If it had been a physical wound, Bethany was sure her body would have gone into shock by now. But her pain was not physical, and there was no end to the amount of suffering she could endure. She could not simply wave her hands and seal this cut away.

If mages were so very dangerous, she certainly shouldn't feel this helpless.

She was out when she wasn't supposed to be. In an area she wasn't supposed to be. Most mages who tried to end their lives did so on one of the front walls. There was only water beneath, and there was a chance of survival and escape. But it was a high wall and difficult to climb. Most could barely scale the first half. Mages did not have access to the wall upon which she was currently perched. It was dark and secluded, meant for patrols on the lookout for escapees.

It had been easy enough to drug the guard's lyrium without them noticing. Felandris was a very pleasant sedative, and gave her plenty of time to contemplate her options with the templars resting peacefully in the guardhouse. She looked down at the jagged rocks below where she sat. There would be no surviving that.

She took a drink of the rum Isabela had smuggled in for her birthday. Bethany never drank. There was too much to risk with her magic. It certainly wasn't allowed in the Gallows. She doubted the pirate imagined her mother's murder would be her reason for indulging.

She no longer cared about getting caught. Caring was exhausting. It was so much easier to not care. The too small bottle finally came up empty when she moved it from her lips. She extended her arm as far as she could, and watched as it fell. The darkness of night cloak its plummet to the ground below, but she heard the shatter, even among the waves crashing upon the shore.

"Enchanter Bethany?" She did not have to turn her head to know who it was. Knight-Captain Cullen: the very one who had brought her here to this prison. He was just as responsible for her mother's death as that madman. If not for him, she would have been their to protect her.

Maybe if she was lucky, she could take him with her on the way down.

She physically shook away the thought as the self-hatred dug itself deeper.

"Knight-Captain," she greeted coldy without turning her eyes from looking out. "This is not your post. You normally survey the courtyard at this hour."

"The guards who were stationed here didn't report in. I came to check on them." He paused. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"I drugged them," she replied simply, still keeping her gaze on the distance. "Templars are so very weary all the time. So reliant upon poison to stay vigilant. They didn't even notice the taste. But they should be well rested in the morning." There was an extremely long pause, and she still refused to look at him.

"Tampering with the lyrium of a templar is a severe offense, Enchanter."

"You could execute me," she said. "Or make me Tranquil. I suppose that would solve both our problems." She looked down. "Or I could just save you the trouble here."

"Can you get off of the wall, please, Enchanter?"

"Why?" she asked, finally turning to face him.

"I heard the news of your mother," he said cautiously. She scoffed bitterly.

"You and half of Kirkwall," she spat.

"I know this is not you. You've been a peaceful and dedicated Enchanter. You are hurting right now. This is not what you want. If you come with me, we can just forget this ever happened." Bethany narrowed her eyes.

"The staunch and severe Knight-Captain Cullen is offering to cover the sins of a mage?" she questioned. She hopped off of the wall, approaching him with a boldness she would have never dared had she been sober and not half-blind with grief. "Would it not alleviate your burden? One less mage to have to watch?"

"That's not-"

"That's what you told my brother, was it not? Before you knew what I was? Are you not fighting a losing battle? Because every day more of us are born? We are not people, we are those not your words?" He swallowed, but made no reply. She grew angry the longer he refused to answer. "Say it," she commanded harshly.

"Those were my words," he said. She was too drunk to read his tone.

"Weapons should not be able to feel this. If my birth was my mistake," she said softly, turning back to the wall, "perhaps I can unmake it. I'm surprised the Circle makes any effort at all to stop us from ending ourselves. I would think you would rejoice at the numbers that would try to end your plight."

"Bethany," he said, his voice raw with some sort of emotion. It could have been anger as much as it could have been concern. She could hardly tell -or care- though she was vaguely aware he had not called her 'Enchanter.'

"I thought I was being brave," she said quietly. "I thought I was saving them. They wouldn't have to be burdened with me any longer. So many years of hiding and running. I thought I could give them a normal life. But I wasn't there. I wasn't there when she needed me to protect her. I could be happy here, and play the good little mage, if I knew they were happy too. But my mother is gone. Killed by a mage. By someone like me." She was not sure for how long she stood their, waiting for a wave of courage to finally end the blight upon the world that was her life, but she couldn't, and she hated herself for her cowardice.

She felt his heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder, and was sure he was going to do what she could not, and finally end her. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for his sword to pierce her back or to be pushed over the wall. But it did not come. His other hand reach for her other shoulder, and he turned her around. Before that night, she would have set herself on fire before she let a templar see her cry But her pride no longer mattered. Nothing did. She was not sure what she she expected to find in the Knight-Captain's face, but compassion was not it. His brown eyes were soft, his brows for once not forming a slight scowl as he observed her. She flinched when his hand came to her face, pausing just before the cold metal gently scraped the soft flesh of her cheek. It felt pleasant, as her face was hot from the rum.

"You are not a mistake," he said. And she could not get the tears to stop. "And he was nothing like you."

Cullen felt as if his head were going to split into a thousand shards the longer he looked at the plans before him. The throbbing radiated from one point of his skull to another, with images of Haven bouncing somewhere in between. It was altogether unpleasant for nine o'clock in the morning.

He had failed. It was the line that he repeated to himself over and over again. His one responsibility had been their safety, and he had fail them all. If it had not been for that passage. If it had not been for the Inquisitor willing to distract Corypheus, it would have been over then and there. Too much of their survival had depended upon sheer luck rather than careful planning, and it chilled him to his core. No matter how prepared he tried to be, they only ever seemed to survive by the skin of their teeth.

It had already been two weeks, and Skyhold was still not nearly close enough to being ready as he needed. The guards were spread far too thin for his liking. He had more fresh recruits than trained soldiers. The list of casualties from Haven grew by a few names every day, and every one seem like a mark against his very soul. The Inquisitor had reassured him that they could never have gotten out so many without his quick planning. It brought Cullen little peace, but he still took a small comfort in Trevelyan still trusting him to command their forces. His symptoms were growing worse by the day, and the commander knew he would need to tell the Inquisitor about his condition.

"Take a break, Curly," he heard in a deep voice behind him. The Commander almost resented that Varric's nickname barely even phased him anymore. "You look like a stiff breeze could blow you over. When was the last time you slept?"

"I can sleep when I know this fortress is secured," Cullen replied gravely. "We have too much work ahead before that is achieved."

"Far be it from me to keep you from running yourself into the ground," Varric said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Listen, I know you've got a lot on your plate, but, I thought it would be a courtesy to let you know. With Inquisitor's permission, I invited Hawke to Skyhold. He should be arriving any day now." Cullen froze, his brown eyes slowly lifting up to look at the dwarf, who seemed less at ease than normal.

"The same Hawke whom you told Cassandra you had no way of contacting?" Cullen questioned, though there was a small amount of humor in his voice. "I'm assuming you are not extending her the same courtesy." Varric had the decency to look at least a little sheepish.

"I figure she'll find out soon enough," he replied easily. "She hates my guts, as it is. I surely can't make it any worse."

"Any particular business Hawke has with us?"

"Hawke was there when Corypheus was released from his prison."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Cullen asked as his eyes went back to his blueprints. Varric could not hide the smirk from the corner of his mouth.

"It certainly does sound like our boy doesn't it? I thought he might have some insight into how to go about killing him. I told him about what we're trying to do here. He wants to come help, for as long as he can, now that he knows we're not a secret Chantry decoy waiting to kill him." Varric paused. "He said Bethany was coming along with him, too." The charcoal stick in Cullen's hand snapped in the middle of the note he was taking, and it was painfully obvious the commander was trying to play it off.

"It's good to know they are both alive and well," Cullen said, his words spilling out a bit too fast to be considered 'casual.' "I'm sure The Inquisition can benefit greatly from their talents. I know Kirkwall did, at one time."

"Bethany has been in Orlais for a while know, did you know? She always wanted to travel. She's been working as a healer and teacher among the refugees. Some call her the 'Savior of the Dales' or 'Angel from Fereldan.' But that's just what I hear." Cullen gave Varric a pointed look, fully aware the dwarf was up to something, though he was not sure exactly what his motive was.

"That is good to hear, but unsurprising," he said, having gained a sense of control over his rate of speech. "She was a gifted healer and teacher in Kirkwall. I'm sure any time she could spare the Inquisiton would be an asset, especially with the Inquisitor planning to dedicate a portion of Skyhold to be hospital." Cullen knew he was repeating himself, though it was too late to correct. He could feel Varric's eyes on him as he continued to sketch a rough draft of the repairs he wanted with his measly half piece of charcoal.

"So-" Varric drew the short word out for far too long, "you really aren't ever going to ever talk about what happened when we left Kirkwall with her?" Cullen exhaled something between a scoff and a growl, dropping his charcoal and bracing himself against his small, splintered, makeshift desk in the courtyard.

"Varric, I appreciate all that you do here-"

"Well thanks, Curly!" he replied as if he fully did not anticipate the coming censure -which Cullen was quite sure that he did. The former templar pinched the bridge of his nose.

"That being said, I don't think we really know each other well enough to be having this conversation." He paused before releasing the hold on his nose and picking up his pencil again. "Not that there is even anything to discuss."

"We've fought side by side in the heat of battle! Nothing draws two people together more than that. And love affairs between templars and mages are the bestselling stories! Everyone knows that." Cullen hadn't indulged in embarrassed sputtering and quite a few years, but he was dangerously close to doing so just then.

"I assure you that whatever story you've conjured in your mind would be far more interesting than reality. You are looking for something that isn't there that will only embarrass both myself and Miss Hawke, should you continue this line of questioning when she arrives."

"If there is one thing I know, it's stories," Varric replied, "And women don't kiss men like that unless there's a story behind it." Cullen could feel the color rising up to his hairline as Varric seemed painfully unaware at his lack of propriety or decorum. Though, based on his novels, the commander gathered that neither of those things was a priority to the nosy dwarf. Varric sighed, crossing his arms in dejection. "Just like Bethany back when I asked her. Tight-lipped as a Chantry Mother in a whorehouse." Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to avoid the mental image the storyteller painted.

"I wish I could say I was sorry to disappoint you, which I'm not. I am hardly an authority on why she did something over two years ago. People do strange things when they survive battle."

"People tend to do things they've been wanting to do for a long time when they survive a battle," Varric said rather amiably.

"I had the greatest respect for Miss Hawke in the Circle, and she seemed to feel the same. We were both very grateful to be alive, and I suppose that was her way of . . . celebrating, I suppose."

"I've survived plenty of battles with Bethany, and she never quite 'celebrated' any of us. Not even Sebastian, though, I'm pretty sure she might have if he wasn't-"

"Is there anything else I can do for you Varric?" Cullen said abruptly. "I really must finish these plans for the builders."