LOTHERING: 9:23 DRAGON

Kiara and Amelle strolled back from the swimming pond, laughing, enjoying the sunshine. Carver wasn't with them, for a change. In the manner of obnoxious eleven-year-old boys who had no desire to spend sunny afternoons with their sisters, he'd grumpily declared he had other plans, better plans, before disappearing off to the village. Even so, Amelle was happy; so happy it was hard for her to keep from sending sparks dancing around her fingertips. So happy Kiara didn't want to stop her. The sparks were beautiful.

The sun was beating down hard on her neck, but Kiara's hair was still damp and cool, sending soothing rivulets of moisture down her spine, when she heard the telltale clank of armor. She didn't think; their father's warnings about armor were absolute—at the first sound, hide. Kiara grabbed Amelle, one arm around her slight body, the other holding a hand tight over Amelle's mouth. Kiara made certain to keep her sister's hands pressed between their bodies even when panic made the sparks jump into life as actual flame. Kiara didn't cry out, even though the tender flesh of her belly had taken the brunt of Amelle's fire. She was grateful for her recent growth spurt because it was easy to keep hold of her sister, even as Amelle panicked. Kiara rolled them into the underbrush, pinning Amelle beneath her, hoping no sparks would set their hiding place alight.

"Templar," Kiara whispered in Amelle's ear.

Amelle quieted at once, and the magic winked out, leaving pain and the faint smell of burning in its place. The armor clanked above them, slow and steady; Kiara couldn't fathom what would have brought any templar so far from his usual patrol route. She hardly dared breathe, and she felt Amelle just as still beneath her.

"Why are we out here, Kern? Because some kid said he thought he saw magic? It was probably just sunlight on the water."

The other templar sighed. "You know we have to take it seriously when someone reports."

"And we're supposed to believe he got close enough to see magic but not close enough to see who was using it?"

Beneath her, Amelle trembled. Tears ran from the corners of her wide eyes silently, disappearing into her still-damp hair. Kiara dared not remove the hand still clamped over her sister's mouth. Her stomach burned with the kind of pain she'd never imagined it was possible to feel and still survive. Falls from trees and scraped knees and even a broken arm had not prepared her. But she did not weep, and she did not waver; she kept her own eyes focused on Amelle's, and tried to project security, safety, strength. Amelle blinked, and Kiara rested her forehead on her sister's.

It was then, her body covering Amelle's, terror and adrenaline making her oblivious and brave, that Kiara Hawke decided her sister was going to be protected, no matter what. If she'd had a bow Kiara could have picked off the templars bumbling through the woods, like so many armored rabbits. She was already a decent shot when it came to finding dinner—but she could be better; she would be faster and more clever, and if they both made it out of this alive—and Amelle not shipped off to the Circle Tower—she would devote her whole life to not seeing Amelle's eyes so wide and horrified ever, ever again.

Kiara found herself thinking prayers, snatches of the Chant. Maker. Andraste. Please. Not Mely. Not Mely. Look how scared she is. Look how scared. She's just a kid.

But Amelle was also brave. While the templars blundered about, debating points of Chantry law and musing about what the lay-sisters might make for dinner—apparently mutton was on heavy rotation—she was silent. Her hands remained still and cool, and even her breathing slowed. They were part of the underbrush, tiny spotted fawns hiding in plain sight while the wolves circled.

Kiara lost track of time. It seemed days since she'd flung them off the path and into the narrow ravine beyond, save for the fact that the sun was still high in the sky.

Finally the first templar griped, "Come on, Kern. No one'll doubt we looked. The Maker himself couldn't find an apostate in these woods. If there's a mage nearby, they'll turn up. They always do. But I think that boy was pulling our leg, probably so he could get up to some mischief of his own."

Even after she heard the heavily armored men crash away through the forest, evidently breaking every branch as they went, Kiara remained still for a very long time. She counted silently to one thousand, and then tried to remember as many Kings and Queens of Ferelden as she could. The sun was lowering by the time Amelle pressed a kiss into the palm still clamped over her mouth, and Kiara finally flopped off her sister and rolled onto her back.

The pain that had started so intense had, by now, faded to a dull, persistent throb. Moving sharpened it again, making her feel as though a fist of white-hot fire had once more been physically punched through her gut.

Having been pinned beneath Kiara's weight so long, it took Amelle several tries to regain even her hands and knees. When she did, she crawled the short distance to Kiara's side. Her face was in shadow, backlit by the sun, so Kiara heard the gasp without seeing Amelle's expression. The gasp told her all she needed to know about the state of her stomach.

"Kiri," Amelle whispered, "what did I do?"

"Not… purpose." Kiara's own voice sounded strange, distant and raspy as though she were hearing herself speak from a great distance away. "You okay?"

"Shh. Shh. I'm fine. You're going to be… we can fix this. Somehow we can fix this."

"M'fine."

"You're not. I… I burned you. Bad."

Amelle sat back hard, leaves crumpling beneath her.

"Can you…?"

"Kiri, I don't think I can. It's really bad. It's really, really bad."

Kiara sighed, but even the sigh hurt. "Get Papa. I'll wait." She tried to smile because Amelle looked so scared, but it didn't feel right on her face. Nothing felt right, actually. When she tried to lift her head to see what Amelle was making such a fuss over, she found she couldn't move her neck properly. She managed an inch before giving up and letting her cheek fall to the cool, sweet-smelling loam.

"Kiara…"

"Go, Mely. Hurry."

Amelle touched her fingertips to Kiara's brow, and she found herself amazed that human flesh could feel so cool and soothing—especially given the fire she'd seen those same hands produce earlier. "Kiri, listen to me. I know it's hard, but you have to try and stay awake. Papa said. I'll run, okay? I'll run the whole way."

Kiara tried to nod and failed. Then she tried to speak and failed at that, too. At last she settled on a blink—a very decisive blink—before gazing past Amelle toward the dying sunlight streaming through the leaves of the trees. Before she rose, Amelle pressed a kiss to Kiara's forehead. Then she darted away, and even listening carefully Kiara couldn't hear Amelle's footsteps disturbing the underbrush.

Good girl, she thought. Run swift and silent, and hide from the prowling wolves.

For a little while, Kiara managed to do as her sister had bidden. She counted birdsongs, and tried to match voices to the species she knew. As the light began to fade, so too did the songs. Then she imagined shooting arrows through the leaves, as if each was an individual bull's-eye. Some time during this exercise, she began to imagine voices in the rustle of the leaves, and specters in the long shadows cast by the trees.

When he first bent over her, his eyes—so like her own—peering into her face, Kiara rather believed her own father to be one of these ghostly apparitions. When he spoke, however, she roused herself enough to see he was solid flesh and blood, and that he was worried. "My foolish girl," he whispered. "How impossibly brave you are."

It was beyond Kiara to reply, but she heard Amelle say anxiously, "Her stomach, Papa. I told you it's her stomach."

"I see that, rabbit. You did well to come and find me."

"Papa… Papa, I didn't mean to do it. I was just surprised and—"

"Hush now, sweetling. I need to concentrate."

Kiara heard Amelle's rapid breath even though she couldn't see her sister in the dim twilight. She could see her father, though, because his hands were glowing the bright silvery-blue Kiara knew from her scraped knees and broken arm. "Don't worry, my brave, cunning kit," he said softly. "I've got you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Kiara wanted to tell him she loved him—loved all of them—but speaking was still too much. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, and her mouth opened wide in a silent cry as her father's hotcold healing magic focused on the terrible burning in her stomach. It was too much. Instead of the tingle she remembered, her entire body thrummed with the power her father wielded. Above her, lit by the eerie glow, his face was concerned and terrifying. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a thin trickle of it trailed down one cheekbone to disappear in his beard. Kiara yearned to brush it away, but he seemed indifferent to the irritation of it.

Just when Kiara thought she could take no more—the pain was too great and the hotcold was boiling her blood and freezing her bones at the same moment—it faded. The glow disappeared, leaving them all cloaked in the sudden darkness of the fully-fallen night. "Papa," she croaked, "you came."

Her father gathered her up, rocking her gently in the circle of his strong arms. Kiara pressed her face to his chest and could feel the pounding of his heart against her cheek. "My precious girl," he breathed into her hair. "My sweet, brave, precious girl."

"Sorry, Papa."

"None of that. You did exactly as you ought. You are safe and your sister is safe and that is all that matters."

Embarrassingly, Kiara felt herself still crying, even though the worst was over. "Do we have to leave now, Papa?"

"Soon, dearheart. Your mother will be beside herself with worry."

"No," she said. "Do we have to leave Lothering?"

Pressed so close to him, Kiara could not help feeling the way her father tensed with sudden surprise. "I don't know yet."

Amelle said, "No, Papa, please. We like it here. I'll be more careful, I promise."

"If the templars are already looking…"

"They thought it was a prank," Kiara insisted. "Some boy told them."

"Some… boy," their father said, his voice low and dangerous. "And where was Carver today?"

Amelle gasped. "Papa, he wouldn't!"

Kiara said nothing. Carver… struggled a good deal, she knew. And he had a tendency not to think through the consequences of his actions. He loved his twin sister, certainly, but love didn't completely banish resentment. And between magic and Amelle's newfound talent on the farm—no one could deny she had a knack for gardening—neither of which Carver shared… resentment had been running high.

"Maybe he thought it was a joke," Kiara offered weakly. "Maybe he thought they'd never take him seriously."

"He wouldn't," Amelle repeated more insistently. "He knows. He likes it here, too."

"We'll ask when we get home," their father said, and though Kiara could tell he was tempering his anger for Amelle's sake, he had by no means ruled out the possibility of Carver's involvement.

Even though it was awkward and she was too heavy, her father carried her the entire way home. She couldn't see in the dark, but her fingertips were able to feel the strangeness of the skin on her belly—scars, then. She dozed, soothed by her father's even gait and the sound of Amelle padding along beside them.

Kiara woke when the door opened and light flooded out into the darkness, accompanied by her mother's cry.

"She's fine, Leandra. She's fine. It was… she's fine now. She has a new scar, but she's fine."

"Malcolm, you look—"

"I'm fine, too. Only tired. We're all fine."

Kiara blinked rapidly until her eyes grew accustomed to the light. Her father settled her in a chair and she immediately glanced around the kitchen.

Carver's expression told all.

"Carver…" Kiara whispered. Amelle just looked at him, pale and stricken.

Her brother ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. "It was just a joke. A prank. I didn't even… some of the other boys thought of it. Kern's always giving them a hard time and—"

"That's your excuse?" their father said. "Some of the other boys thought of it, and you went along with it? Knowing that there were actually mages for the templars to find?"

"I didn't think—"

"That's obvious. Go, Carver. Spend the rest of the evening in contemplation. Tomorrow you'll go to the templars and apologize. If they believe you, perhaps we can stay in Lothering. If not, we'll be gone again before the sun sets. I won't have your sisters—your mother—brought to danger because you would sacrifice them for a laugh."

Pained, Carver took a step toward them. "It wasn't like that. It was just—everyone else—"

Their father loomed over Carver, arms folded over his chest. "You take a look at your sister's stomach and tell me what it was, Carver."

"That wasn't even the templars. That was Amelle."

"Carver!" their mother snapped. "Your room, now."

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to protest further. Then he took one glance at the thundercloud faces of his parents and he left. The sound of his door slamming echoed throughout the small house.

"Andraste give me strength, Leandra."

Their mother sighed. "Boys at that age—"

"Are going to get their sisters captured or worse."

Amelle still hadn't moved, except to wrap her arms around herself in an inadequate hug. When their mother tried to embrace her, she stepped away, knocking the table with the small of her back.

"What if," Kiara said slowly, "what if… maybe Carver could… volunteer with the templars. Learn to swordfight. Run errands for them. That kind of thing. As an apology, it could be; he doesn't have to join the Chantry or anything. Then we… we could keep hiding in plain sight. And maybe Carver would have something better to do with his time than pull pranks."

Something in her father's shoulders shifted at this, and he shook his head slightly before ruffling her hair. "Perhaps, Kiara. It is a thoughtful suggestion."

"It's better than thoughtful," Amelle said quietly. "I think it will work. Please, Papa, can we try at least?"

"Very well." His smile was sad. "But if it doesn't…"

"We have to be ready to run."

Their mother sighed. "We're always ready to run."

That time, however, they did not have to.

#

KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON

Though he wasn't looking for her, Cullen came across Solona Amell in the library. It wasn't entirely a surprise—Solona spent a great deal of time in the library. On this occasion, however, she wasn't perusing the shelves or curled up in a chair reading something entertaining; she was tearing her hair out over an assignment, looking pinched and drained and beyond irritated. Indeed, she looked unutterably miserable until she glanced up and saw him standing on the other side of the table.

He blushed, embarrassed at having been caught staring, but if she noticed, she brought no attention to his discomfort. Instead, she clapped her hands together and cried, "Thank the Maker!"

It was possibly the least likely reaction he could have imagined, so he just… gaped. Like a fish. Out of water. Which, in a way, he was.

"Are you on duty?" she asked.

"N-no," he replied, flinching at the stutter. "Just finished."

She grinned. "Do you believe the Maker answers prayers?" she asked, and then laughed. "Of course you do. You'd be a pretty bad templar if you didn't. Look, I know this'll sound mad, but believe it or not? You, Ser Cullen, are an answer to prayer."

His brow furrowed skeptically, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finding her eager, open stare more than uncomfortable. Almost against his will, he replied, "How… so?"

She pointed at the papers and tomes and manuscripts spread out in a vast fan across the table. Several of the piles looked dangerously close to teetering. "Homework," she said. "So much homework."

Cullen scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and then shifted his helm to the crook of his other arm. Ducking his bare head slightly, he stammered, "I-I'm afraid I won't be much help t-to you, apprentice."

She scowled. "Solona, please." A hint of her previous grin transformed the scowl into something sweetly sly. "You are off duty, after all. And you're wrong. You are the only one who can help me with this particular batch of questions."

He began to protest again, but she glanced to her paper and read aloud, "Please describe the reign of Divine Joyous II, relative to the place of mages."

"Ahh," he said, comprehension dawning.

"You don't have to give me the answers," she amended quickly. "That wouldn't be fair. But if I've got to comb through the history of every Divine since Justinia I looking for clues, I'll be here until my bones turn to dust."

He almost smiled, but… but smiling was too dangerous. Instead he rolled his shoulders and said, "You might want to start looking in the late Towers Age."

It was her turn for understanding, and she grabbed one of the nearby tomes, flipped through the pages and scribbled something on her paper, quill scratching furiously against the parchment. After a full minute of watching her write, Cullen said, "If… if that's all, apprentice?"

"Solona," she reminded him, without looking up from her work. "And you're kidding. Wynne—sorry, Senior Enchanter Wynne—had her knickers in a twist when she gave us this assignment." She did glance up here, and a shadow crossed her face. "Unless… sorry. It's terribly rude of me to assume you don't mind standing around playing index of Chantry history for me. I didn't even ask. You might have all kinds of exciting off-duty templar activities lined up for your entertainment."

He did smile at this. He couldn't help himself. She looked so ashamed and so glum and so hopeful, all at the same time. "No… templar activities. Exciting or otherwise."

She looked thoughtful, fluttering the feathered end of her pen before her lips. Cullen reminded himself not to look at her mouth too closely, and blushed again.

"What are they?"

"The changes Divine Joyous II made to the rights of mages?"

She giggled. "No, silly. Off-duty templar activities."

He blinked. Something about the way she'd called him silly seemed to have made every rational thought jump straight out of his head. After another long moment, he realized she was looking at him with amused concern, and he replied, "Um. Practicing, mainly. You know, swordplay and the like. And praying."

She raised her eyebrows. "That sounds awfully… on duty."

He shrugged slightly, the gesture hardly raising the heavy plate pauldrons at his shoulders. "Sometimes we… talk some."

"Gossip about us mages, I suppose."

He flushed, his armor suddenly unbearably hot and unbearably heavy. "That's not—"

She grinned again, pale grey-green eyes sparkling. "It's okay. We mages gossip about you templars, too."

He was desperate to ask what they said—probably nothing all that flattering, really—but instead he remarked, "Also I, uh, I… like to read."

She tilted her head. "I suppose that explains why I see you in the library so often."

He blinked again. Oh, he'd… noticed her plenty, but he'd hardly even expected her to know his name, let alone his… habits. Before he could think up a response, she lifted her paper and waved it at him.

"Check my work while I finish this bit about Joyous II?"

He took the parchment and glanced at her answers. "You've got the Steel and Storm Ages mixed up in your second answer," he said, at length. "The rest looks…"

"Barely adequate?"

"I was going to say complete."

She smiled, pushing out a chair with her foot. "Have a seat, Ser Cullen. Tell me what you know about all those Hortensias, won't you?"

He hesitated for a moment, glancing around as though he expected the Knight-Commander himself to leap out from behind a bookcase and chastise him for fraternizing. Then he sat, and was rewarded by Solona's brightest smile. "Jowan's going to be so jealous," she remarked, propping her chin in her hand. "You're so much better than all these dusty tomes. I like reading, too, but… nine hundred years of Chantry history is…"

"Awfully dry?" Cullen asked.

"The Exalted Marches were exciting enough, I suppose, but yes. Awfully dry." She wrinkled her nose. "Did Divine Ambrosia I really keep goats in her bedroom antechamber to ward off evil spirits?"

Cullen laughed, the sound escaping before he could swallow it. Solona looked startled, and then immensely pleased with herself. "I'm afraid my Chantry education didn't expound on… goats."

As he leaned over her parchment, he caught the faintest scent of vanilla and roses and—

—The knock on the door was deafening. Cullen sat upright at once, reflexes honed to instant readiness by years of training and preparation. He was still half asleep, still half-caught in the dream—the memory, really—he'd been dreaming. Vanilla and roses lingered on the air, and he was momentarily haunted by the sound of a sweet laugh and the word silly. Then he shook his head, and it all vanished.

Cullen knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door and saw the recruit anxiously waiting without. The young man delivered his summons and saluted, leaving Cullen to the silence of his little room once again. The feeling of wrongness grew as Cullen slipped into his uniform and belted his sword around his waist. It wasn't that Meredith never sent for him—as her Knight-Captain she was forever dispatching him on errands, especially ones she didn't want to handle herself. It wasn't that the recruit she'd sent looked pale and terrified, because recruits always looked thus when Meredith was through with them. It wasn't even that he was meant to be off duty… Meredith showed little concern for minor things like his adequate rest and comfort, especially when she had one of her unpleasant assignments for him.

It was the dream, he realized. He hated that it felt wrong because it wasn't one of the torturous nightmares left behind by Uldred and his pet desire demons. It was a memory, and a sweet one at that. One he treasured. He'd spent that whole afternoon elbow to elbow with Solona Amell, filling the gaps in her knowledge of Chantry history. It was the afternoon he remembered how to laugh, and the afternoon when he stopped calling her apprentice and started using her name. It was a precious memory, and somehow Meredith was going to taint it. He was certain of it.

But she was his Knight-Commander. He couldn't deny her.

#

Even though it was against protocol, Cullen went alone to the Hawke Estate. He walked slowly, feeling as though each step was stealing something he might never get back. He wasn't entirely certain what it was being stolen, but he knew every step wounded him. He heard Solona Amell's laughter ringing in his head and he hesitated a very long time before raising his hand to knock. The sound of his metal gauntlets hitting wood was too loud; he half expected all of Hightown to stop what they were doing and shout at him to keep the noise down. No one said anything. The sun beat down hotly on his armor, but that discomfort was familiar.

It was nothing to the discomfort of standing at the door of someone he respected, knowing he was going to cause immeasurable pain.

It has come to my attention that perhaps the youngest Hawke girl ought to be brought in for… questioning, Knight-Captain.

Meredith Stannard had a way with words, he had to grant her that. Somehow she'd managed to say the word questioning without having it sound threatening. Cullen knew the truth, of course. Questioning meant Amelle Hawke was to be brought to the Gallows. And kept there. Indefinitely. It meant her days as an apostate were over, and her days as a Circle mage about to begin.

He had been expecting a servant of some sort, but it was Amelle Hawke herself who opened the door. Her short hair was rumpled, and dark shadows smudged the pale skin beneath her eyes. Something in the structure of her face—the cheekbones, perhaps—put him in mind of Solona. The whole bloody lot of them reminded him of Solona. He swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. Her eyes widened when she saw him, anxiously darting from head to toe. If she'd had color to lose, he thought she would have lost it then, but she was already so pale. Still, he saw her hand tremble as it reached out to grasp the doorframe—and block his entrance, he noted.

"No," Amelle said softly. "Please."

Embarrassingly, he had to try twice to speak before the words would come. "F-forgive me. I have been—forgive me. I come on Knight-Commander Meredith's business."

"Please," the young woman repeated, her eyes suddenly bright with tears he knew she would not shed in his presence. "I know I shouldn't have… but… Please, ser. She would have died."

He inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. "Knight-Commander Meredith has requested I bring you to the Gallows. For questioning."

He didn't think the girl even realized she was shaking her head. The movement made the disheveled strands of her hair wave back and forth. He focused on the hair so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against his children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond.

Cullen did not realize he'd mumbled the words aloud until Amelle recoiled, the tears in her eyes replaced by horror, and by anger. "I'm no maleficar, Knight-Captain. I'm—I'm a healer."

He bowed his head. "Forgive me. I—"

"No," she said, her voice stronger, her cheeks just a little pink. "You keep asking me to forgive you. Stop."

"Who is it, Mely?" He recognized Hawke's voice, of course, but she sounded… weaker. He supposed it was only natural. After… everything. Still, there was a trace of her usual humor when she added loudly, "Tell them the Champion would rather die than have visitors today."

"Will you come peacefully, Amelle Hawke?" Cullen asked.

"No," she repeated. "She can't—she—after everything that happened, she's still not well. I need to be here for her. Don't you understand? I need to be here."

Like the coward he felt, he repeated, "Knight-Commander Meredith has requested I bring you to the Gallows for questioning."

"Why now?" Amelle cried, her voice rising to a slightly-strangled pitch.

He'd wondered the same thing himself. Meredith had to have known about Hawke's apostate companions—her apostate sister—for years. It seemed… there was something wrong about naming the woman Champion for her service to Kirkwall and then ripping the last of her family away. He was loath to think ill of his commanding officer but it seemed… cruel, somehow. Calculated. Too calculated.

She's an apostate, Cullen. You know better than anyone the price of leniency. This is your duty. Your sworn duty. You have seen the cost of questioning duty. You have seen the damage one mad mage can precipitate.

The woman standing before him now hardly looked about to turn into a raging abomination. But then, they never did.

Duty, Cullen. Duty.

Kiara Hawke's voice came from within, louder and less amused, "Amelle? Who is it?"

Shooting him a warning look, she turned her head and called out, "It's fine, Kiara. Just… don't get up. I'll be there in a minute."

"Mistress Hawke," Cullen warned. He watched her fingers clench on the doorframe, and he took a step forward, already focusing his will to dispel any magic she might attempt. She scowled at him and raised her hand, but before she could so much as think of casting a hostile thought his way, he released the cleanse. Her scowl turned even darker, and, he thought, seemed laced with something like offense.

"I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't a smite," she snapped. "Maker, but you're jumpy."

And Cullen felt… ashamed of himself, just for a moment.

Because Amelle was facing him, and he was looking into the interior of the house, Cullen saw Hawke before Amelle realized her sister had not heeded her order. She looked wretched, which was to be expected, given what she'd been through. Apparently dueling the Arishok with a bow had been a long, exhausting, bloody affair, and though she'd come out the victor, it had not been a battle without cost. Or so the stories said. And there were already stories. Dozens of them.

Hawke was a hero in all of them.

So was Amelle, in the ones that mentioned her.

Hawke was carrying that bow even now, though, and it was drawn, an arrow trained on him. She was clever enough not to aim at his armor—it would be his eye, when she loosed, or perhaps his throat; without his helm, both were bare to her. He did not think she would miss. If the stories were even half true, she rarely did.

"Knight-Captain," she said affably enough, as though she wasn't holding a weapon on him. "Wasn't aware I'd invited you around for tea. Nice to see you dressed for the occasion. Won't you come in?"

Amelle hissed a curse under her breath and turned. "Kiara, you blighted idiot. Put that thing down right now."

"I'd love to, Mely, but our guest seems a mite hostile. Knight-Captain?"

If he didn't return to Templar Hall, he wondered if Meredith would bother sending templars after him. He wondered, a little idly, where the Hawke sisters would hide his body. Then he inclined his head and entered the house, careful not to touch Amelle as he passed—he didn't want to risk Hawke's… wrath.

With a desperate, pleading look her sister ignored utterly, Amelle said, "You weren't there, Knight-Captain. You didn't see that… you didn't see what he did to her. She needs me. She might still… she needs me."

"There was a point when he lifted me over his head on the blade of his sword," Hawke remarked mildly, as though speaking of the weather or a particularly fine vintage of wine. "I lost track of how many healing potions I drank, and Amelle still had to physically put my guts back into my body before—"

"Hawke," Cullen interrupted, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. "The Knight-Commander saw your sister heal you."

"Funny she didn't mention it then. No, no, it was all 'it appears Kirkwall has a new Champion' and nothing whatsoever about 'now drag her sister to the Gallows.'"

He had thought the same thing himself, though he did not mention it now.

"Kiara, please. Put the bow down. And sit. You're going to kill yourself."

"Can't, Mely. I know he can have you helpless and senseless in less time than it takes to ask for one sugar instead of two, but my arrow is faster still."

Cullen raised his hands in surrender, and he saw Amelle roll her eyes. "I won't resort to that, Hawke. Put the bow down. I don't want your death on my head."

"Sure you do. You're willing to take my sister away, aren't you?" She arched an eyebrow. "You think that won't kill me? It's probably what bloody Meredith is counting on."

"I'm sure you—"

"Over my dead body." The arrowhead trembled, and Cullen could see how much effort it was taking Hawke to even keep the thing drawn. Her eyes were feverish, but her skin was grey and visibly clammy. "You should have brought more men. You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever."

"Don't," Amelle pleaded. "Kiri, please. This isn't worth dying for."

"No one's dying," Cullen said firmly. And then, with a mild shrug, he added, "Unless it's me. All right, Hawke? I give you my word."

"Sword," she said calmly.

Very slowly, he reached down and unbuckled his sword-belt. Without so much as reaching for the hilt in case Hawke took the gesture as threatening, he grasped the sheath, knelt, and laid the weapon on the ground at her feet. Then he raised his hands again and returned to his earlier posture. Hawke allowed the tension to ease on her string, but did not drop her weapon entirely. Though her arm—and her bow—hung loosely at her side, he did not doubt she could still have an arrow through his eye before he could draw his steel.

Amelle fetched a chair, and placed it directly behind her sister. Then she glared until Hawke sighed and sank down into it. The apostate's hands fluttered over her sister's midsection, a troubled frown spreading across her features. "And we're practically back to square one. Bloody fantastic. I need to get a potion. Or ten." She turned her frown on him and asked, "Can I run upstairs or are you afraid I'll jump out a window?"

"Go," he said. "I know you won't run."

She nodded, darting away.

Hawke's eyes never left him, and he had the strangest feeling she was peeling back layers, looking into the heart of him, into all the secret places he kept so perfectly hidden. Her gaze unnerved him, but there was no wrongness in it. There wasn't even any anger. She was surprised, he thought, and perhaps a little disappointed.

Duty, Cullen.

"Why did you come alone?" she asked. "You've seen me fight."

He nodded. "I have."

"You thought I'd still be… indisposed?"

"No. I did not. I came because the Knight-Commander ordered me to come. It is possible she wished me to bring more templars with me, but her orders weren't explicit to that effect."

The disappointment turned thoughtful. "She's testing me."

Cullen said nothing.

Hawke huffed a strained laugh. "She's pushing to see if I'll just roll over." She shook her head wonderingly. "She wants to see if I've figured out how much power I have. How much power she gave me. Oh, that must chafe."

Cullen kept his expression bland and blank.

"She's a little bit afraid of me, isn't she? Dumar is dead, the city's in shambles, order has gone out the window, and she wants to know if I'll break if she just shakes me hard enough."

If he were to admit it—which he absolutely never would, where anyone might hear him—Hawke's speculation lined up quite neatly with Cullen's own. And still he said nothing.

"I don't hate the Templar Order, Knight-Captain."

"You have done us service in the past."

She leaned back in her chair, the fingertips of her right hand beating a repetitive pattern against her thigh. "Nor do I indiscriminately support the mages because my sister is mage. Neither does she, incidentally. Maker, if you heard some of the arguments she and Anders get into! It's blanket statements and extremes that make me uncomfortable." She shivered, and he hoped it was not due to some aspect of her injury that he could not see. When she looked up at him again, her gaze was open and steady. "I want you to know—I want you to believe—that if I thought Amelle was dabbling in blood magic, I would stand aside and let you take her, especially after what—after—"

She turned her face away, and he watched the muscles of her throat work as she attempted to rein in her emotion.

"My condolences on the loss of your mother, Hawke."

"Yes," she said bitterly. "Well. We all failed her, didn't we? It's really bastards like that who need to be rounded up, isn't it? Not nice little apostates like my sister."

"All mages have the capacity—"

She jabbed the tip of her bow in his direction, silencing him. "I know. But it's not just mages, Knight-Captain. All people have the capacity for evil; they just aren't as obvious about it."

"Most people can't command the kind of power your sister commands."

"It's too bad, really. If more people could, there would be fewer children dying in Lowtown. There would be less disease. Mothers wouldn't have to die in childbirth quite so often. That would be a real tragedy all around, wouldn't it?" She sighed, and something about the breath caused her to wince and gasp. "Then again, her powers are making your duty more complicated just now, aren't they? We wouldn't be having this conversation if she'd not been there to put the pieces of me back together again."

"You did Kirkwall a great service—"

She snorted. "Everything went terribly wrong and I was forced to kill someone I respected because once again no one would contemplate entering a rational discussion. Maybe Kirkwall believes I did it a service, but nothing about what I did feels great." Raising a hand, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and shook her head. "Please, Knight-Captain. Don't ask me to kill another person I respect. It's been a bitch of a week already."

Cullen inclined his head. "I've no wish to meet my end today, Hawke. Not on this errand."

Her eyebrows quirked in surprise. "What will you tell her?"

"That you were unwilling to part with your sister, and that I believe it would be unwise to make an enemy of the Champion of Kirkwall. It seems likely the city would side with you if lines were drawn in the sand just now."

"She won't thank you for that."

Cullen grimaced. "It is not my duty to tell her what she wants to hear. It is my duty to tell her the truth."

Your duty is to bring apostate mages to the safety of the Circle, Cullen. Your duty is to guard against abominations. Your duty—

He gestured toward his sword with his chin, and when she nodded, he bent and belted it around his waist once again. "The truth is your sister is a mage, and yes, she is a threat. All mages are threats. But there are far greater threats in Kirkwall, and without your aid I am not certain we will be successful in defeating them." He offered his arm, and after a heartbeat, Hawke extended her own and they clasped forearms. "I hope you never have cause to question your sister, Hawke. I truly do. But at the very least, I do believe your eyes are open."

"Me too. Otherwise this is a wretched dream."

He didn't quite salute her, but he did offer a brief bow. Before he reached the door, he turned and said, "She will not attempt this particular tactic again, perhaps, but I cannot guarantee she will let this lie."

"I'll try not to get myself impaled by a raging Qunari again. And Amelle will be… careful."

"See that she is. See that you both are." He paused. "I believe you might yet do a great deal of good. I would like to see you alive to have the opportunity."

"Oh, hush. You'll make me blush."

He was saved having to respond by Amelle rushing in, her arms filled with potion bottles. "This will do until Anders can—oh. Are you… leaving, Knight-Captain?"

"I am."

"And am I—?"

"Good day, Mistress Hawke. Look to your sister. I believe her wound is giving her some trouble."

"Snitch," Hawke growled. "See if I invite you for tea again." Then, after a moment, she added softly, "You be careful, too, Knight-Captain."

Closing the door, he found himself smiling. The wrongness was nearly gone now, and the echo of Solona Amell's laughter in his head was once again sweet and gentle instead of judgmental.

I couldn't save you, he thought. Them, maybe.

#

Cullen was not on duty the day Solona Amell died. While she was sacrificing her life in a vain attempt to buy the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander enough time to bring down the blood mage, Jowan, Cullen was in his quarters, thumbing through a book Solona had leant him. He remembered he was looking forward to talking to her about it. Even now, he could remember the feel of that book in his hands: the ragged edges of the well-worn pages, the smooth leather of the cover, the heft and weight of it. It had smelled of old paper and vanilla and roses, not unlike Solona herself.

By the time the first rumors reached him, it was already too late. It was the three dead templars he heard about first; the young mage girl was almost an afterthought when Ser Moran brought him the intelligence. And Cullen had felt guilty that his tears were not only for his fallen comrades. Silly.

And the blood mage had still escaped. Time and time again, Cullen played through the scenario. He listened and watched and questioned, until he'd gathered all the information he could. That Jowan was so powerful had taken everyone by surprise, but Cullen still imagined he would have been ready, if only he'd been there. And if he'd been ready, Solona wouldn't have had to—

"Knight-Captain," the Knight-Commander intoned, "I trust you were successful?"

He saluted sharply. "I fear not, Knight-Commander."

A brief spasm of anger twisted Meredith's face before a mask of false indifference slammed down over it. "Report."

"Although the Champion wishes you to know she bears the Templar Order no ill will, she politely refuses to see her sister removed to the Gallows at this time."

He knew the Knight-Commander's face well enough to recognize the narrowing of her eyes and the whitening of her lips—on another, the expression would have been equivalent to blinding rage. Cullen remained at attention, hoping his expression gave nothing away.

"You disobeyed me, Knight-Captain."

"I will accept my punishment, Knight-Commander. Respectfully, Kirkwall has seen bloodshed enough this past week. I did not wish to add to it."

"Are you questioning my authority, Cullen? Do we need to have words about the chain of command?"

Meredith's eyes were bloodshot; she looked as ragged as a templar after a week of lyrium withdrawal.

"No, Knight-Commander."

Yes.

For a moment, he thought she was going to throw something at him. Her eyes darted to her desk, as though looking for an appropriate object. Instead, she only jabbed her finger at the doorway and spat, "Out of my sight. I want you on the Wounded Coast patrol. Indefinitely. Are we understood?"

"Of course, Knight-Commander."

"I am exceedingly disappointed in you, Cullen."

Likewise.

Another sharp salute, and he left.

All things considered, it was not the worst punishment she could have handed him. Oh, the Wounded Coast was dangerous, but Cullen was no green recruit; he was used to danger. The distance might even do him some good. He would listen and watch and question, and he would gather all the information he could.

And by the Maker, if ever a time came when he needed to act quickly, act rightly, he would be ready.