"Well, Wounded Coast, technically," Hawke corrects herself. Her staff brushes against the back of her robes with a soft swish of wood and fabric as she grasps my hand and hoists me to my feet. "Are you all right?"

Well, barring the obvious—. I crouch, groping in the sand for my violin and the dragon bow. I may not know exactly how they work, but I know for damn sure I don't want anyone else finding them. "I think so," I answer hesitantly.

"No, you're not," Anders counters immediately, swiftly advancing on me with hands aglow. "Hold still."

Icy-warm tingles concentrate in my chest cavity. Did I think I knew the human body? My knowledge is paltry, compared to this. I can feel my cells multiplying, repairing the insults done to my lungs, to my bones. It would take weeks of "taking it easy" for this kind of damage to heal on its own. This is magic? This is what everyone is so worked up about? This—this is awesome! I think he's even scrubbed out the semester I tried being a smoker. Hot damn do I feel healthy! "Thanks!" I exclaim brightly, really smiling this time. I'm leapfrogging from one moment to the next; for this moment, I feel more like me than I have since the storm woke me.

Anders's mouth twitches wearily, and he crouches to do the same for my dog (who immediately begins a game of chase with Hawke's mabari). "Don't make a habit of this, all right?"

"Hawke have you got any rope?" Varric interrupts, goading Hadriana forward with the butt of his (gorgeous) crossbow. Hawke digs a length of coarsely-woven hemp out of her pack and tosses it to him; Hadriana's expression is a brittle mask of outrage as Varric binds her hands in front of her. He turns to me expectantly—me, Erin. "Now what do you wanna do with her?" he wants to know.

Footsteps in the sand temporarily stave off the need for any immediate reply. "Did you get there in time?" a breathless, chirping voice wants to know. "Did you find them? Were they all right?" A willow-slender shape steps into the torchlight, green-gray eyes darting hurriedly from one face to another. "Aneth ara," she adds when her gaze finds me. "I'm so sorry about—"

"It's okay," I assure her hurriedly (so it WAS real); again with the awkward introductions. "Erin Campbell."

"We were halfway too late," Varric explains seriously. "Where's Rivaini got to?"

An odd look flits through Hawke's expression: anger and hurt quickly buried beneath a wry not-smile almost identical to mine. "Charming my brother out of the Gallows," she answers with a forced nonchalance. "Or bribing Maraas. Whichever works—Hundur, down." The darkness in the crystal-clear gaze disappears as she scolds the mabari without missing a beat, and returns her attention to me. "You're here, and you brought her." She nods at Varric's—my captive. "Does that mean you have a plan?"

"Find Fenris, don't die," I answer glibly, ticking off points on my fingers. "Keeps things flexible."

Hawke blinks. "It needs a little work," she remarks blandly, but a smile threatens to burst through the seams of her carefully blank expression. Hundur plops into a contented, half-reclining sit at her feet, and she scratches his ears with an absentmindedness familiar to any and every dog person. "Any idea where Fenris might be?"

Nervously I tap my bow against my leg, all too aware of the scrutiny aimed my way. Hot panic beats against the inside of my stomach with big black wings, threatening to take flight. Not so long from now, these people will be legends. In taverns, in alleys, in Chantry and Circle, this story—Varric's story will spread (or has it, and I'm already IN it?). And they're all looking at me? This is getting really fucked up, really fast. And there's a tinny ringing in my ears that will not go away. "Danarius has him somewhere in Kirkwall," I begin uncertainly. I try to work my jaw surreptitiously; I try all the tricks passengers pass down from one airplane flight to the next to get their ears to pop. I probably only succeed in making myself look utterly ridiculous. Is it like this for all non-mages? Or is it just me—

"You'll nev-er find him."

It's Hadriana's voice, but without her familiar, glacially haughty tone. It's transformed into a taunting, split-toned sing-song that can't mean anything good. I've seen The Exorcist. "Varric, let go of the rope and walk away," I warn him quietly. I tighten my grip on the dragon bow, readying my left hand for the first note of the only song I've definitively proven does anything. "Hadriana?"

"You'll nev-er find him," she repeats, and focuses a pale-eyed, rabid grimace on me. "Little wolf's awake now. You'll nev-er find him—"

"She's turning," Hawke says flatly. Gone is the human, only slightly-larger-than-life woman who helped me off the sand, whose only brother is a Templar and that has to hurt so damn much. She's wearing her Champion's mask, even if no one besides me calls it that yet. She clenches a fist around her staff; power—real, raw power gathers around her, and the ringing in my ears worsens. "She's giving in."

I try to argue, "She hasn't yet—" oh God Jesus I'm not ready for this—please don't make me—

Hadriana draws her bound hands to her abdomen; she pulls a dagger from the sash at her waist—seriously did NO ONE think to frisk her oh right she's MY prisoner that was MY job this is all my fault—

"No—don't—!" I'm not sure who shouts, as the magister plunges the blade through her diaphragm. Maybe we all do. Hadriana's flesh ripples and distorts; her robes tear and her skin turns itself inside out to make room for the distorted bulge of grossly exaggerated muscles. The rope around her wrists snaps against the force of her inhuman strength like a mere thread. Fingers become claws, and she—it—shakes the rope from its hands, leaving it limp and useless as a dead snake. One eye is concealed beneath a web of pink, stretched flesh; the other focuses on me with a stare so full of malicious nothing I forget to be cynical about religion and begin to chant a Hail Mary. I was taught from the baptismal font to revile this, never ever believing I would actually have to face one

Hawke and the others spring into action, and I realize I'm still frozen to the spot with a fear so deep it's going to get me killed if I don't—

"Move, Smiley!" Varric shouts, and I dive to one side as the Hadriana-thing charges. Impact knocks the breath from my lungs with a bone-jarring whoosh. My violin slips from my grasp as I lay on my stomach, dazed. Is it ALWAYS like this—?

The abomination roars; my ears pop (fucking finally) as strange-familiar, hood-and-lantern shapes burst from holes in the world, and all thought not dedicated to ensuring I don't fucking die becomes irrelevant. For a horrible moment I'm afraid I've broken my ribs again. The monster skids to a halt in the sand and whirls, screaming, and broken ribs are the least of my problems. Varric forces the onslaught of shades into clusters of two and three, while the three mages rain down indiscriminate destruction that wreaks havoc with my internal—current, for lack of a better word. Fire and ice and arcs of lightning—such a maelstrom as this just does not happen. My body knows this; it tries to keep up with the conflicting dangers in ways that rip through the last four million years or so of evolution and ends up just making me nauseous.

I flip to my back and force the air in and out of my paralyzed lungs. The heated din of battle fades into silence, as the creature and I stare each other down across an arena of shadow and torchlight. I chance a quick glance around my immediate surroundings, hoping to catch someone's—anyone's attention. I'm lost, I'm scared, and I am in all ways the wrong person for this. But no one notices.

The abominations snarls—for a thing without any mouth to speak of, I suppose it's a smile. I know it, and It knows I know it. "Mad little girl, lost all alone in the dark," it taunts me monstrously. "Where oh where has her little wolf gone?"

Hawke disappears behind a wall of shades, her staff a blur of crackling light. Varric shouts, aiming and firing Bianca with a haste that's almost frantic. Scooter and Hundur weave through legs and smoke, barking and snarling (and whimpering, in guess-who's case). Anders's eyes are pools of blue flame as Justice's burn licks hungrily over his robes. Merrill snarls like a cat, cornered and fierce, blood dripping slowly from the hand not holding her staff. They're—they're losing. They're losing, and I'm completely on my—

Little wolf's awake now.

Awake. "I'm afraid I'll—"

Joy and relief pour over me in a violent cascade, sluicing away the deep-rooted fear. I prop myself up on my elbows as my breathing returns to normal. I meet the abomination's cunning, evil stare without flinching, and smile—an honest-to-God, shit-eating, I-know-something-you-don't-know grin that always worked on my siblings like a red flag on a bull. I've figured it out.

I know exactly where Fenris is.

As far as unexpected goes, I think I just threw it for a loop. Sure, it's strong—incredibly, impossibly strong and if I think too hard about those claws catching my skin any semblance of courage will puff out like a candle—but it's slow. It's actually pretty stupid. It's mad. And it does exactly what I'd expect slow, stupid and mad to do (I do have an older brother, after all).

The attack breaks down in my head, quarter-note footsteps lining up against the larger symphony of battle that surrounds us. I tap the sand with one finger to keep time; eighth- and sixteenth-notes fill in the space around the abomination's heavy footfalls. If I'm quick (not to mention fucking lucky), those in-between beats will have enough room for me.

We take the first beat in perfect unison: a monstrous foot hits the sand as I draw my right leg into my chest as far as it will go. Then I explode into motion. My leg gathers momentum and crunches solidly against the abomination's knee, locked for balance as its other leg prepares to take the next step. I roll away from its inevitable fall and snatch my violin out of the sand, and am on my feet before this atrocity even hits the ground. I jab sharply with my left hand; shock reverberates down the violin's neck as the scroll connects with the monster's temple.

"Hey diddle-diddle, bitch," I growl. The dragon bow makes a noise like nails on a chalkboard as I inelegantly saw against the strings with it. My foe squeals, and claps its hands over where its ears should be. I lunge forward, leaning all of my weight into the foot I press to its throat. The circle of shades around Hawke breaks and scatters. Some flee; others slither hungrily forward to investigate this new threat. I stutter the bow across my strings, my fist choking the violin's neck and generally making the most god-awful racket I can—oh Jesus this is never going to work in time—

The first slash of a shade's claws is a sharp twist of agony through my consciousness. I don't budge; I keep pushing down with all my might against the abomination's throat. It's all over for all of us if I move. The unnatural storm crackles and frosts over my head, banishing the shades one by one, while Bianca sings closed the gaps in the dying around me. Anders heals my injuries with a whoosh of light and magic that leaves my skin feeling strangely itchy. But I don't budge. I never budge. I keep pushing; I keep making the ugliest, nastiest noise ever imagined, because I don't know what else to do.

The monster's struggle weakens under my heel. Something cracks and gives way; I stumble away from it as it gurgles a final time. I've just made my first kill. I've killed—oh Jesus this was a person not even five minutes ago—

Silence descends over the battlefield as Merrill picks off the last of the shades, and everyone takes stock of who remains standing. Anders makes me stand still while he checks me over (but only after he's checked over Hawke first), but seems satisfied with his quick work earlier. Varric and Hawke banter over the carnage, acting for all the world as though this is normal—and the worst part, it is normal. It has to be, if you live this life and want even the smallest chance of being able to face your reflection and still call yourself human—

"Smiley?" Varric crosses the sand and peers closely at me. "You okay?"

My innate decency churns in my stomach and rises through my throat like a wave. I spin on my heel away from him; my savage epiphany burns the roof of my mouth as it lands wetly on the ground between two rocks. My body fights to purge all the wrongness from my system, even long after the meager contents of my stomach have been spilled into the sand. I don't know if I can stop.

Something white flashes under my chin, and I grab for it reflexively. The handkerchief is soft in my fingers, and mostly clean. I wipe my mouth with the smallest amount of material I can manage, and (in accordance with Emily Post's chapter on post-upchuck etiquette) offer to wash it before I give it back. Varric throws his head back and laughs, and tells me I can keep it—I'll probably need it later.

Hawke's pockets jingle as she bounces toward me. "Well, you've got the 'don't die' part well in hand," she teases. "Though you had me worried for a moment, there. How's the second half coming?"

I want to banter and joke with her, like we didn't just almost die and I didn't just kill someone. But fifteen minutes is not a large enough window of time to acclimate to this level of everyday violence, of amazing (awesome!) and horrifying things, of magic and murder and digging through the pockets of dead men for a few copper coins and an inexplicable moth-eaten scarf. I don't belong here.

I can't leave without Fenris.

I know where he is. "Danarius took him to the mansion," I assert, whistling for Scooter. "How d'you get to Hightown from here?"

"You said he was somewhere in Kirkwall," Anders reminds me, two points behind the curve. "Now he's at the mansion?"

"Walk and talk, Blondie," Varric suggests. "We're on a tight schedule, remember?"

He takes point with Merrill, and we fall into a lopsided triangle behind them. Night deepens around us as we move farther and farther away from the torches. My stomach has grudgingly reduced the threat level from unforgiving nausea to vague queasiness; not gone, but manageable. The sand is cool as it shifts beneath my bare feet—of all the things to forget to bring on an interdimensional joyride, why did it have to be shoes? Kirkwall is going to be disgusting

A small hand curls over my shoulder, and I jump. Hawke immediately lets go, fingers splayed in a placating gesture. "Sorry," she says quickly. "And—I'm sorry," she repeats, but the tone is different, graver. "We should've had your back."

"Like you weren't busy?" I snort quietly. My innards roil and pitch with memory, hot and immediate, and I inhale a deep breath of salt and sea through my nose. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine myself at Poppy's. "Does it get easier?" I blurt.

"Eventually," she replies candidly. Her pale features soak in moonbeams, wearing the night like a mask. "And—never." Her hand drops to her side, where Hundur bumps against it with a head the size of a truck. Hawke's lips twitch fleetingly, and she returns from whatever hazy, shadowed place claimed her for that moment. "So, you're sure you know where Fenris is."

"Yup," I chirp, even though it wasn't a question. "Positive."

"Why?"

"Short version?" I grin at her, missing humble only by a narrow margin. "I'm brilliant, I know Fenris, and sadists like Danarius are actually pretty predictable."

"And the long version?" she asks.

"Needs to be told over lots of alcohol."