Hawke somehow managed to keep Cullen from harming himself further in the time it took for Dorian to fetch the healers, but the effort sucked all the energy out of him. When they finally arrived and pulled him off of Cullen, he collapsed into a chair next to the bed and stayed there while they plied their trade, joined quickly by Dagna and her mug full of bubbling liquid.

By the time Dorian arrived, they'd managed to get Cullen's body to unlock and straighten under the blankets again, and coaxed Dagna's brew between his lips. He listened to them talk about a matrix of energy and scale of corruption and all sorts of things he only vaguely understood. All that mattered to him was Dorian seemed to know what they were talking about, and was even able to join in on the conversation.

Hawke closed his eyes for a bit, surprised at how utterly drained he felt. Cullen had always been strong, but the way he'd fought against Hawke had been more than that, a strength borne of a place beyond the physical realm. As the others spoke, their words became even more incomprehensible until they turned into a soothing susurration that settled into his ears like a heavy blanket, muting the rest of the world around him. His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes closed, making it impossible to avoid a gentle, inexorable fall into sleep.

The voices of healers blended into other voices, voices which blurred and stretched and echoed strangely in his head. Hawke frowned, trying to concentrate on the words and coax some semblance of sense out of them. As if in response to his attention, the voices grew louder, until it seemed that he was in the next room and separated only by a thin wall.

"—studied them for years, and bonded with two different ones. You met Anders, but he was the second Warden with whom I associated."

Hawke frowned. He knew that voice, and the frequencies that always made his spine crawl. Hard as it was to focus, he forced himself to concentrate, wondering what Vengeance was saying, to whom, and where. He suspected he already knew the answer to those questions, and only needed one final drop of information to make the floodgates open.

"But it was through the Wardens where I first encountered the corruption, and recognized it. The same deadly poison which reddens lyrium and corrupts flesh lays over the Black City like a thick miasma of despair. Any denizen of the Fade knows it, and recognizes its nature."

"The taint," someone replied, and a mute sense of astonishment surged through Hawke. He struggled without success against the peculiar lassitude keeping him still and silent, eyes closed and quiescent as he listened to the two speak.

"The taint, the corruption, the blight...whatever you call it, however you perceive it, it has its origins in one thing, and one thing only."

The world seemed to hold its breath as the voice paused, and Hawke felt a distant tension as glee danced with despair in the soul twined with his own. It wasn't just that he knew the voice, he felt the voice echoing inside him, felt it speaking through him, as it had ever since his encounter with Flemeth in the strange darkness of the Well of Sorrows.

"Vengeance. Whether you believe it to be vengeance against those who dared to invade the Fade for power, or vengeance against those who claimed to be gods themselves for their acts of calumny, it is still an outcome of vengeance. As such, I have some control over it."

Vengeance. Yes, the word served as both concept and identity, though the situation remained unclear. Where are we? Why Cullen? What are you up to, Vengeance?

A shudder ran through Hawke as Cullen replied, "You speak in riddles. It was the Magisters who breached the Fade who brought the taint back with them, surely. Corypheus himself all but confirmed it."

"The Fade holds its own secrets, ones which are far older than the breath of the first human in these lands. There are sins more ancient than a group of men seeking power, after all, sins which will echo down through time until they find a reckoning."

~A reckoning.~

Abruptly a memory throbbed in the back of Hawke's mind, a memory of a woman's voice steeped in hate and power. ~ Now you are joined in power and in purpose— my purpose. You will grant my death the vengeance it demands, a reckoning which will shake the very heavens.~

Hawke pushed the memory away, shuddering as the voice of Mythal reverberated and glistened in his mind for a few more seconds before fading. The conversation between Vengeance and Cullen hadn't paused, though, and it took a moment or two for Hawke to concentrate enough to discern the words again.

"—rid me of it?" That was Cullen, an edge of anger in his voice. "Can you?"

"Control is a different ability than that of creation and destruction," Vengeance said. "That I cannot do."

Still, the thought did tickle something in Hawke's mind, and he frowned. Cannot do alone, perhaps, but what if he could work with others? I wonder…

"But this control will stop it from corrupting me. Stop the pain and the fog and the...the everything else." Something about the way Cullen said everything else made Hawke wince in sympathy. Whatever Cullen feared most about red lyrium, it clearly wasn't the physical pain. "Can you give me that?"

"For a time," Vengeance said. "Long enough to serve our purpose."

Our purpose? That sounded chilling.

"Yes," Cullen said fervently, that single word full of dark intent. "It does seem odd, however, to mix Warden and Templar teachings this way."

Vengeance retorted with a short, ugly laugh. "The Templars do not understand the breadth of their own abilities, and only dimly grasp the consequences of them. It is more than suppressed spells and misplaced memories, though that is the most obvious toll paid by those who seek to ride the storm of the Titans."

"I have tasted those consequences already," Cullen said softly. "I have little wish to endure them again."

"Vengeance is no game," the spirit snarled. "And Amell seeks only destruction."

"Of the taint itself," Cullen noted. "Or so said Zevran."

"And you believe him?" Vengeance demanded, his tone such that Hawke winced and covered his ears. It didn't help, of course—Vengeance was still in his head, and this was the Fade. Here, there was no true distance between them. "No, whatever Zevran says, whatever Amell thinks, we must assume they lie for their own ends. Think of those they have killed and hurt. Think of their actions, not their words. We must have vengeance."

"Vengeance," Cullen said, his voice much stronger now. "Yes. We will." There was a pause, and then Cullen released an explosive breath. "Then do what you must."

Maferath's balls. What is Vengeance doing to him? With a frown, Hawke tried to find the little corner of his mind he now thought of as Vengeance. When the link was made, however, it turned out not to be what Hawke had anticipated.

Sucked into a maelstrom, whirling from point to point in an ever escalating surge of emotion. Pain to horror to hate to yearning and back again, a cycle which perpetuates and spirals endlessly without respite.

Vengeance.

It's at the core of everything, the need burning deep within, a fire which has a beginning seated in passion but ends in torment.

Vengeance.

It pulses and squeezes and shrieks, unending and unrequited. To achieve it, all else must fall by the wayside, for only vengeance matters. The goal, the existence, the life, all must serve it one way or another, for it worms in like a parasite and awaits the perfect moment to spring forth to claim its due.

Vengeance.

All energy, all emotion, all roiling and boiling within. That is its nature. That is its calling. That is its purpose.

Vengeance.

Just as he thought he was about to lose himself entirely to the endless maw that was Vengeance, Hawke snapped through the vortex to the other side. For the blink of an eye, the heat of rage surrounded him, but quickly faded as another sort of heat replaced it, and his eyes snapped open in surprise.

He found himself standing within a sturdy fortress, one patterned after the Viscount's Keep in Kirkwall. Though he belatedly remembered telling Cullen to return to his mental fortress, Hawke hadn't realized just how literally the Templar technique worked. But then, having spent so much time within the Fade-generated version of the Amell estate—his Unreal Estate—while he'd fought for freedom from Amell, Hawke supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

I should be grateful it's not the Gallows.

Still, even as his surroundings settled into place in his mind, he realized that he felt his body now. His body, though his mind hastily corrected to the realization that it was, in fact, the simulacrum of his body from his time in the Unreal Estate. At the same time, he felt the almost overwhelming presence of Vengeance in the forefront of his mind, unlike the separation they'd had before. It was also vastly different from the constant hum to which the spirit had retreated after their return to Skyhold. This was far more like the moment when Vengeance had seized control and flung Hawke into the Well of Sorrows, leaving Hawke an observer in his own body.

On the heel of all those revelations came the strangest one of all: Cullen, naked and standing with arms raised in front of him. Something about the fierce determination in the ex-Templar's gaze reached deep into Hawke and took hold, reminding him all too clearly of those moments when Hawke had clung to the foundation of his own mind in the face of Amell's magic and Zevran's malice.

Still, even that didn't prepare him for what he felt as his hands rose and settled on Cullen's chest. What are you doing? he demanded of Vengeance as the swelter of emotions washed over him. It was hard to tell what was him and what was the spirit, since the pride and greed and lust and affection all rolled into one large bundle that tingled down to his fingertips.

Helping him control that which would otherwise consume him, the spirit replied, even as his fingertips brushed Cullen's skin, tracing the lines of red lyrium with light caresses.

As if you're any sort of paragon of control, Hawke muttered. At the same time, he was unable to keep his eyes off of Cullen, watching the play of emotions on the man's face as whatever Vengeance did to him gave him obvious surcease. But how are you doing that?

The Wardens learned how to use the taint for power and attenuated the effects to extend their life as much as they could, but it is still a death sentence to become a Warden. The Templars learned how to harness the power of the song which flows in the roots of the world and use it to suppress its expression in others, but the world fought back and punished them for it. As Vengeance 'spoke', Hawke's eyes inevitably dropped to his hand as it traced every line of the red lyrium tattoo inscribed on Cullen's skin, unable to block out the oddly sensual sensation of doing so. This man needs to control the taint and the song, and I can offer that to him using the old ways, from the time before the Veil.

Hawke's mind raced, trying to work past Vengeance's words and arrive at their meaning. Since their minds were closer together than ever at the moment, the meaning came to his mind, but he still wasn't sure he fully understood. What do you—

The old ways, Vengeance said as he slowly moved around Cullen, fingers lingering on each glowing line of red. The old ways can control the Orbs of Power, give one command over the ungovernable, and speak in the tongue which hears the song beneath the world as words. The memories are old, but she returned them to me.

The implication shivered down Hawke's spine. How old are you?

How old is the need for justice? Vengeance replied. How ancient the call for vengeance? I will always exist in one form or another as long as mortals dream of a better world and plot against others for the ruin of it. Here and now, I am your dream, your plot, and I will give you my power to bring them to life.

That answer rendered Hawke silent with contemplative awe as Vengeance continued his task. By the time he came around to Cullen's front again, every inch of red on Cullen's body blazed with a bright light, including the delicate lines on his face that almost faded into his wrinkles and scars when they didn't glow. For the first time, Hawke realized that he heard music, twisted and tangled, pounding against the walls around them as if laying siege to Cullen's inner fortress.

Is that the red lyrium? he wondered. Is that what Cullen has been fighting all this time?

As Cullen slowly opened his eyes, Hawke shivered when he saw the glow there, though they glowed white instead of red. "I feel...coiled," Cullen said. "Wound tighter than any spring I can imagine."

"I have laid knowledge in your pain and blood," Vengeance told him through Hawke's lips, "but it is up to you to seize it."

Cullen frowned, his brows tightening visibly as he grated, "Blood magic?"

"The Joining of the Grey Wardens is blood magic. The phylacteries of the Circle are blood magic. You mortals have a saying: through blood, sweat, and tears." Vengeance crossed Hawke's arms across his chest. "There is power in making an offering of yourself, whether it uses blood or not, and this magic is far older than your Chantry. I take nothing from you, and give you only what you truly desire: control of all that is within you."

Drawing to his full height, Cullen lowered his arms as he glanced to the 'gates' of his fortress. "And vengeance."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it is justice long delayed," Vengeance said softly. "You know what must be done."

Cullen nodded and turned to face the gates as he raised one hand. In the next moment, he stood clad in his Inquisition armor once more, sword held in his upraised hand as he lifted his shield into a guard position in the other. The lion helm Dagna had crafted for him formed around his head as he growled, "Lions do not run."

With a roar, he launched himself at the gates as they flew open. For a brief moment, Hawke saw a dazzling display of red light on the other side, a whirling chaos of crackling, sparking crimson lines that teased at structure but ultimately showed only the chaos of disorder. Into that twisting tornado, Cullen disappeared with barely a sound, and Hawke instinctively tensed his body as if to follow.

No. Our time here is done. The words rang through Hawke's mind loudly, and he fell to his knees with a shout. When the floor disappeared from below him, the shout resurged and grew, following Hawke as he tumbled over and over, down into the darkness of the Void itself.

Somewhere in the midst of that darkness, he heard a familiar voice speak into his mind, a lingering amusement giving shimmering shape to her words as they echoed in his mind. ~ Wake up.~

Hawke jerked awake as his face hit the mattress, yanked back into the waking world with a suddenness which made his heart pound in his chest. For a long moment he lay there, unmoving save for the heaving of his chest as he sought to reclaim air for his starved lungs, as if he had truly fallen for an extended time through a place with no air or light or reality. That was no dream…

When a feather light touch brushed against his head, he loosed a small yelp and shot upright, only to hear a soft chuckle come from the bed. "I see you're awake."

Hawke stared at Cullen, wondering for a moment why the red lines of his new tattoos weren't shining in the darkness, then shook himself from the thought. That was the dream . "I could say the same to you," he shot back.

Cullen pressed a finger to his lips, then reached over to caress the hair of the man slumbering next to him.

Dropping his voice to a whisper, Hawke leaned in. "Sorry. I didn't see him." Dorian looked downright haggard in his sleep, but at least he looked at peace—and beautiful, Hawke couldn't help but notice, enjoying the sight of the mage drenched in moonlight. Still, though he enjoyed admiring Dorian as much as the next man, Hawke felt his gaze inevitably return to Cullen. "You're looking better." And he was, especially considering that the last time he'd seen Cullen, the man had been glowing red like a particularly angry pool of lava.

"I feel better," Cullen said quietly. "Not well, not yet. But there's hope."

Hope. Oh, how that word resonated deep within Hawke, though he wasn't sure he should have any hope. Bad things tended to happen when Hawke let it get out of hand. Fighting the despair inherent in that thought, Hawke pulled his chair closer until he could see Cullen's face clearly even in the dim light. "Hope for what?"

Cullen's eyes closed. "Hope for more than just an end," he replied. "That's...that's what I was reduced to before, hoping for an end without specifying what sort."

Without thought, Hawke reached out and took Cullen's hand in his own. He felt a tingle as their skin touched, and bit his lip as warmth bloomed between them. "Wha—"

There is a bond between you now, Vengeance murmured. Mother bound me to you, but his purpose has created a connection to me.

Cullen, meanwhile, had a healthy bit of color in his cheeks as he met Hawke's gaze. "Is this because of the spirit?" he asked quietly.

"According to him, yes," Hawke said ruefully. "How do these things always end up happening to me?"

"You do seem to have your own peculiar version of luck," Cullen said with a shake of his head, then squeezed Hawke's hand. "At least it didn't happen in Kirkwall. That would have made things complicated."

"How could it get more complicated than what it already was?" Hawke asked pointedly.

"Point." Cullen gave a weary chuckle as he let his head drop back. Just when Hawke thought he had fallen asleep, though, Cullen turned his face towards Hawke again. "I heard you talking with Dorian, about Anders. I never knew he was…that he had a…a Fade ally." The phrase sounded forced, but that didn't particularly surprise Hawke given their time together in Kirkwall. "But how did you end up with the, ah, spirit in your head? That part makes little sense to me."

Hawke heard the undertone which whispered demon in Cullen's voice, and knew that the man's Templar training left him ill-prepared to disregard Hawke's condition. WIth a sigh, Hawke pushed himself away, giving Cullen more space. "It starts with Amell."

Cullen's lip curled in distaste. "It always goes back to Amell, doesn't it?"

"In this case, perhaps not in the way you might think," Hawke cautioned. "This goes back to Amaranthine, when Amell pretended to be a responsible Warden-Commander in Amaranthine." In bare bones, he laid out where Vengeance had come from, starting with his occupation of a Grey Warden in Amaranthine when he was merely the spirit of Justice. It proved to be a strange tale to tell, especially since most of it he'd only heard second hand from Anders, but he could feel Vengeance listening without comment in the back of his mind, which just made the whole process more creepy.

As he progressed through the retelling, Cullen's face shifted through a series of emotions. Some of them Hawke expected, but others caught him by surprise. The sympathy when Hawke spoke of Anders' gradual descent into obsession made Hawke slow his recitation until finally he stopped altogether. Was Cullen…crying?

Wordlessly he reached out and caught a tear on his fingertip, then pulled his hand back as Cullen turned his head away. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's all right." Cullen sighed heavily and turned back to face Hawke. "I remember the other Templars putting Anders into solitary. He was the only one they put in more than once, and for more than a day or two at a time. At the time, I thought it too much, but I was the youngest. I didn't have a place to object, or so I told myself. And then later…" He swallowed harshly. "Maker. I don't want to think about the later."

"Yet here you are, thinking about it as if you're ready to talk." Working on instinct, Hawke slid forward in his chair and took Cullen's hand again. "And here I am, with an ear or two ready to listen."

"I—" Cullen glanced at Dorian, guilt etched into his face.

"Let him rest," Hawke said. "I may not be good for much, but I'm good at listening."

Cullen closed his eyes again, and he didn't speak for so long that Hawke wondered if he'd gone to sleep. Finally, Cullen whispered, "It starts with Amell."

It always goes back to Amell, doesn't it? Cullen's words echoed in his head as Hawke braced himself. "Tell me."

It came out in short bursts at first, in words laden with more emotion than fact. The beginning in particular proved wildly incoherent, but the highlights came through: of his imprisonment by the abominations in Kinloch Hold, of his torment by the demons, and finally his encounter with Amell when he was at his most vulnerable.

Hawke's blood chilled as he listened to that part, as Cullen grated through his teeth of how he'd abased himself for the vial of lyrium Amell had dangled in front of him, only to be left alone and in mental agony with a mouth full of sour seed, ears echoing with hollow laughter, and a body ravaged with a yet unquenched ache for lyrium.

"After that, for a time, I was convinced that all mages were but one tiny step away from becoming an abomination. I grew obsessed with them, with making sure that no mage under my purview would ever turn into one of them. Greagoir rightly called me on it, questioned my ability to watch over mages with that burning in my breast. Meredith…" HIs voice trailed off. "In the end, it took seeing that hatred, that obsession, turn into something destructive enough to destroy a city to shake me awake."

"You didn't seem that bad," Hawke said lightly, trying to lift a bit of the doom from Cullen's expression. "I never once saw you cook up a quick mage stew."

The corners of Cullen's mouth turned upwards, albeit with some reluctance. "You're terrible," he murmured.

Hawke flashed him a grin. "They don't call me the Champion because I sit around and tell horrible jokes all day. That just comes naturally."

Cullen opened his eyes and stared at Hawke for a few moments. Just when Hawke was beginning to wonder if he had something on his face, Cullen pulled his hand from Hawke's grasp and slowly smoothed it up Hawke's forearm. "Your terrible jokes helped," he admitted. "Though I didn't realize it at the time. By the time I reached Kirkwall, I'd let myself harden into a being with a single purpose: to seek out and destroy abominations, before they even manifested fully if necessary. But you and Alistair… you changed that. Gave me something different to think about, something different to care about."

"Alistair spoke of you often. Says that you were the only reason he came out of Kirkwall alive." Hawke forced himself to keep looking at Cullen's face, though he was acutely aware of the light, feathery touch of Cullen's fingertips on his arm. "I'm not so sure you had the same effect on me, and definitely don't recall having the same effect on you. Certainly you didn't seem to feel that way when I first arrived at Skyhold."

"Perhaps I am " Cullen's hand closed around Hawke's elbow, pulling him in closer. In reaction, Hawke turned his hand upwards and closed his fingers around Cullen's forearm. "You helped me to see the man in the mage again. You weren't a mage, but you traveled with them, fought with them, made the world a better place with them."

"I would strongly beg to differ there," Hawke interrupted, once again calling up the list of people who had died at his hands—or worse, the hands of those he'd spared.

"I wouldn't. You were an arrogant ass, but it can't be argued that more often than not you did what needed to be done. I could question your motives and your methods, but…" Cullen shrugged. "Besides, as arrogant an ass as you were, Amell can, in fact, be held partially to blame for the worst of what you did. I only had my own hatred and anger to blame for aiding Meredith."

"Ah, yes. Meredith. The woman so wrong that her wrongness almost destroyed Kirkwall." Hawke gave a little sigh. "A bit of a touchy subject myself, considering I found and brought back the idol she used to do so. My own little sin of the past."

Cullen winced. "But at least you took her down without having to have your head pounded into the ground first. I'm not sure I'll ever truly forgive myself for not letting acknowledging all the warning signs beforehand until it was almost too late." He glanced at Dorian for a moment. "That is something I've discussed with Dorian, but he wasn't there. He doesn't know what it was really like, especially after the Qunari left."

"No, he wasn't. And maybe that's for the best" Hawke squeezed Cullen's elbow, pulling the man's attention back to him. "I'm surprised you find anything redeeming about my time in Kirkwall, considering how I was controlled by Amell. You certainly treated me like something the cat dragged in when I first arrived in Skyhold."

"Well, true. A lot of what you did was…questionable, at best," Cullen admitted. "But I saw enough to make me pause. And when we talked just the two of us, when there was no fighting or anything else…that was you, wasn't it?"

Hawke pursed his lips, thinking about those encounters. "You did seem to get more reasonable in those talks as time went on," he drawled. "So I have to assume Amell wasn't involved with those. I almost asked you out for a drink a time or two, but you didn't seem the drinking type."

"A commander can't afford to be seen deep in his cups by those who serve under him. Or at least, that's what I told myself then. I wanted to do everything right." A haunted look came to his eyes as he again looked at Dorian. "I haven't always held to that rule."

"Don't feel guilty for failing." Hawke spoke without realizing it, spurred by Cullen's expression. When Cullen sent him a questioning look, Hawke swallowed. "Sometimes you need to forget a few things, at least for a while, and ale…well, ale's the easy way. Maker knows it's never easy to lose someone you love."

Cullen's eyes shone with unshed tears, barely visible in the moonlight. "It hurt so much, Hawke. To lose Mailani, I mean. It was like losing half of myself. The better half."

"Yes." Hawke looked down at where their forearms still twined on top of the bed. "I know the feeling. Especially about the better half." Of course, his own knife had made him 'lose' Anders back in Kirkwall, but the pain of the loss had been real. Amell had made sure of that. Inhaling sharply, he absently took Cullen's hand and squeezed it as he nodded to the slumbering mage on the bed. "But you have Dorian now. A mage, of all things."

"Of all things," Cullen murmured. "He was there for me, after she died. He adored her, though not in the same way as I did, obviously. We helped each other, and somewhere in the middle of that, we found something more."

Hawke forced a soft chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. "I'm a bit jealous. Varric never even tried to console me. Not that I blame him. I gave them all good reasons to leave me be." Still, it did sound wonderful to experience a love blooming out of loss. For all that Hawke had managed to steal some more time with Anders in the Unreal Estate, he'd always known it would come to an end—and that the end would be final. Mythal had given him a few moments with Anders before sending him into the light, but it had not really been enough.

It could never be enough.

He felt Cullen's gaze land on him and forced himself back into the conversation. "Still, it must have been quite the courtship. When I met you, you didn't have the most progressive views about mages, after all."

Cullen's cheeks darkened. "It didn't happen overnight, no. In fact, at first I blamed him for Mailani's death. I, ah, may have shoved him into a wall at one point."

Though he did his absolute best, Hawke couldn't quite hide the mirth that twitched his lips, quickly covering his mouth as Cullen's flush deepened and found a glare to pair itself with. "Oh?" Hawke asked innocently. "I do hope it wasn't the last time that happened."

"Hush, you," Cullen said, looking away as his cheeks darkened another shade.

"Ah, ha. Just as I thought." Hawke leaned forward. "And perhaps a table or two? Please tell me you haven't neglected that enormous slab of wood in the War Room. It's practically begging for, ah, creativity."

Cullen's free hand rose to cover his hand as another soft groan escaped from Cullen. "Maker. You don't let up, do you?"

"Still not a denial," Hawke drawled in amusement. The conversation had definitely veered away from anything serious, but honestly Hawke was too tired to care. Besides, surely the change of mood would do Cullen some good after the Fade and Void he'd been through. "Well, well, well. The Chantry boy has certainly come a long way since his days in Kirkwall. I'm glad."

Cullen looked down at Dorian for a long moment, gently stroking the glossy black hair with a trembling hand. "Not alone," he said softly, then turned to look at where Hawke's hand rested on his own. Raising his gaze to meet Hawke's eyes, a faint smile touched his lips. "Besides, the same could be said of you."

Hawke couldn't bear the weight of that gaze and quickly averted his gaze. "Can it?" he asked softly. "Right now, I feel as if I am but the same stubborn fool I have always been."

Cullen chuckled, though the sound was weak. "You never thought yourself a fool when you were in Kirkwall. I know I certainly didn't. It's only when you can stare your own foolishness in the face that you can truly see the path leading away from it. Alistair taught me that, even if it took me a few years to understand the lesson."

For a long moment, Hawke fell into his own thoughts, pondering what Cullen had said. Finally he gently extracted his hand from Cullen's hold. "You should sleep. Dawn will come all too soon, and Dorian will need you with him for what lies ahead."

"I fear you are right. Amell with the Orb…" Cullen shuddered as he shifted on his bed until he could pull Dorian against him. "The world will need the Inquisitor for a while yet, I fear."

"That they will." Hawke waited for Cullen to still, then drew the blanket up over both men. As he tucked the blanket in around them, Hawke murmured, "We'll talk about what happened in that dream some more, I promise you. I'm just too tired to piss straight right now."

Cullen's jaw clenched, then relaxed visibly. "Thank you. I'm not trying to avoid it, but…it's a lot to wrap my head around."

"And you don't want to spread your head too thin," Hawke teased him with a grin. As Cullen glared, Hawke leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Now go to sleep."

"What was that?" Cullen asked indignantly. "I'm not a child to be put abed with a kiss and a glass of warm milk."

"Hmm, true. I suppose I'd better do a proper job of it, then." Thinking nothing of it, Hawke leaned down and brushed their lips together.

Or at least, that's what he meant to do. By the time he felt fingers twisting in his hair and a tongue brushing his, he realized that what had actually happened was a bit more serious. For a few moments, he just let himself float in the lyrium-and-song-tinged heat which had abruptly sprang into being around them.

When he pulled away with tingling lips, their gazes locked for a long, breathless moment. Desperate to get away from the confusion in Cullen's expression, Hawke abruptly cleared his throat and stood. "Your dreams will be safe from now on, but you'd best get some sleep. There won't be many opportunities to rest for a while." Yes, he'd already said that, but it seemed better to repeat it than start asking about the tongue Cullen had shoved down his throat, or the noticeable bulge between his legs.

Before Cullen could respond, he fled the room, not so much going anywhere as running away from whatever had just happened.

He came to his senses a few minutes later, where he found himself standing at the edge of Skyhold's garden. Deep night had settled over Skyhold, and the lamps had been dimmed everywhere save in the main hold and the guard rooms. His eyes swept over the greenery, taking it in without really seeing it as his mind swirled and circled and spun around what had just happened with Cullen.

"Maker," he breathed. He really was still as much the fool as always, his yearning to fly preceding the inevitable fall. Deep down, he knew that a part of him remained raw from those last moments with Anders in the Well of Sorrows. That final embrace and the accompanying kiss would remain as viscerally seared into his memory as the moment when his dagger had cut the life from Anders' body. No logic, no reason could hope to define or understand his relationship with Anders, after all. Their love had been passionate, chaotic, and ridiculous in so many ways—but it had also been true.

As was his love for Dorian. Here, alone in the shadows, he could admit to that, at least. Whatever Amell had hoped to achieve by sending Hawke in to seduce the leader of the Inquisition, it hadn't stopped Hawke from developing feelings for the handsome mage.

But it hadn't been Dorian's lips he'd just devoured, either.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Hawke shut his eyes and tried to still his thoughts. The extended length of time he'd spent in his Unreal Estate had, not surprisingly, given him time to practice quite a few new habits, including mental discipline. Gradually his thoughts calmed and his heart slowed, until finally he felt ready to return to his room so he could lie in bed and…well, and stare at his ceiling for a few hours, truth be told.

Fool. Diving in headfirst like always. His fingers reached up to brush his lips, trying to pinpoint the moment when the jest became a caress, then snatched his hand away again. No. I can't do that to them. I'm already bold enough with Dorian as it is. Pushing away the thought that Dorian didn't exactly reject his advances, Hawke shook his head. They need each other now more than ever. I won't break that, too. I've shattered enough beauty in my life already.

Clenching and then relaxing his hands, Hawke again forced himself to a distant calm. Breathe, Hawke. You've been alone before. It's your natural earned state, remember?

That thought, harsh as it was, also managed to ground his whirling thoughts into something less chaotic. Instead of dwelling on himself and the other men, he forced himself to focus exclusively on them: on what they would need. After all, none of them were particularly safe at the moment. Amell had the Orb of Destruction and a Maker bedamned lyrium dragon. Who knew what he was capable of, or what his next move would be?

With a mental shake of his head, Hawke took a deep breath and opened his eyes to focus once more on the world beyond his painfully confused self. Amell. Yes. That was what he needed to concentrate on.

As the words crossed his mind, a furtive movement on the other side of the garden caught his attention. Without thinking, he ducked deeper into the shadows, a finely honed sense of trouble awakening with a vengeance as he saw two figures step into the dim light of the moon. Though hidden by both the night and hooded robes, Hawke could tell even from where he hid that one figure was much smaller than the other one, too short for the pair to be an elf and a human.

Who would bring a child here so late? Hawke's hackles rose, but he didn't move beyond settling one hand on the hilt of his dagger. The motion reminded him that he hadn't had time to replace the one he'd left in Amell's side, and he cursed himself for a fool once again. He daren't leave, though—at least, not until he knew more about the situation.

"Hurry, Kieran," the taller one said, his whisper almost lost in the cold night air.

"But Mother said—" the smaller figure started to say. only to be quickly shushed into silence by the other.

"Your grandmother wants us to surprise her, remember?" The man paused to look up at the sky, as if measuring the position of the moon, and Hawke caught a tantalizing flash of a pale face. The glimpse proved insufficient for recognition, and in the next moment the man moved forward again, tugging the boy with him. "Come. She's waiting for us."

Hawke swore silently when he saw the man move away from where he crouched in the bushes. He'd hoped for a silent ambush where he could grab the man and at least separate the two of them to find out what was going on. Instead, the man opened one of the doors leading out from the garden, and they disappeared inside. He padded on silent feet to the door and tried to push it open, but found it barred from the inside. Fighting the urge to hit it in frustration, he shoved harder with his shoulder, testing the door's strength.

Suddenly he felt the crushing weight of magic seize him, yanking him around to face a woman he recognized all too well, though they'd only met in person in the tumult of activity following Amell's retreat in the Arbor Wilds. As Morrigan's purple-tinged magic glittered in the air around him, however, he found himself thinking less about Amell's odd obsession with her son and more about the hauntingly familiar eyes which locked with his own.

Grandmother… A chill ran down his spine as the memory of the Well of Sorrows swept through his mind like a storm, followed by the even older impression of watching a dragon shrink down into a woman with eyes the same shade of bright amber. Well, shit.

"Where is he?" she demanded, pressing the glowing tip of her staff into his throat. "Where is my son?"

"Through the door," he said, well aware of the beads of sweat forming on his brow. "I saw—"

Without waiting for him to complete his sentence, Morrigan swung her staff to one side, taking Hawke with it to slam him into the ground. As he lay gasping for air, she sent a blast of magic into the door, though it took three such assaults before it burst into splinters. He did manage to scramble to his feet and run after her into a room dominated at one end by a towering eluvian.

His steps faltered as his mind fell back into those moments in the Unreal Estate, when he'd watched the world through the copy of an eluvian tied to his body's gaze. Years before that, he recalled the slow construction of the original eluvian in Merrill's house, wondering again how much influence his cousin had exerted upon that process. Had Audacity acted on its own? Or had Amell used his powers to twist the demon and Marethari's dreams to his own ends?

Hawke's attention snapped back to the present when Morrigan half-growled in frustration and spun to confront Hawke again. "He's not here," she snarled. "Where is my son?"

"I saw a man lead a boy into this room, I swear." Hawke forced his gaze to focus on the eluvian, fighting his sense of unease. "What about that?"

"Only I have the key to this eluvian," the woman snapped.

"The man who took him mentioned that the boy's grandmother waited for them," Hawke observed. "If she is who I think she is, the eluvian may not be the impediment you wish."

Morrigan's expression shifted to one Hawke was all too familiar with: fury mixed with fear. Gripping her staff tightly, Morrigan made a noise of infuriated frustration. "I will not let her take my son from me." As she stepped towards the eluvian, Hawke followed, halting when she pivoted to face him with staff raised in warning. "I do not require your assistance, Hawke. This is a family matter."

An odd urgency gripped him, a need to ensure that Morrigan didn't attempt this rescue alone. Without pausing to wonder at the strength of the impulse, he said, "I have no doubt you are formidable, but you would be outnumbered once you went in there. All we know is that someone who is not your mother took your son to places unknown. You've seen me work, and who I fight for. I can help you."

~And more importantly, she doesn't know what you saw in the vir'abelasan.~

Hawke frowned as those words whispered through his mind. Normally when he heard thoughts which weren't his, they belonged to Vengeance, but these words rang with a different sort of fervor. Unfortunately, they proved ephemeral, dancing away and disappearing into silence before he could recall them. With a mental shake of his head, he pointed to the eluvian. "We don't have much time."

She made another strangled sound, then spun around. "Do not get in my way," she warned him, then made an arcane gesture.

"I'm not that kind of fool," he muttered, mostly to himself, as the eluvian pulsed with light in a way that was all too familiar. He'd seen Amell use the one at Soldier's Peak numerous times during his captivity, after all. Still, that didn't soothe his discomfort as he crossed the threshold into what lay beyond.

She didn't acknowledge him as they stepped through the Eluvian, instead raising her staff once more. "A moment. I need to find his trail."

Hawke remained silent as he watched her weave a spell, though he tugged his dagger from its sheath for a quick inspection. It gleamed bright and ready even in the dim light around them, but he set it back into place with a silent prayer to whoever would listen that it wouldn't be needed.

~Who do you pray to, I wonder? There are so few who care to listen.~

He frowned at the words, again failing to grasp them before they slipped into nothingness. It wasn't Vengeance, but he felt as if he should know the source. They felt so familiar, somehow…

"He is here," Morrigan announced as her spell dissipated. "Follow me." With that curt order, she launched herself into motion, staff tightly gripped in one hand as she pushed herself into this quiet land beyond the eluvian.

As he followed close on her heels, the oddness of their surroundings pressed in on him. Neither Fade nor Void, the eerie otherworldliness raised his hackles. Hints of movement kept catching his attention from the corner of his eyes, and he noticed how frequently the air shifted between freezing and heat. Sounds were muffled, even the faint thumps of their own footsteps, but every once in a while he thought he heard a cry in the distance that made his hands twitch. "What is this place?"

"This is the Crossroads," Morrigan told him. "I will explain further when we have found Kieran."

That is her name for it, a deep voice told him, different than the whispers from a few moments before. We called this the Place of Many Meetings.

His hand involuntarily tightened as the voice of Vengeance echoed in his mind, but realized that if anyone would be able to tell him more about this place, it would be one born outside the waking world. What is it? It seems a mournful place. Indeed, the heavy fog and dead skeletons of bushes and trees along broken walkways through which Morrigan led them felt almost oppressive in their lack of life, as if no foot had tread this place in many Ages.

In the time before what you call the Veil, this place served as the place between the portals, between places near and far. Here, those of different realms could meet and discuss matters of great wisdom and knowledge, where elf and spirit could speak as equals and build friendships which lasted through Ages untold. Vengeance paused in his recitation, then said, If you lend me your eyes, I can show you its true nature.

Hawke tensed for a moment, but his curiosity eventually got the better of him. Show me.

Abruptly the world transformed around him. The fog lessened considerably, and the branches suddenly sprouted vibrant leaves and flowers of jewel-bright colors. Even the cold spots faded, leaving him running through a world that, if not quite a paradise, held far more beauty than he'd seen upon his arrival. He noticed that some of the eluvians glowed with an otherworldly energy, though most remained dull and lifeless.

Surprisingly, Vengeance offered more observations. My memories of this place are not wholly clear, but I remember walking here as you would. I recall debates which would last decades, and games of strategy with weeks between each move. It was a world your kind can never understand, with your lives which last barely one hundred years.

Do you hate us for that? Hawke asked. For the loss of that world?

Hate is a mortal concern, one we can only experience if corrupted, Vengeance reminded him. I sought justice until it became clear that it was not enough. Now I seek more, but I do not hate those who will feel my wrath. We are different than your kind, after all. But that is why Mother brought us together. To make us both stronger, to do what must be done.

At the mention of Mythal, and by extension Flemeth, Hawke grew uneasy. What is she planning? With Kieran, I mean.

Nothing of which I am aware, Vengeance replied. Be wary. The situation here may unfold in ways we do not anticipate.

Almost as if Morrigan heard him, she abruptly halted, holding up her hand so he would follow suit, then pointed at a crumbling building some distance ahead. "He is there." she said softly. "And he is not alone." She fell silent, staring at the ruins as if she could somehow see through the walls with sheer force of will.

Hawke studied her face for a moment. "What's wrong?"

"I do not know for certain. I only know that I feel a danger here, for myself and for him." Her hands twisted on her staff until the wood creaked. "I sense great power ahead, but it is not that of my mother."

"Is there anyone else who knows who his grandmother is?" Hawke asked, absently touching the hilt of his dagger. "Someone who would use that information to lure him?"

Even as Morrigan's body tightened and her face turned white, the most obvious answer slammed into Hawke's mind.

~Amell is the only one who would dare.~

The thought burned in his mind with an unmistakable clarity, lingering as the other whispered words had not. It spurred him into action, and he found his dagger in his hand without conscious thought as he surged forward. Only when Morrigan's staff smacked into his chest with enough force to rock him back on his heels did he realize how close he'd been to charging forward blindly. "Hold," she said in a voice which shook. "If it is Amell, we must be cautious. We both know his…his temperament."

Hawke winced at the weight of those words, of the way they sought to brush aside so much trauma and pain. "You're right. But let me go first. Stealth is a particular strength of mine, and striking from the shadows may give us the best chance of all should Amell be involved. Get Kieran and take him back to Skyhold, if you can. Leave Amell to me."

"I—" Morrigan took a deep, shuddering breath. "I understand." As Hawke moved past her, she reached out to grab his arm. "Please. I cannot lose him. Not after all I have sacrificed to keep him."

"You won't. I promise you that." He clasped her hand for a moment, then gently pulled it off his arm. "Wait here until after you see me enter the building. That should give me enough time to find them and take advantage if I see an opening."

After her wordless nod, he moved towards the building on silent feet. The oppressive quiet of the world around him only made his ears strain that much harder, but in the end he reached the building without detecting a hint of movement beyond his own. A glance through the entrance showed layers of ancient dust, recently disturbed by two different pairs of feet. Taking a deep breath, Hawke pulled the silent darkness of stealth around him and followed.

The footprints led him down a hallway to a large door which had been forced partially open. Beyond the door waited a vast expanse beneath a broken ceiling, stretching beyond sight into the distance. Tall, dark shapes loomed around him as he moved forward, granting him cover but also blocking his view of what lay ahead. It wasn't until he found the ragged remains of a scroll, with a torn piece of paper stubbornly clinging to its spindle, that he realized that the hulking monoliths he'd been skulking past were, in fact, ancient bookcases.

There were many libraries here, Vengeance suddenly volunteered. Rooms larger than your estate dedicated to the preservation of knowledge, where scholars would consult the written wisdom of those who had sought uthenera. And around them, as friends and guides, we walked, answering their questions and helping them to find knowledge.

Hawke blinked, pausing behind one bookcase to focus a bit more closely on Vengeance and his sudden urge to converse. Do you know this place in particular?

I…No. My memories of that time are, as I told you, not clear. But I can feel the echoes of those who walked here before. A brief flash of movement made Hawke twist around, and he stared as a ghostly figure floated out of sight around a bookcase. Another appeared, and another, a delicate dance of the past transpiring before they faded once more into nothingness. It is…painful? Yes. Painful for me to linger here. I do not wish to remember that which can never return.

Then we should move on. When no response came, Hawke mentally shook his head and forced himself back into the moment. He couldn't afford to be distracted, not now.

The dim light from above remained constant as he darted between hiding spots in his search for Kieran. Just as he was starting to wonder if he'd lost the trail, he rounded the corner of a long string of bookcases to see the sharp outline of an eluvian ahead, lit from behind by a bright red light which definitely wasn't natural.

Finally.

Moving cautiously, Hawke crept around the bookcase and stole closer to the light, using the shadow cast by the eluvian to remain out of sight as the sound of voices ahead emerged from the stifled hush around him.

"You have your mother's eyes, I see. Very striking." Hawke's stomach twisted with nausea when he heard that particular voice. Pressing against the frame of the eluvian, Hawke slowly eased his head out until he could see the other side of it. The bright light he'd seen emanated from the brightly glowing red skull on top of the staff held by a hooded figure who stood with his back to the eluvian. Even had that unique staff not identified him, Hawke would have known it to be Amell as soon as he spoke. "I can see the resemblance, though you inherited your father's stubborn chin."

"Do you know my father, ser?" Kieran asked politely from where he stood before Amell, far too close for Hawke's comfort. "I do not know him well, but he gave me a Mabari pup of my very own."

"Did he?" Amell chuckled dryly, the very sound of it enough to make Hawke's spine crawl with disgust. "How very Fereldan of him. And what did you name the pup, hmm?"

"Adalla," Kieran said promptly. "Well, he called her that, but she liked the name, so I let her keep it. She's my bestest friend."

"A most excellent gift, then," Amell noted, shifting his stance to lean more heavily on his staff. "And to answer your question, yes. I knew him. We even traveled together, for a time. That's when he met your mother."

Hawke's eyes narrowed as he stared at Amell, quickly reviewing their last battle together—particularly the moment he'd twisted his half-melted dagger in the man's side. I think he's still hurt, he observed to Vengeance. He's definitely using that staff as more than mere decoration.

This could be our chance, then, Vengeance growled.

Not yet. Not with Kieran so close to him, Hawke warned him. Let's wait for a better opportunity. We can still block them from going through the eluvian.

Very well. If a pout could be a voice in his mind, Vengeance definitely qualified, but even he wouldn't dare risk the grandchild of his precious Mother.

Hawke reached down and slowly tugged his dagger from his sheath, a thousand possible scenarios dancing through his mind. Even if he only got one chance, though, he knew he would seize it.

"Is that when you met Grandmother, too?" Kieran asked of Amell.

Amell pulled his hand back, gripping his staff in a way which indicated it wasn't merely a prop. "Around that time, yes. A fascinating woman, your grandmother. Did you know she can fly?"

"I dream about flying sometimes," Kieran replied calmly. "The world looks very different from up there, really. People are so small and helpless. Like ants."

"An excellent perspective," Amell said with a chuckle. "That is a lesson most never learn properly, though your grandmother certainly has. Thoroughly," he muttered as if to himself.

"I don't know much about her," Kieran admitted. "Only that she wants to see me. She told me to use the magic mirror to find her."

That particular tidbit seemed to give Amell pause. "She's spoken to you?"

"Only since Mother returned. I've seen her in my dreams." Kieran's brow furrowed. "Isn't that why Felix brought me here?"

"Yes, yes, of course it is," Amell assured him quickly.

Kieran's expression changed to one of uncertainty, and he stepped back. "I…I don't think Grandmother would want me to go with you."

Amell forced a chuckle. "Of course she does," he told Kieran, then gestured behind him to the eluvian without looking. "She's waiting for us through the magic mirror, like she told you. Come."

Kieran shook his head and took another step back, "Felix said she would be waiting for us here."

"Well, Felix was mistaken," Amell said, gesturing with a glowing hand to the hooded man behind Kieran. The man jumped as if struck, then stepped forward and grabbed Kieran by the arm. "We should get going before she starts to worry."

"No!" Kieran yelled, squirming away from Felix and running away from the men. "Something's wrong. I won't go with you!"

A shadow suddenly emerged from behind a bookcase at the edge of the light, grabbing Kieran with one hand and lifting him from the ground. "Apparently the lad does not wish to enjoy our hospitality, amor," Zevran said over Kieran's protests as he carried the boy towards Amell. Hawke noticed that though Zevran seemed to carry the boy with ease, one of his arms—the one Cullen had shortened by a considerable amount—remained hidden beneath his cloak. "A pity. Avernus in particular is most interested in—Unh."

Hawke grinned as Kieran's flailing foot connected solidly between Zevran's legs, forcing the elf to drop the boy as he doubled over in pain. Deciding that to be a sufficient distraction, Hawke leapt from behind the eluvian and rushed towards Amell on silent feet, raising his dagger to strike with all the pent up fury he could muster.

Too late he saw the magic design on the ground around Amell, though he definitely felt the invisible force which smacked him away hard enough to sail through the eluvian and land in a breathless heap on the other side. Groaning, Hawke rolled onto his hands and knees before painfully forcing himself to his feet. His skin prickled with cold as he looked around him warily, recognizing Soldier's Peak all too readily. A frown came to his lips, however, when he saw the still forms sitting on the ground around him, slumped as if deep in slumber.

Except they were too still for that.

Arranged in two rows facing the eluvian, each armor-clad figure clutched weapons in their hands and wore the winged helmets of the Grey Wardens, save that the griffons on the armor had been stained red. Hawke recognized them immediately: Amell's elite Red Wardens. They appeared ready for battle at a moment's notice, yet remained motionless as Hawke took a cautious step towards them.

His hackles rose in response to the atavistic fear which swept over him, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger. "I don't like this," he muttered.

You are sensible, Vengeance replied. I smell death here, and more than death. We should return and deal with Amell.

Though the spirit was right, Hawke found himself mesmerized by the spectacle. Raising his weapon in readiness, he moved to the closest Red Warden—a warrior in massive armor—and nudged him gently with one foot. In response, the body slowly collapsed to the side, the red-painted winged Warden helmet rolling away as the heavy armor hit the wooden floor with a deafening clatter.

Hawke recoiled in disgust from what he saw: a corpse sucked dry of blood as if it had been overwhelmed by a horde of leeches. Of course, in this case he knew precisely which leech to blame, even if the reason why remained a mystery.

"Amell," he snarled as he pivoted to face the eluvian.

We really should do something about him, Vengeance suggested. Now. The longer we stay, the more time he has to recover.

"I know." Breaking into a run, Hawke twirled his dagger to reseat it in his hand as he launched himself into the air towards the gleaming portal. For a bare instant he realized that he might just bounce off the glass like an idiot. Thankfully his dignity was spared, and he traversed the glowing surface without a hitch to whatever awaited him on the other side.

There he saw Zevran writhing on the ground, clutching his head with one hand and whimpering in pain. To one side, Kieran darted between bookcases and fountains in an attempt to avoid Felix, who ran with a dogged determination which spoke of following orders. Of more immediate concern, however, were the many barrages of magic exchanged by Morrigan and Amell, creating a storm of eerie purple and red bolts that made reality twist and turn in ways which made Hawke's eyes and stomach feel decidedly uncomfortable.

Pausing only long enough to make sure there were no glyphs this time, Hawke hurled himself towards Amell again with a loud roar of fury. He didn't notice the array of purple lightning which sprang into being around his body, or the surge of vindictive energy which flooded his veins. Vengeance seized control so smoothly that Hawke didn't bother to object. Instead he reveled in the surge of power and purpose, his whole being centered on the mental image of his dagger sinking into Amell's throat.

Amell pivoted in time to deflect Hawke's killing blow with his staff, and they fell in a tangle of limbs and epithets. Though his face twisted in pain as they rolled across the floor, Amell managed to keep Hawke's blade away from his throat with a strength born of desperation. With a snarl of frustration, Hawke managed to tear Amell's staff from the mage's grasp with a full body heave, then brought his dagger down in a vicious slice that left a deep furrow down one side of Amell's face and neck.

With a sharp cry of agony, Amell thrashed wildly beneath Hawke, summoning a bright flash of light which left Hawke gasping and blinking furiously to clear his vision. A second blast of magic struck Hawke's hand with enough force to send his dagger flying, though it wasn't enough to dislodge Hawke from his position astride Amell himself.

"You won't get off that easy, bastard!" Hawke grunted, blindly groping beneath him until he found Amell's neck with his hands. As they started to squeeze, he felt Amell scrabble wildly at his forearms, using licks of frost and flame and lightning in his attempts to force Hawke loosen his grip. Setting his jaw stubbornly, Hawke continued even as his skin blistered and burned, ignoring the pain in his single-minded determination to achieve his goal.

He would have his vengeance.

Clearly aware that his death was approaching, Amell grabbed onto one of Hawke's hands and channeled a burst of lightning that made Hawke's fingers spasm convulsively. That proved to be all the mage needed to manage a choked scream. "Felix, attack!"

Vengea—Hawke cursed, barely able to brace himself before Felix slammed into him from one side. Not wishing to kill a man who obviously suffered from the same iron grip of blood magic as Hawke had experienced, Hawke strove to shove Felix aside without hurting him. As they struggled, Hawke watched helplessly as Amell regained his footing and fled. The mage's body remained hunched over in apparent pain as he struggled for breath through a series of coughing fits, but it wasn't enough to keep him from moving towards the eluvian and its promised escape.

"Amell!" Vengeance and Hawke shouted, scanning the area to see if Morrigan could stop the mage in time. Though nearby, she remained occupied with Zevran, who had recovered enough to draw a weapon and threaten her. Discounting her, the man and his ephemeral companion returned their focus to Felix long enough to lash out in calculated desperation, knocking him out with a blow to the head. As Felix toppled sideways, they launched Hawke's body towards the escaping mage in a final attempt to close the distance between them.

In the end, it simply wasn't enough. Amell reached the eluvian first and stumbled through as it flashed with a bright light. A moment later, Hawke and Vengeance arrived, but it was too late. They bounced off the now solid sheet of glass and fell flat on their back with a pained cry. Seizing Amell's staff from where it lay nearby, they surged to their feet and swung it with enraged strength at the portal, letting their anger get the better of them.

The abrupt shattering of the eluvian caught Vengeance and Hawke by surprise, as did the explosion of energy which picked them up and flung them a dozen paces away. As their body met the ground with an impact hard enough to rattle their teeth, Hawke felt Vengeance release control with a painful snap, leaving Hawke alone to close his eyes and groan in bitter disappointment. "Shouldn't those be harder to break?" he complained, then clapped his hands to his face. "So damn close…"

"There will be other times," a familiar voice said from above, and Hawke's eyes flew open to stare at the old woman standing above him. She looked different than the last time he'd seen her—more like the crone he'd first met and less like an ethereal elven goddess—but the eyes were the same, as was the mocking smile she wore. "Besides, vengeance is a dish best served cold." She held her hand out to him, and in a daze he took it. Her strength as she hauled him to her feet surprised him at first, but then he realized that this was a woman who could turn into a dragon—and a High Dragon at that. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all.

Once Hawke was on his feet, he heard his name called out and turned to find Morrigan in a defensive stance with Kieran behind her. "Move away from her!"

Flemeth laughed one of her familiar, mocking laughs. "My lovely Morrigan has a flair for the dramatic. You, on the other hand, have the chance to be more sensible in this encounter, my little Hawke."

Morrigan's lips pressed together. "I told you not to get in the way, Hawke," she said darkly, hands glowing a bright green. "This is your last warning. Do not interfere in a family matter."

Before Hawke could really respond to that, Kieran reached out and grabbed his mother's arm. "Mother, no!"

Morrigan's expression turned to surprise as she turned towards her son. "Kieran?"

"Now is the time, Mother," he said in an oddly calm voice.

"I do not understand," Morrigan said, though the light in her hands vanished. Her surprise turned to confusion when Kieran walked towards Flemeth—ignoring Hawke completely, he noted. "What do you want, Mother?" she asked in a suspicious tone.

Kieran turned towards Morrigan, expression sad. "I have to go now, Mother."

Morrigan's face again grew angry, and she took a few steps towards Flemeth. "No. I will not allow it."

"He carries a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness." Flemeth laid her hand gently on Kieran's shoulder as she met Morrigan's gaze. "You know this."

Morrigan cut her hand angrily through the air. "He is not your pawn, Mother. I will not let you use him."

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. "Have you not used him? Was that not your purpose, the reason you agreed to his creation?"

Morrigan's hands clenched. "That was then. Now, he—" She looked at Kieran, then back at Flemeth, eyes gleaming suspiciously. "He is my son."

"Indeed he is," Flemeth murmured, then looked towards Hawke. "And you, you who promised so swiftly to aid my daughter in her quest. What do you think?"

"Do not listen to her," Morrigan said swiftly. "Flemeth extends her life by possessing the bodies of her daughters. That is the fate she intended for me. I thwarted her, and now she intends to have Kieran instead."

Flemeth chuckled. "And yet I am not the only one carrying the soul of a being from ages long lost." Her hand squeezed Kieran's shoulder, though her gaze remained locked on Hawke as she spoke. "You should know, my dear Morrigan, that in this case Hawke is not here wholly of his own volition."

Morrigan looked between them for a moment, eyes narrowing in suspicion as her eyes finally settled on Hawke. "Of what does she speak?"

"Do you not feel it? Do you not see the power which stirs deep within the Champion?" Flemeth asked.

At those words, Vengeance swelled forth and seized control of Hawke's body. Purple light crackled around Hawke as he looked at Morrigan, the world gaining a purple tint as he crossed his arms. Not quite threateningly, of course, but not quite innocently, either.

"Your eyes," Morrigan whispered. "They are the same hue as when you drank from the Well of Sorrows."

Vengeance nodded. "I am Vengeance." Behind those purple eyes, Hawke felt the weight of Flemeth's unspoken yet clearly understood command regarding what—and what not—to reveal. "I joined with Hawke when he drank from the vir'abelasan." It almost hurt to leave so much unspoken, to hold back the moment of utter loss when he'd bid Anders a final farewell, to ignore the bright glowing goddess which had overseen it all. But he had his orders…

~You shall not speak to her of Mythal.~

The iron grip of her will held him tight as he seethed in silence, angry that he was once again bound to the whims of a being seemingly indifferent to the feelings of others. He might not be able to speak his disapproval at Flemeth's schemes, but he could certainly glower impressively at her, so he did.

"What does that have to do with Kieran, Mother?" Morrigan demanded impatiently.

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps far more than you realize," Flemeth said, then laughed mockingly. "You say you wish to keep your son safe, even from me. Very well. Hear my proposal, dear girl." Flemeth nodded to Kieran. "Let me take the lad, and you are free of me forever. I will never interfere with or harm you again." As Morrigan's face twisted, Flemeth continued. "Or, keep the lad with you, and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due."

Hawke couldn't help but silently snarl at that, seeing all too clearly a parallel between Flemeth and Amell in that moment. Morrigan is right. We're not her pawns, he complained to Vengeance. If I'd known she was no better than Amell, I wouldn't have—

Listen, Hawke, Vengeance told him. Mother always has a plan. Remember the amulet?

Hawke paused, remembering all too vividly the odd amulet he'd delivered to Sundermount on Flemeth's behalf following the Blight—and what had happened after he'd completed his task. Yes, but—

Her words now are not for you. Wait to make judgments until she speaks to you directly. For now, simply listen.

Chafing at the not-so-subtle implication that he should shut up and sit down, Hawke resumed glaring at Flemeth even as Morrigan declared in a tone flat with angry determination. "He returns with me."

Flemeth seemed surprised, though it felt off to Hawke in a way he couldn't pinpoint. "Decided so quickly?"

Morrigan took an angry step forward. "Do whatever you wish. Take my body now, if you must. But Kieran will be free of your clutches." Her jaw tightened as she leaned forward with an intent gaze. "I am many things, but I will not be the mother you were to me."

Ouch. Hearing a sentiment he might have expressed to his own mother at times made Hawke squirm a bit, but he also saw the sorrow—seemingly genuine, this time—which softened Flemeth's expression as she considered Morrigan for a long moment.

In the end, she turned to Kieran and claimed his hands. Wordlessly she held them tightly until a bright light suddenly burst from his chest. Kieran seemed a bit surprised, but not particularly upset as he watched the glowing sphere float away from him and towards Flemeth. When it touched her, the light vanished as if sucked inside, and Flemeth smiled at Kieran.

"No more dreams?" Kieran asked, his tone hovering somewhere between relief and disappointment.

"No more dreams," Flemeth told him gently. As Kieran smiled and returned to Morrigan's side, Flemeth spoke directly to her. This time her voice held no hint of condescension or mockery. "A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me." As Morrigan wrapped her arms around Kieran, Flemeth turned to Hawke. "Now. You and I need to talk. Or rather, I will talk, and you will learn."

"Let's go back, Mother," Kieran said. "I want to see Adalla. She doesn't like it when I'm gone for long."

"You mean she chews everything in sight if you're not there to stop her," Morrigan said, though her objection was weaker than it might have been. "We should go back before she expresses her peevishness on the mattress again." She looked at Flemeth. "Mother, I—"

"Go, dear girl. You wouldn't want people to start thinking you cared about me, would you?" Flemeth laughed, though the sound was less mocking and more fond. "Return to the waking world and take care of your family. Let me be but a dream best forgotten."

After a last lingering glance, Morrigan wrapped her arm around Kieran and led him away. Hawke heard her gently scolding him not to run off with strangers, and heard Kieran object that Felix was a friend. Then they disappeared from sight, leaving him alone with Flemeth. Mythal.

Whatever.

He felt Vengeance slip away to whatever place he retreated to when vengeance wasn't on the agenda, and glared at Flemeth. "So you aren't quite as bad as Amell," he said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, glad that he could finally speak his mind now that Morrigan had gone. "You worried me for a moment when Morrigan started talking about taking over bodies and other such lovely little details."

"You refer to the final act of my little play with Morrigan?" Flemeth asked with dry humor. "It was only ever a tragedy in her head. Mythal would never take a body against the will of the soul who occupied it. She waited many, many long years before I agreed to take her into me with the full understanding of the power she could grant me as long as I met her price. She helped me achieve my goals. Hers are yet to be met."

"Vengeance," Hawke noted. "But against whom?"

Flemeth's expression grew hard. "Against those who murdered her, in days long, long past. She will have her revenge. And you will be a part of it."

"Not from here, I won't," Hawke pointed out, glancing around them at the dead library. As he did, he abruptly remembered they weren't exactly alone and frowned. "I'd almost forgotten about the two sleeping beauties." Noticing that Zevran was more twitching and shuddering in a heap than sleeping blissfully as Felix seemed to be doing, he added, "Well, close enough. I'll need to take them back to Skyhold at some point." Normally he'd have felt immense satisfaction in capturing someone in Amell's inner circle, but at the moment it only felt like insult added to injury and yet another reminder of his failure to kill Amell.

"They'll still be here when we're done," Flemeth said. "Tell me, boy. Do you remember the very first question you asked me?"

"Was that before or after you chastised me like a toddler asking for sweets right before bedtime?" Hawke asked in a drawl.

Flemeth laughed her mocking laugh. "Are you not? Consider how many years I have seen in my time. It is a peculiar privilege of the very old to view those younger as children in need of guidance. And that is why I am here with you. To answer the question and give you that guidance."

Hawke had to think long and hard before he understood what she meant, but when the memory finally returned he couldn't help but grin. "You're joking."

"Indeed, I am not. I will tell you the answer, and then show you myself."

"But I'm not a mage," Hawke pointed out, trying to keep his excitement to an acceptable level. "Isn't that sort of a requirement?"

"Is it? What is magic but the channeling of power? Perhaps before it was an impossibility to you, bereft of the ability to control that power. But now?" She drew a slow fingertip up his forearm. Hawke shuddered as purple lightning danced in its wake, prickling the surface of his skin. "Now you have both ability and power, and I have the knowledge you need to shape it." Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "And you."

"Why the change of heart? Because I can't say no to you anymore?" He heard the bitterness in his tone, tempered only because Flemeth had let Morrigan go. The command to do nothing still reminded him far too much of Amell.

Flemeth's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, my dear boy. We all have our challenges to face, do we not? But for now it is to my advantage to ensure that you survive if ever you have to leap." She held out her hand. "Come. It is time to see whether you can fly."

Well, that's direct enough. Without hesitation—and he knew there wouldn't have been even if he weren't under her geas—he took her hand. "Try me."

She laughed heartily. "Oh, I intend to. Be careful what you wish for, my little Hawke." She touched her chest, coaxing the brightly colored sphere from before out into the open. "You might actually receive it."