Thanks for reading, all! Special thanks to Oleander's One for her patience, support, and thoughtful betaing!

The morning came too soon. Lucas woke with a dry mouth, a splitting headache ... and an armful of sleeping pirate. He closed his arm around her, pulling her closer against him, wishing he could just stay here in bed with her until ... until he could stop thinking, stop remembering.

But it was no use. With wakefulness came the memory of his mother's fate, and the pull of all the things that needed to be done before she could rest. He had let his friends take over for him yesterday, let them do for him what he hadn't had the strength for ... but wasn't that kind of thing what had brought him here in the first place? If he had spent more time with his mother, instead of letting Varric keep an eye on her, maybe she would still be alive today.

He shifted out from under Isabela, who muttered sleepily. She raised her head to look at him as he began searching for his clothes. "You all right?"

"Fine."

Isabela blinked, coming to full wakefulness. "Right. Tell me another one."

"I have to go see about … the pyre, and Gamlen, and … There must be a thousand things to do."

"Want some company?"

Startled, Lucas turned to look at her. "I … could use some, but this isn't really your thing, these kinds of details."

"Not usually." She disappeared under the covers, hunting for her smallclothes. "But you'd be surprised how many times I've been in charge of final services on board ships. Different on land, what with the Chantry and all, but still, you might want someone with you who's been there."

"You're right. I never have had to manage all these details. We had to leave Bethany in the Deep Roads, Carver in Lothering, and Father … obviously we didn't go to the Chantry for him."

"Then I'll go with you."

"Thank you."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Hawke," she said briskly, buckling on her boot. Lucas hadn't even noticed she'd taken them off. "You're a half-decent guy and I owe you one."

"Of course. You might even owe me two," he said, striving for a tone as light as hers. He appreciated her lack of sentiment in this case—a different woman, one who would hold him and coddle him and take care of him, would just tempt him to stay here and not get back at it. Instead, Isabela sharpened him and made him think and wouldn't let him wallow in sorrow or self-pity.

"Maybe." She smiled at him, fastening the corset around her tunic, under her generous breasts. "You'd better hurry up and get dressed."

"Yes. Yes, I should, shouldn't I?" He really didn't want to. Once he left this room, everything that had happened yesterday would be real. But there was no other choice; as usual, there were things to do.

Lucas got up and found his filthy armor, buckling it on piece by piece, feeling it weigh him down. Time for a new set, he thought. He would never be able to wear this one again without thinking of his mother and of the mage who had killed her.

In the tavern of the Hanged Man was the last thing he wanted to deal with—a room full of people awkwardly trying to make him feel better. He nodded at their ham-handed attempts at condolences, pushing through as fast as he could. Near the door, Varric found him.

"Hawke." The dwarf looked kindly at him, but wiped the sympathy off his face in response to a dark look from Isabela. "Everything's set. I talked to Bodahn at your house, he said he'd make arrangements there, Choirboy's on top of the pyre and the services later this morning, Aveline cleaned up that ... place and talked to the Seneschal and the Viscount about what happened."

"Thank you, Varric." Lucas spoke through a thickened throat, having trouble getting the words out. After all the times he had complained that his friends simply demanded and demanded and demanded ... it was good to know they had his back so thoroughly when he really needed them. "And ... if I forget ... you'll tell the others I said thank you, too, won't you?"

"Naturally."

He pushed his way out of the Hanged Man, blinking in the daylight, and stood, uncertain. To the Chantry, or home? "Did someone talk to Gamlen?"

"Blondie and Daisy stopped in to tell him. He was ... well, she was the last of his family, too."

Lucas nodded. He and his uncle weren't close; never had been. He hadn't even seen Gamlen in months and he was fairly sure neither of them had missed each other in the least. But her renewed relationship with her brother had made his mother happy, and Gamlen had been good to her. And had never tried to capitalize on her newfound wealth, when in theory he had every right to after they had squatted rent-free in his home for over a year. "Good," he said in response to Varric's comment. "I mean ... I'll talk to him at the services."

That settled it. Chantry first. He had no desire to go home, anyway. That had been her house, her home. He'd reclaimed it for her, and in memory of Bethany and Carver, both of whom would have appreciated it more than he did. To go there now, every room silent and empty, by himself ... He wasn't ready.

Lucas led the way up the stairs to Hightown and then up the other stairs to the Chantry. Sebastian met him at the door. "Hawke. I am so sorry."

"Thank you."

"I've taken care of everything. Leandra and I had spoken a number of times about her faith, so I think I was able to arrange things the way she would have wanted them."

"Thank you, Sebastian." It occurred to Lucas that he hadn't given a lot of thought to how everyone else who had known his mother would react to her loss. She had had friends in Kirkwall, a number of them, others who would miss her. It was comforting in some ways, and increased his guilt in others.

The service proceeded without Lucas needing to do much. Fortunately the Chant covered everything needed, so he didn't have to speak, really only needed to stand there, which was about all he felt capable of anyway. He was grateful for Isabela's silent but stalwart presence next to him, Fenris and Varric behind him, Aveline on his other side, her eyes faraway. Surely she was thinking of Wesley's final moments, and of Carver, standing so bravely against the onrush of darkspawn, and of Bethany, as he was.

He couldn't bring himself to look at the thing on the pyre, to consider the ashes as they flew upward or to think of them as belonging to his mother. They had found the rest of her body, and were burning her head with it as properly as they could. Probably he should ask what they had done with the other parts, and if they had found out the names of the other women and contacted the families, but he couldn't summon the energy to do so.

Sebastian led the service, which was attended by a number of nobles, Fereldan refugees his mother had helped, the servants from their estate, the shopkeepers she had dealt with ... She would have been pleased to see how many people came to pay their respects, Lucas thought, standing in the receiving line with Gamlen later, mechanically saying "thank you" over and over to everyone who offered their condolences.

After it was done, Isabela and Varric boxed him in. "You're coming back to the Hanged Man with us, Hawke."

"I should go home," he protested. "I'm sure there are ... things ... to manage."

"What things?" Varric said asked. "You forget, I just had to do all this for Bartrand, which was a much more complex task given everything he was involved in. Your money is all your own, you're the only heir, so that's easy, and trust me, you don't want to be going through her belongings yet." His voice softening, he added, "Really, Hawke, let us get you drunk some more before you go home. You'll thank us later."

"After the hangover I had this morning? I'll pass."

"That was the Antivan brandy," Isabela said.

"You opened that?" Varric looked as though he was about to protest, but thought better of it. "Yeah, I suppose you did. I hope you enjoyed it."

"I did. I don't know how much Hawke remembers." Isabela shot him a glance, her golden eyes warm, and Lucas couldn't help a little smile in return. He remembered, all right. He wasn't sure he would ever forget. She had known just what he needed—more, had been just what he needed. He couldn't imagine wanting to spend that particular night with anyone else. Which said a few things he didn't want to think about just at the moment.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go to the Hanged Man." He put his hand on Varric's shoulder. "Thank you for everything you did."

"Don't thank me, thank Aveline and the Choirboy."

"Are they coming?"

"Should be, later. Choirboy won't drink, though, the prude."

They found their usual table ready for them, tankards already laid out, and Lucas nodded his appreciation to Corff, the bartender. Of course, he'd been either personally or indirectly responsible for a great deal of coin flowing Corff's way over the years, so a little consideration was due ... but it was nice that he hadn't had to make that point.

Varric poured for all of them, and they sat looking at the cups for a moment before Varric lifted his. "Have to start with this one: to Leandra."

"To Leandra," Isabela echoed.

Lucas lifted his cup and stared down into it. "To Mother," he muttered, and drank. "And Carver. And Bethany. And Father." He drank after each one.

Varric watched the proceedings sympathetically. Tapping the edge of his tankard against Lucas's, he said, "To Bartrand," and drained the cup.

Isabela frowned, looking as sad as Lucas had ever seen her. "To my sailors," she said, drinking deeply.

"Toasting the fallen?" Fenris's voice cut into the melancholy that was taking over the table. "Allow me to add to the supplies." He placed a bottle of Aggregio Pavali, his favorite wine, in the middle of the table. "Hawke, I do not know what to say, but ... I thought you could use this."

"Keep it," Lucas said, touched by the gesture and the thought behind it. "We'll drink it together."

Fenris gave him a small smile. "I look forward to it, my friend." He took his seat and the tankard Varric filled for him. "Sebastian and Aveline say they'll be down shortly, just finishing up some final details."

"Daisy said she would see us all later; didn't feel this was quite her thing. I guess the Dalish bury their dead or something like that."

"Don't dwarves leave theirs in the Deep Roads?" Isabela asked.

"You're asking me? Andrastian, born and bred. If the Stone has any interest in me it hasn't said so."

Lucas let them talk; he was content to sit in the midst of the noisy tavern and drink. Maybe alcohol wasn't a long-term solution for his problems, but for tonight he thought it was the only thing that was going to get him back into that house.

He didn't know how much later Aveline and Sebastian came in. He stood up, nearly upsetting the chair, and waved at them vigorously. "My friends! My dear, dear friends!"

Sebastian was grinning at him. "How much has he had?" he asked the table in general.

Silently, Varric held up an empty bottle.

"That much?" Sebastian's eyebrows flew up. "Impressive."

"Hawke, you must stop drinking," Aveline said, very loudly and slowly, right in his face.

Lucas grinned at her. He put an arm around her, and then his other arm around Isabela, since the pirate happened to be standing right next to him. "My two best girls," he said, squeezing them both. He laid his head down on a shoulder, realizing too late that it was Aveline's. Trying to fix his mistake, he leaned his head the other way, but found not only no shoulder, but no one holding up his other arm. He would have fallen if Fenris hadn't suddenly appeared and caught him.

Varric took the other arm, since Aveline had also unaccountably disappeared. "My friend," Varric said softly in his ear, "you're going to want to be going now before you say anything that's going to get you killed."

Lucas frowned. 'Get him killed?' What had he said? He looked to Fenris, who was smirking. Wait, was the elf smiling? At him? Fenris never smiled. "You're not so tough," he said to Fenris, who laughed out loud.

"I'll take him back to Hightown, shall I?" he said.

"That would seem to be best," Aveline said, her voice clipped. "Whose idea was it to let him drink this much?" She appeared to be glaring at Isabela.

"Wait," Lucas said to Fenris. "I need to fix this."

"In your condition? I fear you would be the one who needed the fixing. You are not exactly at your diplomatic best." Fenris dragged him inexorably toward the door.

Lucas tried to look around, to find Isabela, but it occurred to him that of course she had probably had enough of him. His high spirits leaked from him, and he found tears stinging his eyes. Not very manly of him.

"Hawke," Fenris said, half-leading, half-carrying him through Lowtown. "Shut up."

"Shut up? Was I speaking?"

"You were singing."

"I was? What was I singing?"

Fenris shook his head. "Something about the dawn coming. Which it shall, long before we reach Hightown, if you do not focus on placing one foot in front of the other."

"The dawn does come," Lucas said softly. "Every day. And will keep doing so ... but my mother ..." He felt tears rolling down his cheeks again, hot and stinging.

"Yes. I ... cannot imagine what it must be like to lose your family. Anything I could say would be insufficient. I'm sorry." Fenris said the words stiffly, uncomfortable with emotion, as always.

"You don't even know if you have a family to lose," Lucas pointed out. "Are you going to try to find your sister?"

"You are drunk."

"Yes." Lucas nodded, his head feeling heavy. "Are you going to try to find your sister?"

"You already asked me that."

"You didn't answer."

"Hawke, that type of search can only end badly. Even assuming it is not some variety of trap laid by Danarius, any search would certainly let him know where I am and lead to my recapture."

"I would never let that happen."

Fenris snorted. "You are many things, my friend, but infallible is not one of them. I appreciate the gesture and the intent behind it, but ... I cannot imagine my sister would be pleased enough to hear from me to make it worth the risks."

"Don't you want to know?"

"Of course I want to know!" Fenris shouted. "But that does not make it a good idea."

Lucas met the elf's glare with one of his own. "I've never known you to be a coward."

His shoulders slumping, Fenris looked away. "Then perhaps you do not know me as well as you imagine." He let go of Lucas's arm. "I believe you can find your way from here, even in your current condition."

He walked off in the direction of his mansion, and it was only then that Lucas saw the bottle of Pavali clutched in the elf's free hand. His friend was going to spend the evening sitting alone in his dilapidated mansion, staring into the fire, drinking, and brooding. Again. Something seemed wrong about that—surely Fenris deserved something better.

Lucas looked up at the stone front of his own mansion, which he hadn't set foot inside since his mother—

All his own drinking had apparently been for naught, because right now, standing here, he was suddenly stone cold sober again. He put his hand on the doorknob, trying to make himself push it open.