

She nodded, indicating his knee. "You didn't—you didn't exacerbate any of your old injuries?"

Fenris gave a brief shake of his head, white strands of hair swaying with the movement. "I did not. And even if I had, I doubt you would have the… ability to restore them at this point."

"There's little enough I can do, that's true, but…" trailing off, she shrugged one shoulder. "I appreciate what you did." When Fenris didn't reply, didn't say anything indicating he had any idea what she was talking about, Amelle cleared her throat. "With the templars. You… spoke up for me. It… maybe it didn't seem like much, but I appreciated it all the same."

His dark eyebrows contracted. "Had you perhaps thought I would have revealed you to them?"

It was a fair question, she thought, and Amelle considered it a moment, then slowly shook her head. "No," she said slowly, sinking down from her knees to rest upon one hip. "I don't think you would have revealed me." And she meant it. "But… but that doesn't mean I expected you to…" her gesture was a futile one—how did she explain that she hadn't really expected him to admit knowing her, much less being any sort of traveling companion, much less standing behind her without hesitation when she'd been dragged in front of the templar marshall. "You spoke up for me. Stood by me. I…" Amelle cleared her throat, her face still warm. "Thank you. That's all."

As she stood, Fenris asked, "Had you not done the same for me?"

She sank back down against the soft grass, her brow contorting in momentary confusion. "I don't—do you mean healing you?"

Fenris looked up again from his blade, gaze intent and steady. "No, I do not." He paused a moment, and when Amelle failed to give any indication she knew what he meant, he went on. "Do not think I am ignorant of the fact that you must have taken on the slavers that had ambushed me. Do not think I am not aware of how quickly you must have learned they were slavers."

Then—then she understood. "Ah."

"You see."

"I… suppose I do."

They sat there a few moments in silence while Amelle watched Fenris' move an oiled cloth over the metal, working away the last vestiges of the abomination's black blood from the blade.

Finally, without looking up, he said, "If you have anything that might alleviate bruising, it would be helpful."

Amelle's brow quirked and she began digging in her satchel. "Bruises?"

"Yes."

So perhaps her concerns were grounded after all; though there didn't appear to be any stiffness in his movements, it had taken far more extensive injury to cause even a slight limp in his gait. Given this, Amelle was quietly surprised Fenris was admitting to having even a bruise.

"I just so happen to have just the thing," she murmured, pushing aside bottles and bandages and flasks before pulling a jar free from the rest and holding it out. Fenris took the jar, then frowned at it. Then, tilting his head slightly to the side, he frowned harder.

"Is this…"

"Nug Oil Liniment," she said proudly, and with a breath of her old patter. "Best poultice you'll find this side of the Frostback Mountains, made with frostrock from those very hills. Soothes sore muscles and heals minor cuts and scrapes."

"I have some of my own from a traveling merchant in Ostagar," he said, preparatory to returning the jar to Amelle.

"What a coincidence," she chuckled, her hand outstretched expectantly. "I think I've heard of her."

But before Fenris placed the jar in her waiting palm, his brows drew together in puzzlement, and he took her hand in his. "What is this?" he asked, indicating a long red line running from the base of her index finger down to the bend of her wrist.

Amelle sighed. "Nothing. Just… some of the bottles I threw—on my way back from the apothecary—"

"Your cousin."

"Yes. On my way back I went through the square, by the gazebo." She looked down at her hand and shrugged. "We were all so caught up with cleaning up the blood and bodies, I guess broken glass was a little beneath anyone's notice. I picked some of it up. Anyone could've stepped on it, or cut themselves—"

"As you've made evident."

"Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious." She scowled down at the cut. "It's nothing, really. Just a scratch. Figured I'd just heal it up once my mana came back."

"Your horse's reins have rubbed it raw," he said, indicating a spot just below her index finger.

"It's hardly the worst injury I've tended," Amelle protested. "Or not tended, in this particular case."

Fenris leveled a look at her, his brows dark slashes above his eyes. She knew the look—she just wished she didn't like it so much. It was not an expression of long-suffering. It wasn't even long-suffering's third cousin. It was exasperation, and nothing less than that. "Hawke."

"It's just a scratch," Amelle sighed.

Shaking his head and keeping a firm hold on her hand, Fenris reached beside him and, using his teeth, twisted the cap free from his canteen, then doused Amelle's palm with clean water.

She started a little from the cold splash against her palm. "What are you—what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Even the smallest wounds can lead to infection," he said, peering at the scratch before dousing it again with chilly, clear water. "Do not be foolish. Besides, you yourself said your liniment was appropriate for minor cuts."

Amelle stared, dumbstruck, as Fenris meticulously cleaned the scratch, deftly twisting open the very jar she'd handed him, smearing a tiny amount on his index finger, and carefully rubbing it into the wound—if one could even call it that, and Amelle wasn't entirely sure she did. He was overreacting, definitely overreacting, and Amelle most certainly was not distracted by the warmth of Fenris' hands, the surprisingly light touch with which he applied the liniment, the way his hair fell forward, shading his eyes as he worked.

Without a word he took a roll of bandages that had been peeking out from her bag, and tore a strip free, wrapping it around her hand and tying it off.

When she did finally speak, Amelle's words came out in a far huskier tone than she'd anticipated. She coughed, cleared her throat, and tried again. "And you say I fuss."

"You are too accustomed to healing others," he replied quietly, setting both the jar and the remaining unused bandage back in her satchel.

"I—" Amelle began to argue, but looked again at her hand instead. She'd ignored the scratch because she was too accustomed to not having to heal herself—that much was true. She didn't realize until that moment it had been throbbing at all—because it had stopped, the heat slowly ebbing away beneath the cool ointment. "You're… probably right."

Fenris inclined his head, which was about as much of a reply as Amelle would have expected, and she rearranged the items in her bag; a needless alteration, but one that kept her hands busy.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."

A light drizzle began as they were breaking camp, the mist of droplets beading up in a fine sheen against the long line of Falcon's neck, catching in his mane like tiny crystals. "Hope this passes soon," Varric grumbled, glaring up at the sky as he unbundled a battered duster from his pack. "Because there's a whole lot of nothing-much between here and West Hill."

When Amelle glanced at Fenris, she found he'd already shrugged into the dark coat she'd first spied him in, the collar turned up against the wet breeze that carried with it a sudden chill. She shrugged into her own felted wool coat, glad she'd packed it at all—she very nearly hadn't. The lanolin made for a smell that wasn't entirely pleasant when it was soaked through, but the coat itself was sufficient against a light spring rain, and warm against the chill in the spring wind.

"There's shelter enough on the other side of the river, Varric, don't you worry," Isabela riposted, pulling her hair free from the collar of her greatcoat. "Nothing with the hot baths and feather beds you were so fond of, though."

Varric heaved himself into Cedric's saddle. "Oh, it was me who was fond of them?"

"That's how I recall it," sniffed Isabela.

Unfortunately, as they pressed on, the drizzle did not lighten; instead, the rain began to fall in earnest, until water pooled in the brim of Amelle's hat, falling in steady drips both in front and behind. The wind kicked up, sharp gusts sending water against Amelle's face, catching in her eyelashes and finding its way past her own upturned collar, to slide in cold trickles down her neck. As they rode on, the ground churned to mud beneath the horses' hooves as Agrippa snorted her displeasure and Falcon shook his head to rid the water from his ears, trotting nervously to the side if a clap of thunder resonated overhead. Tango, easily the eldest horse, moved through the rain with annoyance that matched his rider's mood almost comically. Only Cedric seemed not to be bothered by the weather, his step light though his shaggy coat was dripping wet.

Amelle wasn't sure how many miles they'd traveled before coming to the bridge, but the journey itself had felt endless. Water had slunk down her neck, beneath her coat, and though water beaded up on her sleeves, she was soaked through to the skin underneath, stiffness and a deep chill was beginning to settle into her bones, such that every step Falcon took set off a thrum of aches. Perhaps it would have been wise to make use of some of Daylen's rejuvenation potion before they'd started off, but things hadn't started getting bad until the rain had thickened, and by that point stopping wasn't an option—they needed to reach the bridge and find shelter before the worst of the storm crept upon them.

Finally, after too many miles and too many hours, an arched silhouette slowly eased itself out of the distance, growing gradually visible through the thick, grey sheets of water. The bridge crossing the River Dane was a simple stone footbridge, heavy and dwarven-made, built at a slight incline to accommodate the higher ground on the opposite bank. With low sides and scarcely wide enough to fit a single wagon, the structure was clearly old, and the stones worn smooth; on the opposite side, a series of ambitious vines stretched out across the stonework with curling, thick green tendrils dotted with bright, wide flowers, bursts of yellow and purple that pushed through the mist of rain. Steady trickles of water flowed from small holes chiseled into the rock, presumably to keep the bridge from flooding. Beneath it, the River Dane churned and frothed, its choppy current slapping against the banks on either side.

Falcon had never been much of a spooker; his parents' temperaments, to say nothing of his own, had been a huge part of why her father had chosen Falcon for Amelle in the first place. But for at least the last mile before the bridge, he'd turned strangely nervous, his body tensing beneath Amelle's saddle and against her legs, ears flicking back and forth as he tossed his head, prancing to one side and then the other, and swinging his hindquarters around, taking Amelle enough by surprise that at least once she'd nearly lost her seat. Last thing she wanted or needed to do was take an already nervous horse over an unfamiliar bridge ahead of the others.

"You three go on ahead," she said, dismounting, feet sinking miserably into the mud. "I'm walking him over last."

Varric cast her a doubtful look, but Amelle waved him on. Once Isabela had made it up the bridge and was safely on the other side, Varric was about midway across, and Fenris had just eased Agrippa onto the stonework, she led Falcon to the bridge. He tossed his head, ears flattened, but she kept a firm grip on the reins in one hand, and slowly rubbed her other hand along the line of his neck; muscles tensed beneath her palm and she took a deep breath in and out again.

"Easy," she murmured in a low, soothing voice. "Easy."

Falcon tossed his head and snorted in reply, telling her just what he thought of her "easy."

It wasn't anything nice.

As Amelle waited, the rain fell hard enough and steadily enough that water swirled around her feet as it pushed through the drainage holes; what didn't drain coursed down the incline and pooled into puddles. Ahead of her, Fenris was just midway over the bridge; Amelle drew in a deep breath, and clucked her tongue softly, urging Falcon forward.

Their first few steps across the bridge were uncertain; Falcon's ears flicked in agitation as he snorted, but they made their slow, careful way out over the bridge, Amelle speaking soothingly to Falcon, though her hands were so tight around the reins, the leather was biting hard into her fingers.

They weren't even halfway across the bridge before things turned.

A bolt of lightning cut a blinding path across the sky, followed swiftly by a clap of thunder so loud, so sharp, so clear, it sounded as if a tree somewhere had split in two.

Falcon reared up, a bunching lurch of equine muscle yanking the wet reins through her fingers, burning her hand and pulling Fenris' bandage free. Stepping back, she put her arms out, as much to calm her horse as to make a grab for the reins jostling against Falcon's dark neck. Amelle ground out a furious curse as Falcon pranced to his left, swinging his hindquarters into her, shoving her too close to the bridge's low ledge. She darted forward, narrowly missing Falcon swinging his body around other way—another shove like that was going send her clear off the bridge.

Grab the reins, grab the reins, grab the Maker-forsaken reins, damn it. Amelle, mindful of stomping hooves and a thousand pounds of terrified horse, narrowly avoided getting her foot crushed as Falcon bolted forward several steps. Cursing again, she moved to stay by his shoulder, all the while trying to soothe him, calm him, and praying harder than she'd ever prayed before this wouldn't end with her being trampled.

"Whoa," she said, pitching her voice low, trying—trying not to sound panicked, trying not to let fear seep into her voice. "Whoa. Easy. You're fine, Falconfeathers. Good boy. Easy. Good boy," she said the words over and over again, forcing them out slowly and calmly as she tried to reach for the reins. Slow and calm, she reminded herself. Don't lose your head. "Easy. Whoa. Easy, boy. Sweet boy."

But the rain and the bridge and the thunder were at that precise moment more than her horse was willing to tolerate. Falcon turned himself in a tight circle, a deafening clatter of hooves against stone. The unattainable leather reins snapped with Falcon's movements, jerking again out of Amelle's reach. Another, particularly vehement curse gritted out through her teeth, and Amelle told herself quite firmly that no matter how badly she wanted to, smacking the horse's hindquarter in hopes of jerking him out of this particular fit of pique—okay, bone-deep terror—was not the route to take. A spooked horse was bad enough; she didn't need a stampeding one into the bargain, and that was enough to induce Amelle to keep her damned wits about her.

"Calm down, you big lummox," she growled. But Falcon only screeched another shrill cry, shying with enough force that one of Amelle's stirrups flung upward and over her saddle, where the reins twisted hopelessly around the iron.

Shit.

"Hawke!"

Amelle lifted her head and squinted through the rain sliding mercilessly into her eyes—her hat had fallen back and its strap now rested against her neck—to find Isabela coming down the bridge on Falcon's other side, arms low, hands outstretched. Behind her, Fenris and Varric led the horses away from the bridge, hopefully to tether them somewhere safe. Safer, anyway.

Isabela reached up to grab hold of Falcon's bridle, but the horse jerked back and to the side, his left shoulder shoving Amelle too close to the bridge's ledge, sending her kneecap slamming hard into stone. Water frothed and rushed below, more than enough incentive for Amelle to check her balance and maneuver herself away from the ledge.

"I need his reins!" Isabela shouted above the storm's roar from Falcon's other side.

But the thin strips of leather were tangled beyond help. Instead, Amelle pulled her satchel over her head and flung it over Falcon's back to Isabela. For a horrible moment, Amelle thought she'd thrown the bag too hard, but Isabela's hand shot up, snatching the long leather strap. Amelle had long known Isabela could be fast, but watching her move so easily, so quickly out of Falcon's way as he bolted forward and shied back, as he swung his hindquarters one way and then another was like nothing she'd ever seen. Isabela moved like smoke, never venturing far from the horse's shoulder—and then, in a blur of movement, she'd slipped the satchel strap over Falcon's head, a makeshift lead. Falcon still snorted, still tossed his head, still pawed at the ground, but he was in steadier hands than hers for the moment.

Amelle took an unsteady step, water swirling around her ankles now as she fought her way up the incline. Isabela had Falcon, and Amelle was left with shaking hands and legs trembling beneath her.

Then she heard it. A roar. A rumbling, rushing roar that had nothing to do with thunder. Amelle glanced to her right and her breath caught—the rush of water against land, a churning brown froth of water and dirt and detritus. So much water. All of it, coming from Lake Calenhad—they'd not only had a storm following them, but this as well.

Oh, no.

"Go!" Amelle yelled. She nearly planted her hands on Falcon's hind end and pushed, for all the good it would have done her. She landed a smack on Falcon's hindquarters and the horse let out another sharp neigh, but when Isabela pulled, the horse followed, perhaps finally realizing the genuine distress they were in.

Water swirled around Amelle's knees now—when had it gotten so high?—and she reached out to grab something, anything, even Falcon's tail would have helped her keep her feet. But Falcon and Isabela were on higher ground now, and Amelle was left with cold water rushing around her, pushing her along with the current.

Everything that happened after that happened too quickly.

Amelle fought for purchase as her booted feet slid against the old stonework, water rushing around her legs. From her right, there came a roar. Thunder, maybe—at least, she hoped it was thunder and not something worse. And Amelle knew precisely what "something worse" could be. Maybe it was just that the rain was simply falling harder now. Maybe—

She looked up again to find Fenris standing at the end of the bridge, features taut and furious, despite looking for all the world like a bedraggled cat.

"Hawke!" came his hoarse shout.

Icy water soaked into her coat, filling her boots, making them heavy—making her heavy, too heavy to walk, to move. Amelle needed to move. She blinked the rain out of her eyes, but it clung stubbornly to her lashes, coursed down her neck.

Fenris edged closer, arm outstretched. "Take my hand!"

She saw, then, that a rope had been wound around his waist, and Varric was even then knotting it around the base of a tree.

The water was to her thighs now, rushing above the bridge's low ledges. She struggled to take another step, flinging her arm out desperately.

He was so far away. An arm's length? Two? Too far.

The roar grew louder, louder, louder, until it was upon her; the rush of water knocked Amelle hard to her left, her legs aching with cold and impact as one ankle slammed hard into the stone ledge, now submerged.

"Hawke!" Fenris yelled again. He took another step closer. Another.

The frigid water rose, chest-high now and pushing Amelle into its current; she gritted her teeth and—

Fenris waded closer, the water up to his knees, hand outstretched; behind him, Varric and Isabela held the rope, feeding the length little by little—

Sopping wool weighted her down as she tried to reach out to Fenris' hand; one foot slipped, and another wave of water rushed over the middle of the bridge, pushing her up, up and over the ledge, into the current. She kicked against the force of it, tried to swim, but her coat was too heavy, pulling her down as water soaked into the wool. For one terrifying moment, water rose over her head as the current sucked her under with scarcely enough time to take a breath. She kicked again, hard, and with burning lungs and cold-numb fingers, Amelle released the toggle clasps on her coat and shrugged out of it as her head broke the water's surface, gulping in air as she did.

The current swept Amelle along with it until she saw, jutting out from the side of the bank, a thick tree-root laid bare as the water washed away the dirt encasing it. Willing her aching, exhausted limbs to act, she thrust one arm out as the root passed overhead, the fingers of one hand and then the other wrapping tightly around the dark, knotted twist of root. The river still pulled at her, still buffeted her with tree limbs and other detritus, but she, for the moment, was more or less still.

Trying to swim against the current was lunacy; that much Amelle was confident of. But maybe—maybe she could make it to the other bank. The side she clung to now was still too high above her head to reach, though for all the river was rising higher and higher, that could change at any moment.

Wet fingers slipped upon the even wetter tree root.

Whatever you're going to do, she thought, adjusting her grip and holding on tighter, best think of something quick.

Her friends were looking for her—had to be looking for her, so she tipped her head back and yelled as loudly as she could, against the storm, against the roaring water, "I'm here! I'm here!"

Before Amelle could shout again, though, a rush of water surged over her head, forcing water and silt up her nose and into her ears and mouth and down her throat, forcing her to either swallow or inhale. She coughed and spat as the roots slid and slipped slowly her grasp again, the thin, twisting end of the root made too slick by water and mud. The river surged again and pulled Amelle with it, the twining end of the root slipping from her fingers.

Again she kicked, over and over, not sure whether she was making any headway at all, when Amelle's legs slammed hard into something solid and unyielding, a rock formation that otherwise probably would have jutted out from the water, but for now lurked beneath the brown, cloudy surface. The river pushed her over it, but her foot—her ankle, more precisely—caught, lodged somehow, and as the river pulled at her, as it twisted her body with the current, pain screamed up her leg until spots danced before her eyes, until she was breathless with it. Amelle tried kicking, tried wiggling her foot free, but she was well and truly caught in a current of rising water.

When she heard Fenris' shout her name, Amelle was all but certain she'd imagined it. She tipped her head back to suck in a breath of air to find him standing above and somewhat behind her on the bank; the length of rope was no longer wound around his waist, though he was in the process of wrapping it about his arm from shoulder to wrist, before climbing down past the edge of the higher bank and lowering himself into the water to his waist. Above, Varric and Isabela still held onto the rope; bracing his legs against the bank, he stretched one arm out—close, nearly close enough for her to reach.

"Take my hand!" he shouted.

"I'm—" Another surge of water rushed over her, up her nose, into her mouth. Amelle choked and spat it out again. "I'm caught!" she yelled. "Something's—I'm caught!"

She was caught, and the water was still rising.

Fenris looked up and yelled to Isabela and Varric, "More rope!"

They obliged him with several more feet and Amelle could do nothing but watch as Fenris carefully unwound the rope from his arm, never loosening his grip.

"What—what are you—" Amelle sputtered and spat again. "What are you doing?"

Fenris turned furious eyes on her. "You are not drowning here today." Once the rope was loose, he kept hold on his end, tossing the remaining length her way. It took three tries before Amelle's fingers closed around the thick twine; she wrapped it around her hands as Fenris lowered himself further into the water, holding onto the rope like the lifeline it was.

The water was up to her chin now, and Amelle had to tilt her head back to speak. "What in the Void are you doing?" Oh, but she knew. She saw. Moving hand over hand, Fenris used the rope to make his way closer to her.

"You are not," he growled out again, "drowning today." And then he was there, soaked through and livid, hanging on to the rope, now drawn taut. Tendons stood out in stark relief in his hands, his wrists, his forearms, but his grip didn't slip, didn't falter.

"Neither are you!" Amelle yelled, her voice ragged, as if her throat were coated with silt. "I didn't—" Water sloshed into her mouth and she spat and coughed, tilting her head back. "I didn't pour all that energy into saving your life," she yelled, "to have you throw it away now, you idiot!"

The look Fenris shot her before drawing in a deep breath and disappearing beneath the surface of the dark, frothy water was too uncomfortably eloquent for Amelle's liking. The river closed over Fenris, dark water swallowing his pale hair until nothing remained but the rain pelting Amelle's face, and the churning river, slowly rising.