Far, far below lay the wide cusp of a hill, overgrown with fir trees, the snow on top of which appeared to shimmer in the faint light of the stars. As they flew past it, he saw a vast collection of tiny rooftops and towers blanketed with snow. The village was visible to him as a small web of illumination appearing and disappearing beneath the layer upon layer of dim cloud. As they flew closer, he saw chimney pots and chantry belfries and a million tiny lights coming from the windows.

"Is this Ferelden?" he said aloud, and heard his voice very immediate and close to himself, as though they weren't in this vast expanse of sky. A chill came over him as they drew closer to earth. A wave of air enveloped him.

"We're close," she said, ignoring him. "Relax."

Soon the gleaming wings wrapped around them both and there was a quick, but steady flash of movement under him, and suddenly his feet were freezing.

"Hooh, that was fun. Wasn't it fun?" she said.

The wings parted in front of his eyes and she was standing there like a great explosion of light frozen in time. His eyes were wide but he was not afraid, rather he stood there with a puzzled expression.

"Are you alright?" she said.

He was definitely not alright. A faint roar of wind blew in his ears and, quite suddenly, his vision suffered. The image in front of his eyes started to duplicate, triplicate, and soon the cold seemed oppressive.

His heart pounded.

Mute and listless, the eyes rolled to the left, and he felt light-headed, as though he was about to faint. Beyond the blackened sky, the houses seemed to move. He squinted, tried really hard to gather himself, and in an abrupt moment, the houses and mountains seemed to change size; one second they were big, the very next they were small, and the sky would change colour from black to purple to red to blue. This was too much for him.

This was unlike his last experience in the Fade. What was this place? As he thought that over, as he tried to think it over, he realized he was on the ground, fallen in the snow. The stars above turned into large spiky cocoons of light, and the sky kept changing colour. It felt as if the sky was growing bigger and coming closer and trying to eat him.

He put his hands on his temples. "Make it stop!" Fenris growled.

He blacked out, surely, because all of a sudden his upper body was risen, and Hawke was buried knee-deep in the snow, holding him. Black. Blue. Purple. Red hair. He felt her cold hands holding his face.

"Look at me," she said. She seemed like she had no idea what was happening to him. She was hesitant with her speech. "Don't look at anything else. Focus on my eyes."

He stared straight into her eyes, banishing the blast of nonsense in the periphery of his mind.

He started to calm down.

But then the brown star in her green eyes started to spin like a wheel. Her windblown hair appeared like thin red veins or tentacles on her face. Maker have mercy, he really tried to ignore what was happening to him right before his eyes. He closed them.

That made it even worse.

The common patterns one saw when the eyes were closed intensified in detail, in colour and in size. He felt like he was being sucked into their wormhole.

"Stop fighting, Fenris," he heard her voice say. She sounded tender. "I promise you will feel better."

Kaffas, no. What is this? The more he tried to resist, the more he was being sucked into this abomination of colours. Squares, zig-zags, spheres, stripes. He felt like the shapes were coming right at him. Too much. This was greater than his most colossal drunk.

"I can't," Fenris growled. He gave a hoarse sigh as if he was going to vomit.

"Yes you can," Hawke said immediately. "You're experiencing sensory overload. The mind feels invaded. It creates nonsense to blot out common details our waking minds can naturally ignore. Like touching your own skin. Back in the world, the feeling is weak, ignored. Out here, it feels like your hand is someone else's that's touching you. But I promise, it will steady out."

More detail? This was the complete opposite of the Fade last time. What was then a blur of the mind, a drunkenness, an oppressive cloud, a feeling of forgetting oneself, was this time around a supersonic horse-back ride into all components of reality. And indeed, he did not feel like he was losing awareness, he felt like he was too aware.

"Open your eyes," Hawke commanded.

But then he felt the snow on his face. And there was suddenly a great, wondrous silence in his mind. He opened his eyes. The snow everywhere was luminescent, melting. Rooftops, towers, walls, all were myriad facets of lavender, mauve, rose. There were dim lights in tiny thick windows. Only snowflakes were swirling in the cold air.

He regarded her immediately. Her eyes were clear as day, perhaps even clearer than he had ever seen them in the real world. He could see the contour of her eyes, the little craters in the irises and every little vein in her whites, all at the same time, without focusing on any particular one. He could see tiny glistening particles in the snow on her eyelashes.

"Y'alright?" she said with a little warm laugh.

His large green eyes doubled in size, really open.

"You have beautiful eyebrows," he said.

The snow fell in the night.

"Thanks," she said flatly. He continued to stare in wonder. "Right, up on your feet. You will feel better as soon as we start walking."

She pulled him up, and, since he didn't move and continued to stare at the landscape with his mouth open, she dragged him after her.

But soon he stopped, and she was about to tell him that it will wear off soon and they needed to move. However, he wasn't staring. He was holding himself and shaking.

"Oh, I forgot about that," she said.

"Haaaaa-ach," came out of his freezing mouth.

"Well, at least it's a good sign that you're not tripping as much anymore," she said.

"I'm not tripping, I'm not even moving," he said.

"Nevermind," she said. "The cold is not real. It's a self-created sensation, as your mind seeks to find order in the Fade," she said, as she was standing there in her shorts and thin blouse. "Remember the warmth of our physical room." She scratched her head as he trembled. "Summer in Tevinter, maybe? The testicle-cooking kind, right? You can't do better than that."

Not helping, his face said. He was turning blue, the wrong kind of blue. In fact, he was shivering really badly.

She gave a little sigh. With a sudden flash of hands, he felt himself wrapped in a multitude of layers. As he inspected himself, he noticed wearing a curious wool knitted turtle-neck sweater. It had red piping around the collar which followed in a vertical red line along the middle of the chest, it was white above the chest with all sorts of traditional-looking black patterns, and under the chest it was black with tiny white dots, and around the wrist again some traditional-looking white patterns. He wore dark wool pants and a dark wool cape with white fur on the edges of the hood, and the furriest, most enormous winter boots he had ever seen.

He couldn't stop staring down at this sweater. The vibrant detail of colour and patterns was like sugar to his eyes. He really, absolutely couldn't stop staring. This was not normal, but he was really enjoying himself.

"Oh, dear," she said with a smile. "I miss that amazing new feeling when I started out. It's not the same anymore."

But then he shuddered again and wrapped his arms around his elbows.

She rolled her eyes. "Heavens, we are so not from the same climate."

He felt a warm knitted scarf around his neck. His hands were covered in long dark red gloves with two belts under the elbow to keep them tight and shorter black leather gauntlets went on top. He stared at those too.

She was still wearing the same little clothes, and even though he now felt like he was being gently pushed into an oven, there was still a mental shivering when looking at her.

"Are you going to wear… that?" he said.

"I suppose criticising my attire is a new hobby for you," she said in annoyance.

She flashed into a similar knitted sweater which was red over the shoulders, then followed some traditional white diamond patterns on the chest and the rest was dark blue wool. Then some pants also appeared—thank god—and boots and a dark blue coat with white fur on the hood and some white mittens.

It was then that Fenris saw, for the first time, truly saw how foreign she was. Or rather, how native she looked here, in the land of fir trees and snowy mountains. She was standing there with snowflakes powdering her wavy red hair, and he saw her pale skin and the eyes radiating a sort of picturesque toughness and then in the distance, he heard the howling of wolves.

She sighed. "Never in a million years have I imagined that the first thing we do in the Fade is fashion."

His frozen mouth cracked open in laughter. "Speaking of appearances…what colour is my hair?"

"White," she said, almost surprised. She tilted her head. "Perhaps that first visit to the Fade caused some inner remodelling."

"Wonderful," Fenris said. "I can take mirrors off my list of enemies."

She shook her head with a smile. "Come," she said. "We're not far from my old house."

He thought he saw a river moving behind the houses, a ribbon of silver in the darkness, and the vague shape of what must have been a Chantry. On a great rise, there stood what had to be a giant windmill. And all the rest were rooftops crowded together, some utterly blanketed in white and others so steep that the snow had somewhat fallen away.

Indeed, the snow was falling with a delicious softness that he could hear.

He walked along her, walking and realising how deep his boots would sink into the snow, how curious and unique the snow sounded when the boots would disturb it.

He walked on, caught by the throat by this marvel called winter.

When they got into the village proper, he heard the sound of violins and accordions blending together into a cosy little melody. He would have started to enjoy it if not for the roar of indistinct swearing—Fereldens call it conversing—blotting it out. It was all coming from a tavern outside of which some people sat a table. In the cold. Playing chess. If they hadn't had pints in their hands, Fenris would have asked Hawke if she had recently experienced a serious brain injury.

One of them took out a flute.

Indeed, it seemed those men had been sat there for months and the snow had just built around them.

"Want a drink?" Hawke said, stopping by the tavern. The smell of ale and baked bread flooded his nostrils. The flute started playing a cheery tune.

His eyebrows rose. "You brought me to the Fade to get drunk?"

I'll tell me Ma when I go home,
The boys won't leave the girls alone!

"Oh, we can certainly do that if you want," she said.

They pull me hair, they stole me comb,
Well that's alright till I go home!

He stared at the men with an expressionless figure and then slowly looked back at her. "I'm starting to think this is something you do."

She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the belle of Redcliffe city!

She raised an eyebrow intently and opened the door. "No hangover in the morning." Then she went inside.

Fenris caught the door and remained still for a few moments. He watched her walk inside, then caught another glimpse of white Lothering. Countless little wooden houses painted their twinkling candlelight in the windows, and their chimneys smoked in the harsh air of winter, and far ahead he saw a great stone structure that did not fit at all with the landscape, and finally, he recognised the sharp architecture—The Imperial Highway. What a strange thing. One could hate Tevinters for literally anything except roads.

Then his ear twitched and his eyes fell on some children throwing snow at one another. He found that very odd until he didn't. The wind blew his thick white hair. He pulled up his fur-lined collar over his mouth and went inside.

At once a blast of heat and chatter overwhelmed him, and then he ducked just in time before a flying pot hit him in the head.

Flushed from the winter air, he searched the room full of tables—it looked like one big table—where men and women dressed in furs sang and drank and gave all manner of smells. There was, undoubtedly, the smell of ale and wine, and there was, of course, the smell of delicious steaks and hot bread, and then there was, certainly to the point of tears, the reek of animal fat and rancid leather.

Albert Mooney say's he loves her.
All the boy's are fightin' for her.
They knock at the door and ring at the bell
Sayin' "Oh me true love, are ye well"?

"Over here!" he heard her say. She was at the back next to the window with her back turned to the bar, so that he might sit where he could appreciate the tavern better. Wooden pints were waiting on the table.

He sat down and shook himself over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a careless hand, he wiped the bits of ice from his eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his fingers.

"So, what are the specials this evening?" he said conversationally.

She was sitting with her hands folded on top of the table and slapped a childish grin. "Rat soup, I'm guessing."

"Literally, a wild guess?" he said grumpily.

She grinned. "You'd be surprised. Come now, drink. It's mead."

"I suppose this too will be a self-induced hallucination," he said, taking the pint inexpertly.

"You've never had mead, so this will be a wild guess, but at least it will get you drunk."

She is handsome, she is pretty
She is the belle of Redcliffe city!

"I'm good with just blending in, thanks," he said stoically and drank.

"So… getting… drunk then," she said, and pointed backwards to the seal above the bar. It said: "Drop Drunk Ferelden".

He laughed. "Is that the name of the tavern, or is it more of a national motto?"

"It used to be called Drop Dead Tevinter." She shrugged. "There were legality issues."

"That it would incite to violence against foreigners?"

"No, that the name was already taken by a pub in Denerim."

Fenris laughed. "You people are crazy."

"We have a dark sense of humour."

He gave out a handsome grin for a few moments. "I like it." He raised his pint. "Benefar—". And then he thought better of it. "Cheers."

Let the wind and the rain and hail blow high
And the snow come tumblin' from the sky,
She's as nice as an apple pie,
And she'll get her own lad by and by.

As he put his pint down, he gave her a look. "What a strangely familiar tale that I'm sure you had nothing to do with."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said nonchalantly.

"Really? Rain and snow? Apple pie?" He squinted and folded his arms on top of the table. "Where were you born, Hawke?" he asked. He waved a hand. "Specifically."

She made to answer but stopped and drew an innocent smile. "Purely coincidental, that."

He couldn't help but grin his all-knowing grin and soon he took her hand resting on the table. "I must be reading too much into it."

When she gets a lad of her own,
She won't tell her Ma when she comes home.
Let them all come as they will
For it's Albert Mooney she loves still!

He wove his fingers between hers and suddenly he was smiling at her with half-lidded eyes, his head tilted, with a sort of comfort she'd never seen in him. He caressed her skin with his thumb and soon he saw her eyes round up by the light of her smile.

"If I'm not Albert Mooney, this song is terrible," Fenris said.

She cracked up and he laughed with her.

An hour later, Fenris realised he was having fun.

This, of course, was wrong.

"You wanted to show me something," he pushed. He expertly waited until the fourth pint.

She dropped her empty pint on the table and rolled her eyes at him. "You never let me have any fun."

"We can have fun when we are done with the serious things," he said.

Suddenly, her expression changed. She was concealing bitterness. "Of course we can." She stared at the table a few more moments. "Has your vision steadied?"

"Indeed, I can see the purple rhinoceros behind the bar just fine now," he said calmly.

"Oh dear."

"Relax, I was just kidding." They gathered their coats. "It is not purple. That would be crazy."

"Oh, that would be crazy," she said sarcastically to herself.

As they went for the door, a man came in and bumped into Hawke.

"Hallo, beautiful miss. How'ye dewin' this cold evenin'?"

"Fine, ta. Y'alright?" she said cordially.

"Ah'vent seen ye aroond here before. New in town, ye?"

"Just passin' by, gotta go now. Cheers."

He got in her way.

"Ah've goat ye an offer that cannae go by ye."

Fenris stepped in front of her like a fortress that should learn how to smile once in a while.

"Move," he said flatly.

"Ah, fair enough lad, I dinnae want no trouble. Cheers, ye. I'll be over there, ye."

As they went out, the cold hit him hard again. She was adjusting her hood.

"That was the sweetest unnecessary thing you've ever done for me," she said with a highly amused expression.

"What?" he said with a puzzled look. "Oh, I forgot." The cold wind blew again. It cut like a thousand tiny knives. He put his scarf up above his nose and spoke in a muffled voice: "How ironic that something so physically vivid can remind you that nothing around you is real."

"Tevinter dessert nights must be no picnic then," she said.

It was funny how he stood there motionless like an elven-shaped icicle with the hood on and muffling through his scarf: "Dessert night is fine compared to this. This weather should be illegal."

She frowned in confusion. Another cold wind blew her red hair. "Fenris, what did the mead taste like?"

He also frowned and looked up to remember. "Uhm… honeylike, a bit strong, with a hint of fruit… like strawberry or—"

"Raspberry," Hawke said as she stared blankly, her breath coming out in a cold vapour.

He shifted his weight to his other foot and stared at her. "What are you saying?"

She wanted to say something but stopped. "Now I'm getting cold. Let's walk."

They went round the corner and made towards a narrow street of houses. A strange-looking dog ran out of a house with a chicken leg in its mouth.

"Ya wee thief, come back 'ere!" a child's voice came from the house.

Before he knew it, Fenris felt himself dragged back by his coat. He turned uncontrollably and ended up wrapped around her. He stood silent, listening to a couple of kids chasing around the dog until they dragged it back inside, and felt her breath on his scarf.

"Was that—"

"Yes."

"May I ask why we are hiding?"

She stood still and stared at his chest. "I don't know."

"Can they even see us?"

"No. Not if I don't want to."

His icy breath came out in the stillness. "You should really write me a manual next time."

"I do not want direct physical evidence out in the world that shows I am insane."

He tilted his head and slightly raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, like you're a credible witness," she said with squinted eyes.

Fenris unwrapped himself off her, and, upon further consideration, hesitantly and awkwardly put his hand on her shoulder.

"Are you sure you want me to see this, Hawke?"

Still staring at his chest, she said: "Y-yes." She looked up at him. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Let's move then," he said flatly and took a turn round.

She didn't move.

In the quiet of snowfall, she then heard him from round the corner say in the most monotone of Fenris voices: "Hawke, my arse is freezing."

"Right," she said and startedwalking, as if someone splashed her with cold water.

"That'll teach you to steal my chicken, ye wee prick."

The little poacher seemed very disconcerted. It kept whimpering and shaking its head every time it sniffed food. The dog barked a very angry bark at young Hawke.

"Our chicken," said a young dark-haired girl. She placed a hot bowl of milk on the table and sat down in front of Hawke.

The dog was a rather refined southern breed. It had blue eyes and very rich black fur on the back and on its ears, while the fur everywhere else was pure white. It went to sniff its mate, another dog of the same breed, only that instead of black fur it had a reddish brown colour. The latter tried to lick it affectionately but the dog sneezed, whimpered again and left.

"Learned a new trick, did we?" said a man, undoubtedly the Malcolm Hawke Fenris had heard so much yet so little about. He was a tall man, wearing commoner clothes, whose hair had seen better days as it was becoming grey too quickly for a man his age. There were enough surviving streaks that showed he once had brown or red hair. There was nothing of forbidding grandeur to his face, no sainthood or authority that might have humbled Fenris or made him afraid. In fact, he had quite a chipper and amused expression as he brought the hob to the table and mashed his potatoes.

"A very useful trick," said Hawke as she poured milk in the mash. Her hair was full and shining to the very roots of her long red braid and her face was all young and plumped and smiling cheeks.

"You need to learn better tricks," Malcolm said in amusement. His mouth suggested a disposition of exceptional gentleness as he listened to his daughter.

"She needs to stop torturating Sif!" said Bethany.

He was the last expert on children's ages but Bethany seemed a little younger than her sister. Hawke looked almost in her early teens.

"Torturing," Hawke corrected her. "And it's not torture. He goes near the food again, all he sniffs is rot. When we're done eating, he'll have his smell back."

"But the smell is everywhere! It's tortumature!" cried Bethany.

"It's called discipline," said Hawke with food in her mouth. "Maybe you should be next," she said cheerfully.

"Don't be an ass, Sister!" said a young Carver as he brought the other food to the table.

"Language!" said Leandra, who followed him inside. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and her hair was dark like Bethany's.

"Sorry, Mother," said Carver. He walked past Hawke and flicked her head. "Doesn't make it less true though."

"Piss off!" she said and instantly caught him by the arm and hit him. They started pulling and pushing at each other.

"Maker's sake, stop it!" cried Leandra, and gave Malcolm a look as she rushed to move the chicken out of their fight.

The dogs started barking at them and a third one came in, a mabari which, in spite of its might and size, started crying around them.

Hawke and Carver vehemently ignored everyone and everything, and pulled at each other until, all of a sudden, their faces became really unsettled and they started scratching themselves like crazy.

"Mercy, Carver, take a bath once in a while!" cried Hawke as she desperately scratched herself.

"Liar, you cheated!" screamed Carver. "Stop magicking, you suck at it!"

They scratched and turned and scratched and turned until the silence brought both their eyes up to the expressionless figure of Malcom standing with his arms crossed.

"Please, do scratch yourselves until the morrow," said Malcom. He had a cultured voice that could talk the devil into behaving well. He joined his hands round at the back and looked down while walking towards them. "You will feel nothing, as whatever you scratch is felt by your brother, and whatever you scratch, is felt by your sister." He slowly stopped between them and brought them together with his arms around their necks, and whispered: "You see, I too have come up with a useful trick. Your rashes are in different places."

They both immediately stopped scratching.

Malcolm gave a little laugh. "As you find yourselves in this predicament, you have two choices: either one strives to terrorise the other, at the sacrifice of terrorising oneself, or," he said calmly, and brought them closer together by their necks, "one could abandon pride and stubbornness in order to cooperate, and scratch in the place where the other feels the rash." He looked down and pat them both on the back. "Have fun."

"Mash, anyone?" said Bethany, trying to conceal her amusement.
"Something funny?" said Hawke in irritation.

"Oh, no. Just learning more about discipline," said Bethany with a ghost of a smirk.

Malcom quietly sat down at the head of the table, as Leandra took the other end. All but Hawke and Carver started eating, the rashes proving too insufferable to do anything. Hawke sat resolute and quick, staring at her brother, as robust no doubt as she'd ever been, and twice as stubborn. Carver matched that.

"The chicken is wonderful, Leandra. In fact, I believe this is your best tomato garlic sauce yet."

Despite the humungous roar of SCRATCH-SCRATCH-SCRATCHUDHFDSID all over her body, Hawke's inner mouth was watering. She did not let it show, however. Somehow Fenris knew this, although if he stopped to think how he knew this, he might just fall in the snow again and have a nervous breakdown.

"Thank you, dear. Your mash is excellent, too."

Not one muscle danced on Hawke or Carver's face.

"My mash is always excellent," said Malcom with a wink and a playful implication. Leandra squinted at him, but quickly dismissed it.

"Please teach me ffis recipe. I wanna make it for my own children one day soon."

Leandra almost choked on her food. "I hope not too soon, dear," she said, wiping her mouth elegantly with a handkerchief.

Malcom, on the other hand, seemed very amused. "How many children are you having?"

"FOUR," said Bethany, proudly presenting four fingers.

"Have they got names too?" Malcom asked in intrigue.

"Of course!" said Bethany. She tilted her head in opposite directions and almost sang them: "Clarissa, Matthew, Lucas and Hildegaard."

THAT NAME DIES WITH ME, Hawke wanted to scream, but a few competing screams of pain were ahead of it in the queue.

"Oho, I see one name will make the legacy," Malcom said with laughter.

SERIOUSLY, I WOULD RATHER STAY WITH THIS MAGIC RASH—OOOOOPH— FOREVER THAN HAVE THAT NAME PASS ON, Hawke shouted in her mind.

"Maybe that one will like it, too," Leandra said, smiling and resting her chin on her hands.

"Well," said Bethany, whose voice was of an endearing childish pitch, "I wanted to giff'em names startin' wiff the letter of each of your names, but I can't phink of another name with H that I like."

HELENA. HEIDI. HANNAH. HILLARIE. FRIGGIN' HERMANDINA EVEN SOUNDS BETTER.

A loud bang came at the door. The dogs went mad with barking. Thank the heavens, she was about to ask for a truce!

It is us, Malcom. Please let us in, the voice came from outside.

Both Malcom and Leandra sat up with pale faces. He urgently opened the door and a wild snowy wind blew inside.

There was a man of similar age standing in the doorway with two boys he was holding. They all had dark hair and blue eyes.

"Aldric," said Malcolm with a worried face.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such an hour, Malcolm," he said with a lordly accent. "Esme sent word from Redcliffe that the red coats are coming south. They must be hunting someone."

"Dear Maker, come inside," said Malcolm.

"Thank you, old friend," said Aldric as he ushered the boys in and made sure they stomped their boots to get the snow off on the doormat.

"Is Esme alright in Redcliffe?" said Leandra.

"Oh, yes, yes, I believe she is quite alright. I will not expect her back for another few days. She knows better than to follow Templars."

"How long before they arrive?" said Malcolm as he hurried to gather most of the plates.

"They will have arrived by morning, if not sooner," said Aldric. "Take a seat, boys."

"You smell like cow burp," said Bethany to one of the boys who sat beside her.

"You've got sauce all over your face," the boy retorted.

His brother nudged him to look at Hawke.

"Mudskipper's turning purple," he said, who Fenris did not need to guess was Andrei.

"Carver is too," said his brother Daniel. "Look." They both waved at them in confusion.

Malcolm's voice overpowered the rest as he passed them by. "We must go now. You will do as we discussed." He beckoned for the kids to get up and then he kissed Leandra's forehead. "I'm sorry you have to do this, dear."

She nodded and started messing her hair up and unbuttoning her blouse.

"Come now, kids. We're going to take a little walk," said Malcolm militarily.

The kids followed Malcolm, but young Andrei stayed behind and shouted.

"Them ones aren't movin', Sir. I think they're constipated or suchlike."

Malcom stopped, his shoulders dropping. He forgot about the rash spell.

"Damn Templars never let me have any fun."

Hawke felt the spell lifted and she and Carver immediately sat up, hugged their mother and ran after the others.

"Come," Fenris heard the real Hawke say. He felt rudely awoken. He had completely forgotten that she was standing beside him.

10 minutes later, Lothering Forests

"Stop getting in my way, you snotbarrel," young Hawke said to Andrei. She tried to trip him, unsuccessfully.

"I am the oldest, so I should be in the front, Mudskipper," he said to her.

"Actually, I am the oldest, and on account of my long years of acquired wisdom I suggest that you all shut up," said Malcolm as they walked in the night inside the snowy forest.

As Fenris and Hawke followed them, he couldn't help but ask:

"Why Mudskipper?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because I have a big mouth."

Fenris laughed. "I like him."

He shouldn't be liking an alleged former romance of Hawke, but then he argued in his mind that if he started being jealous of a little kid, he would be crazier than the giraffe eating a pinecone on a mountain path nearby.

Soon Malcolm stopped in front of a tree with a hollow at the bottom. The bark made noises as the hollow started growing bigger and bigger.

"Inside, quickly," he said to the kids.

They looked back at the hollow after they went inside, which began to shrink until it swallowed them up.

"Shouldn't we light a torch?" said Carver. "I can't even see my own thoughts."

"You must really miss them but I highly doubt they miss you," said Andrei.

"No," said Malcom. "We will make do. Make a row and hold hands. Bethany, dear, hold on to my coat."

After what seemed like an eternity, a light crept at end of the steep tunnel and they entered a small room. There were sleeping bags, blankets, sacks of vegetables, jars of honey, water, and, more oddly, books.

There was a hollow in the wall as well, presumably a place with an improvised toilet.

"Make yourselves comfortable, we will be freezing here for a while," said Malcolm.

They all sat down and wrapped themselves in blankets. Hawke was the last one standing, looking at the titles of the books.

"Come sit, pup," he ordered her gently. "Don't ruin your eyes."

"You expect me to sleep after all this?" she said. She scratched herself as if the rash was still there.

"I expect you to do it anyway," said Malcolm.

She grabbed a book in spite of her father and then saw that the only spot left was next to Andrei. She rolled her eyes.

"Come now, Skippy, I promise I won't breathe your scabby air."

She squinted at him. "Do," she said and sat down.

"You're a meane liil boye," said Bethany from the other side.

"Yes," he said, his eyebrows rising in accord. "I can also enunciate."

"What's enumcitate?" said Bethany in confusion.

"Something you will hopefully do in the next year or so, or you will be sent to those special places with all the nuns where they send kids whose parents don't love them anymore."

Bethany looked at her father in horror, who was hypocritically inspecting a book and not much listening. He looked up, awoken from his reading and said: "He's just kidding, pup."

"Why do you think we're hiding here?" said Andrei with a wicked look. "The mean ol' nuns with square hats are coming for you."

"You're lying," said Bethany.

"Same reason we had to hide a year ago. They were coming for Mudskipper 'cause she couldn't count higher than twenty."

Hawke elbowed him. "This is why nobody likes you."

"I like him," said Carver.

She stared blankly and then looked at Andrei. "This is why nobody that's intelligent likes you."

Carver threw a bell pepper at her.

Andrei leaned his head closer to her and said: "And this is why nobody likes you."

"Did they find you?" Fenris asked the real Hawke, both sitting down against the wall.

She kept staring at the memory of her family, but appeared to still be listening to him.

"No, they were looking for someone else," she said. "Plus, religious little Templars aren't very skilled at handling conversation when they bust in on a couple who appears to be committing adultery."

"Oh, now things make a lot more sense," he said and coughed.

"But I forgot to lift the hex off of Sif and if the Templars weren't so busy being embarrassed, they would have noticed it and…" she stopped and pressed her mouth. "Well, needless to say, Father tore me a new one. Even if, in earnest, it was his fault that I'd forgotten. If he wouldn't have used that damn rash spell on us, I would have remembered."

"So, in reality, you were both a little reckless."

She was about to retort, but her eyebrows came together. "I suppose the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Then she looked down. "We frequented the bunker more times than I would have liked to."

"How did you know when Templars would patrol?"

She didn't look at him, rather she kept looking at them. She shrugged nonchalantly. "We had our resources. The elves we helped were traders and didn't mind accidentally eavesdropping here and there. Elder Miriam was all too happy with emergency healing services. And Esme, their mother, was a Circle mage with a lot of good friends."

"You said Andrei applied outside of Ferelden and you were happy about it," Fenris said. "Wouldn't it stand to reason that he would apply in Ferelden to be another 'good friend'?"

She smiled bitterly. "Applying outside of Ferelden was him being a good friend. Or rather, his very last act of friendship."

"I sense we are to go in a different memory now," Fenris said.

Her eyes lingered a few more moments on them, and with a heavy sigh, she said: "You will want to hold on tight."

Soon his vision doubled again and the old vibrant patterns assaulted his eyes. He felt brutally sucked up through a well.

The next thing he saw was a mabari pooping on his shoe.