Hawke paced in front of the Eluvian, grateful that sleep meant nothing in this place between the Void and the Fade, but also resentful of the fact. It meant that he could obsess over what happened to his body, day in and day out, without being able to actually do anything about it. Despite Vengeance's assurances that each day brought them closer to freedom, he couldn't feel any improvement or change, and that made him alternate between anger and despair.

Which it proved to be depended on what was happening to his body any given day.

Some things he didn't mind, like the trio of servant women who came in at different times throughout the day to tend to his body. They would clean him and feed him, gossiping to each other about past jobs and the goings on in the beds of the servants in Soldier's Peak. They took turns massaging Hawke's body, which seemed a strange activity until Anders told him that they did it to keep the body healthy despite its extended bouts of inactivity. The only times they annoyed Hawke were when they talked about his body, especially when there were giggles and hand gestures involved, but mostly he forgave them because listening to servants gossip felt about as normal as anything he could hope to expect in his current circumstances.

Other times, Avernus came in to poke and prod, muttering and frowning to himself as he fed a variety of bubbling potions into Hawke's body. Hawke could understand little of what he said, but he discerned enough to realize that Amell must be wearing thin on the mage's patience.

"I think that's the third time he's called Amell something unpleasant," Hawke observed. "The shine must have worn off of their relationship."

"I wonder if that dislike precedes or follows Amell's acquisition of a new personality," Anders mused. "From what I understood, Avernus started working for Amell during the Blight, researching ways to reduce the effect of the taint in Grey Wardens to extend their lifespan."

"So that's always been an obsession of his?" Hawke asked.

"As long as I've known him," Anders said with a nod. "Even in the Circle, he always spoke of living an extended life. Becoming a Grey Warden and being told about the reduction in lifespan must have hit him hard."

"What?" Hawke frowned and looked at Anders. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh. That's right, you're not a—" Anders coughed. "Well, technically it's a Warden secret, but… Well, if you survive becoming a Warden, you get to learn all the wonderful things that come with it, like not being able to sire children and your life having a countdown of thirty years. And, of course, the Calling."

"The Calling I knew about. The Joining I learned about accidentally. But my Warden contacts never spoke of the other things." Hawke frowned. "No wonder Amell was obsessed. He was relatively young when he became a Warden, wasn't he?"

Anders shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered. He was obsessed already, like I said."

Hawke shook his head, then returned his attention to the mirror, where Avernus was finishing up for the day. He had to admit, whatever Avernus was doing, it seemed to be working. There were twice daily practice sessions now, one in the morning without armor and one in the afternoon with, and Hawke could see his body getting faster and stronger. His main satisfaction in watching the sparring matches came more from observing Zevran's slow deterioration than from any other source. For some reason, knowing that the elf was in pain and getting worse warmed the darkest depths of his heart.

As if the thought had summoned him, in fact, Zevran appeared in the mirror, almost running into Avernus on his way out. "Is he ready?" Zevran snapped at Avernus.

"Maker's—" Avernus yelped, juggling the bottles in his hands for a moment to avoid dropping one onto the floor. Once they were under his control, he glared at the elf. "Yes, Arainai, he's ready for you, though I wish you wouldn't—" Avernus' voice trailed off as Zevran moved past him impatiently, and Hawke swore that if looks could kill, Zevran would have had twenty daggers in his back in that moment. After another moment, Avernus took a deep breath and left, muttering under his breath as he stalked out of sight.

Zevran, meanwhile, came to a halt at the end of the table by Hawke's head. The glimmer of the afternoon sunlight glinted off the large bald patches on his scalp, showing how much more hair had fallen out even since yesterday, and his body had been reduced to nothing but whipcord and bone. Without looking away from Hawke, he made a summoning gesture.

In answer, two men crossed the room with Hawke's armor-except it wasn't the same armor they'd been having him practice in, which had been a plain, if heavy, chainmail hauberk. No, this armor was much more to Hawke's liking: all leather and silk with just a touch of reinforced plating where it made the most sense. It was a set of armor designed for a fighter who relied on speed to keep him from the path of blades, and just enough fabric to keep the arrows at bay.

In other words, the armor of his dreams.

As the men roughly tugged Hawke's body off the table and began to dress him, Amell strolled into view, a frown on his face. "Are you certain you do not wish to step aside?" Amell asked quietly, as he did every day.

"I am certain," Zevran said curtly, stepping away and flourishing his blades with a twirl. Or at least, he tried to—one of the daggers flew from his hand as he lost control, landing on the ground with a loud clang. When Amell opened his mouth, Zevran said, "That means nothing! I know that I can—"

"You can't, Zev," Amell cut in harshly. "The taint's spreading too fast."

Zevran shook his head stubbornly. "I'm drinking the potion Avernus made me. It's working, I can feel it."

"No." Amell took Zevran's face between his hands, searching his face. "It isn't, or at least not as well as it once did. You're getting weaker, Zev. In everything."

Eyes squeezing tight, Zevran sniffed, then jerked away from Amell. "Then you'll fix it, or you won't," he said harshly. "But whether or not I fight is my decision. Your precious bird can fight even when his soul is somewhere in the Void. But I need to fight!"

For a long moment they stared at each other, Zevran's breath ringing harshly in the air, until finally Amell nodded. "Very well. I understand." He glanced at Hawke. "And after?"

Hawke tensed. Zevran still acted oddly after every practice session. Sometimes he would simply stare at Hawke's body before stalking away, but more often than not he would fetch a blanket and curl up on top of Hawke as if he were a mattress, or an overly large stuffed toy. It always left Hawke feeling discomfited, wondering if this was the time Zevran would revert and pull out his dagger to once again inflict the lesson of pain. So far he hadn't, but Hawke still couldn't help but flinch when Zevran met Amell's gaze and said, "After I will stay for a while." He glanced at the two men near Hawke and stepped closer to Amell, dropping his voice to add, "I have needs, even if you don't remember them."

If Amell didn't enjoy hearing that, he gave no sign of it. Instead he simply glanced towards the two men as they stepped back from a now fully armored Hawke. "After your session with him, I want these two to spar with him. It's time to test him against multiple foes."

Zevran snorted. "Why not all three of us at once?" he asked mockingly.

Amell tilted his head. "Excellent idea." He snapped his fingers, and the two men put two practice blades in the empty body's hands, then stepped back and drew some of their own. Eyes narrowing, Hawke examined them closely, noting that though their armor bore a crude copy of the Grey Warden griffon crest that was red in color. With a frown, Hawke wondered if they were Grey Wardens who Amell had turned, or men who had drunk Avernus' concoctions to become the modified Wardens which seemed to make up the bulk of Amell's fighting force.

And he'd seen them fight enough times to know they were no slouches with the blade.

"Maker. Three to one?" Hawke muttered. "When I'm not there to control my body? Sounds like a bad idea." He squinted, taking in the specifics of the two Wardens as they squared off against his body. "They certainly look intimidating enough." As one of them circled around behind the body, Hawke's eyes widened. "Am I imagining it, or are his eyes red?"

"You're not imagining it," Anders said grimly. "We could probably guess in one what makes their eyes that way, too."

"Red lyrium? Is Amell mad?" Hawke groaned. "For someone who claims to be different from Corypheus, he certainly seems to be copying more than a few of that bastard's tactics."

With a snort, Anders crossed his arms across his chest. "He flounces around with a staff topped with a red lyrium skull. You should ask him if you get a chance."

"Did he always have that?" Hawke asked, glancing at Anders.

"Well… No, actually." Anders frowned. "At least, not when I was at Amaranthine."

"Maybe it helped spur his instability," Hawke said. "Regardless, Red Wardens are about as unsettling as Red Templars. And probably just as dangerous." He shuddered, then jerked his eyes to watch the mirror again as the sound of blades clashing drew his attention. "Ah. Here we go, then."

The Wardens knew how to fight, that was certain. One fought with all the coolness and precision of Aveline, using their shield as a bulwark and a bludgeon depending on the opportunity, and the other used his two-handed maul with all the power and deadly grace of the Iron Bull. Add in even a weakened Zevran to the mix, and Hawke privately admitted he was a bit worried about what shape his body would be in by the end of it. The red-eyed Wardens clearly possessed a skill higher than that of most fighters Hawke had scrapped with in Kirkwall.

Of course, Hawke hadn't been fighting just bandits since moving to Kirkwall. Darkspawn, Qunari, Templars, mages, and a whole host of nasty beasts had made it their mission to bring him down, including a Maker-be-damned dragon. In addition, it seemed whatever noxious potions Avernus had been feeding him had a marked effect. Hawke knew his body's abilities, and in this fight, with the pressure increased from even just the previous day, it answered with a rapidity that left Hawke feeling a bit breathless. Watching himself dart between his opponents felt surreal, especially when he wondered if it were really possible to be that fast for that long without paying for it hard later.

But then, maybe Amell didn't care about that.

An odd thing started to happen the longer he watched, though. His breaths started to come faster and faster, and a weight settled around him not unlike that of armor. He dropped his hands to his sides, flexing around daggers he swore he could practically feel, and he started to shift his weight from one foot to the other. A warmth stole over him, and his vision narrowed as if through sheer force of will he could see through his body's eyes.

And…for a moment, he did.

Whirling, diving, dashing—the world is nothing but the weaving of my hands and the slicing of my blades. My feet move with the grace of a thousand dancers, following the bidding of both instinct and hard-earned skill. A glimmer of white colors the edge of my vision, and my opponents move as if trapped in honey, their weapons and shouts of intimidation strangely distant as they struggle to catch up with me. But I cannot be caught, not now and not ever. I am far too clever to trick, and far too fast to catch.

And my blades will not rest until my foes have fallen to the ground.

With a gasp, Hawke suddenly found himself standing in front of the mirror again, two hands resting on his shoulders, one each belonging to the man and the corrupted spirit standing beside him. As Hawke's breath burst out of his mouth, Vengeance said, "Very good. Very good. For a moment you broke through."

"Good but dangerous, with Amell standing right there," Anders put in. "We had to pull you back. Look at Amell."

Hawke peered into the mirror, and saw Amell had indeed shifted his stance as he stared at his cousin. Usually during the sparring session, Amell watched with a certain affected disinterest, as if the outcome mattered little. This time, however, his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, watching Hawke's body like his namesake as if waiting for something specific to happen.

"Is that why you pulled me back?" Hawke asked, shaken by how close he'd been to losing their only chance at escape.

"Yes. We can't afford him getting too suspicious." Their hands dropped away, and Anders pressed a hand to his forehead. "Maker, that was close."

Hawke reached out to take his hand and give it a tight squeeze. "Thanks. I didn't realize that could even happen. Not without you or Vengeance actively doing something, anyway."

"You always were a stubborn ass," Anders said, shaking his head. "I should have known you'd figure out a way to do it at exactly the wrong time."

Rolling his eyes, Hawke released Anders' hand. "I'll keep that in mind," he drawled.

"It does bring up an interesting correlation, however," Vengeance mused, his voice still twisting Hawke's stomach as he spoke. "You became attached to your body when it was at its most active. This might indicate that we will need to concentrate our efforts on a time when you are physically active but no longer in Amell's presence."

Hawke frowned. "Which so far hasn't happened. He's always here for the fights."

"Then we'll just have to stay on alert," Anders said in a resigned tone. "It must happen eventually, right?"

Unable to respond for fear of sounding too bitter, Hawke just grunted and focused on the mirror again.

The fight had clearly taken a toll on Zevran, he noted immediately. The elf had stepped back and was bent double with his hands on his knees, struggling to get his breath back. Amell didn't even glance at him, his eyes still locked on Hawke's body as it ducked and wove between the coordinated attacks of the red-eyed Wardens.

Abruptly Anders reached out and grabbed Hawke's arm. "The armor. It's enchanted."

"Is that a surprise?" Hawke asked. "I mean, given his penchant for slapping magic on anything that moves, it's practically to be expected."

"Yes, but I can't figure this one out," Anders said. "It's not a type of magic I've seen before. Something's been nagging at me, but I just thought it was the potions Avernus has been force-feeding you. But no, it's definitely the armor. When one of the Red Warden's swords struck it, there was a flash of white. Did you notice anything odd while you were in your body?"

"You mean aside from everything?" At Anders' glare, Hawke held up his hands. "All right, all right. Let me think." He frowned, trying to remember those few precious moments even as he kept an eye on what was in front of him. "Now that you mention it, there was a sort of white mist over everything. And the Wardens seemed to move a lot slower than what I recall from this side of the mirror."

Anders snapped his fingers. "Time magic. It must be. Ever since you told me how Amell escaped from the Inquisitor at the Shrine, I've been wondering how he would use it next. It's just too useful a tool for him never to use again. And here, it's nice and subtle: used to give you just enough of a boost to take you from skilled to nigh unstoppable, but not so much that anyone would recognize it for what it is. Hidden in plain sight."

Hawke frowned, prodding the theory for weaknesses. "I wonder if it's something he developed just for me, or if he's only using it on me because he thinks I can't turn against him. The Wardens don't have anything like that around them, do they?"

"No. Just the traces of red lyrium." Anders pursed his lips in thought. "Now that I think of it, why hasn't he used red lyrium on you yet? I mean, if he's looking to make you tougher."

"Bite your tongue," Hawke hissed. "You don't want to give him ideas."

"It is a valid point," Vengeance said in his harsh voice. "Why not empower you as he has the Wardens in his control?"

With a shrug, Hawke shook his head. "Search me. Maybe whatever he needs me to do wouldn't work if I had any corruption in me? That's the only reason I can think of."

"Maybe." Amell sighed. "Not that it's useful speculation at the—Ah. And there you go. Or your body, anyway."

Hawke grinned as he watched his body execute one of his favorite maneuvers, phasing through the battlefield in a blur of shadow only to turn around and chop the shield bearing Warden at the neck. Since the knives were wooden, they'd only leave a deep bruise, but it would hurt. With a startled cry, the Red Warden fell, leaving Hawke alone against the other one.

The man roared and started to raise his maul, but Amell cut in. "Enough. The match is over."

"Did you see what he did to Robin?" the man demanded. "At least let me give him a headache to look forward to."

Amell's eyebrow rose in amusement. "He held off the three of you for over ten minutes. What makes you think you can take him down alone?" Ignoring the Warden's glower, Amell gestured towards the fallen Warden. "Take them to the barracks to sleep off that hit, and make sure the healer takes a look. There's a reason I gave Hawke practice blades, after all."

After a long, seething glare, the Warden did as bidden, heaving Robin up onto his shoulder. He muttered under his breath the entire way out, which made Anders observe wryly, "I think he's a bit miffed at you, Hawke."

"Wouldn't be the first man I've pissed off by showing them up in combat," Hawke said with a grin. "They don't call me the Champion because I fight like a piece of wet lace."

"That doesn't even make sense," Vengeance muttered under his breath.

Anders' lips twitched as he glanced at Vengeance, but didn't comment. Instead he said, "Hush. We should be listening."

Hawke sobered as he returned to his task, frowning at the mirror as he watched Amell stalk around his body. "Did you notice anything amiss?" he demanded of Zevran. "About Hawke."

Rising to his feet with a pained grunt, Zevran shook his head. "Only that he moves like an adder. In fact, I would like you to replicate whatever enchantment you put on his armor for mine."

"Your task doesn't require it. Besides, it's not the most stable of enchantments yet," Amell told Zevran as he came to a halt in front of Hawke's body and seized the chin in a tight grip. Hawke tensed up as Amell stared deeply into his body's eyes, aware of an uncomfortable itch on his shoulders.

"Are you sure he can't detect us?" Hawke asked in a whisper.

Vengeance crossed his arms across his chest as he stared with brightly glowing eyes at Amell. "Since we aren't using your body for the observation, yes, I'm sure." When Amell turned to look at the eluvian, however, Vengeance's arms lowered, hands alight with magic. "Clear your mind," he snapped. "Quickly."

Hawke instantly clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to think of nothing. His mind went back to the horrifying emptiness to which Amell had first sent him, soul-crushing and thought-sucking as it had been, and for a long moment he allowed himself to dwell in that terrible pace. An instant before he wouldn't have been able to pull away from it, however, something brushed against his mind, and he opened his eyes with a gasp as he fell to his knees.

The shaking of the manor around them kept him there for a while, but he felt the hands land on his shoulder with tremendous weight. Instinctively he reached up and clung to them as he would to a flotsam in the ocean during a storm, using sheer force of will to keep him in the here and now as he used the exercises painstakingly taught to him by Vengeance to recall himself once more. When the rumbling faded, the floors and walls showed a mosaic of cracks and gaps, but at least they weren't moving any more.

"Well done," Vengeance said quietly. "I think he almost saw us."

"But let's not do it again," Anders said in a weary voice. Hawke looked up and winced as he saw the paleness in Anders' cheeks. "Let's try not to draw his attention again. Please?"

"I'll be more careful," Hawke promised swiftly, releasing his hold on their hands so he could massage his aching temples. "Maferath's sweaty balls, I feel like someone tried to choke me. Don't ask how I know what that feels like," he warned Anders hastily. "There are some things you probably don't want to know."

"That's…You're right, I don't really want to think about that," Anders said, wrinkling his nose. "But choking you isn't a bad way to describe what Amell tried to do magically. He basically reached out and squeezed hard . I don't think he found anything, but if he had…"

Hawke shuddered. "Best not to think about that," he said grimly, even as he rose to his feet. In the mirror, he saw only his own body, with the servants removing the armor from it as they chattered about the normal gossip. "Looks like Amell and Zevran left."

"After he didn't find anything suspicious, Amell left," Anders told Hawke. "Zevran got you back on the table and then stroked your hair for a while before he followed."

Scowling at the mirror, Hawke felt his skin creep at the thought of the elf touching him. "Why can't he just stay away? What he does to my body is basically like fondling a corpse. Creepy."

"Desperate men do strange things." Anders stepped to the mirror and hovered his hand over the armor. "I wonder what Amell meant by the armor's enchantment being unstable," he mused.

"That doesn't sound very promising, does it? I mean, especially since he wouldn't use it on Zevran even when he asked." Hawke shuddered and rubbed his forearms. "Should I be worried, do you think?"

With a shrug, Anders said, "We just have to hope that his experimentation doesn't have any long-term effects on your body."

"Thanks," Hawke said drily. "That's just what I needed to hear." After a few more moments of watching the women tend his body, he said, "At least he's not forcing me to wear the armor outside of practice." As the youngest tried to fluff the rather flat pillow under his head a few times before finally giving up, Hawke smiled. "And his servants seem to care."

"Oddly, that was always one aspect of Amell that I admired. His treatment of servants." At Hawke's evident skepticism, Anders said, "He paid well, he came down harshly on anyone who tried to take advantage of them, and he gave them more leave than most nobles. Of course, that was offset by the occasional disappearance, or once in a while Zevran picking one to be his new pet when Amell was distracted by work."

Hawke grimaced and looked at the mirror. "I'd be lying if I said that the same thing didn't happen with other noble houses, though."

"Undoubtedly. But a pregnancy is one thing. Amell…" Anders' gaze grew distant. "The ones who disappeared rarely returned. And if they did, they weren't themselves anymore. And Zevran's pets…well, you can fill in the blanks there."

"Did he—did you—" Hawke began, then snapped his mouth shut. "I don't really need to ask, do I?"

"Why do you think I left the Wardens?" Anders replied, words laced with a bitterness that stung. "I loved Ser Pounce-a-Lot, of course, and Amell forbidding him in Amaranthine may have been enough to make me leave on its own. But in truth, him being taken away was just an easy explanation to tell others. Not the truth. I couldn't tell anyone what Amell and Zevran had done to me. Back then, I was still certain that I'd brought it all on myself somehow, just as they'd manipulated me to think." He looked at Hawke. "Like Amell wants you to hate yourself for what he made you do."

"I will kill him," Hawke said through clenched teeth as his hands bunched into fists at his side. "I swear it." He felt a hand land on his shoulder, and he didn't even need to look to know it was Vengeance. As an echo of the spirit's power surged through him, Hawke didn't even question it as another voice joined his in eldritch harmony as he added, "By any means necessary."

Suddenly Anders jerked Hawke away from Vengeance, glaring at the spirit as he chided him in the same firm tone one would use for a naughty child. "Not yet, Vengeance. There's a lot to do before that happens."

Vengeance frowned, but stepped back and turned to the mirror, where Hawke's body rested on the table, alone in the room once more. "Very well. But I will not be stayed forever."

"Nor I," Hawke said, then shook his head as the buzz of power faded. "Damn. No wonder you couldn't always keep him tucked away."

"He can be quite insistent, yes," Anders said with a weary smile.

"I wish I'd known," Hawke said softly, reaching up to cup Anders' face. "I'm sorry I was…well, me."

For a long moment their gazes met, and then Anders seized Hawke's face between his hands. "I know," he murmured, then brought their lips together in a hungry kiss.

Somehow they made it back to the bedroom before the last piece of clothing fell to the ground, leaving a trail of hastily removed articles in a direct path from the mirror to the bedroom. The bed, however, proved to be just a bit too far, and Hawke found himself slammed back against the wall so that Anders could claim Hawke's lips with his own while his hand took more direct action somewhere lower .

After that, it all faded into a blur of heat and passion and desperation. They both knew that their time together must inevitably come to an end, as it had before, but at least this time, they knew it was coming. They knew that they should seize every moment they could spare to be with each other, and strove not to waste time in arguments and empty sniping.

Better that than the heavy weight of regret of a dagger cutting short their last moment together.

After their explosion of passion, they fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep in each other's arms, which is how Vengeance found them with word that Amell had returned to the room overseen by the eluvian. Muttering epithets to himself, Hawke forced himself to his feet and made his way back to the mirror, retrieving his clothing as he did so. This had better be worth it.

As he arrived, he saw Amell with his body, as Vengeance had promised, but not in the way Hawke might have expected. Instead, Amell was standing at the head of his body, staring down at it with keen interest without actually touching it. It was unsettling in its unexpectedness, and Hawke found himself crossing his arms across his chest in unconscious defense as he asked, "Is that all he's doing? Staring at me?"

"For a while now," Vengeance said, his eyes intent. "It's useful, though. When he's there, the presence of his spells is less attenuated."

Hawke glanced at him. "Does that mean you can see them better?"

Vengeance nodded, his purple eyes glowing brighter as he inched towards the mirror. "Much better. I hope he remains for a while."

"Well, I admit, I don't hope for the same," Hawke muttered, but he doubted Vengeance heard. The spirit's attention was wholly on Amell and figuring out how to attain Hawke's freedom so that they would be free to fulfill the spirit's true purpose.

With a shake of his head at the spirit's obsession, and studiously ignoring the fact that he shared the same obsession, Hawke focused on the mirror once more. When Amell finally did lift a hand, Hawke instinctively braced himself as he waited for the blow to land. When Amell instead started to gently stroke the hair on Hawke's head, Hawke frowned and shivered. "Creepy."

"Agreed," Anders murmured from where he'd come to a halt next to him. "Why is he here?"

Hawke shrugged in answer as he watched Amell's skeletally thin fingers comb through thick black hair. "At least he let my hair go dark again," he muttered. "Blond doesn't really work for me."

"Except as a disguise." Anders grinned suddenly. "It worked with Prosper, didn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," Hawke said with a chuckle. "I'd almost forgotten about that idiot. He did like blonds, didn't he?"

Anders rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond to the dig. "I prefer you with dark hair, myself. Makes it easier to tell whose hairs get on whose clothing."

Before Hawke could do more than snort in reply, Vengeance made a decisive gesture towards them. "He's talking. Hush."

After exchanging an amused glance, Hawke and Anders subsided once more into silence as they stared together at the tableau of empty body and confirmed madman in the mirror before them.

"He wants me to kill you, you know," Amell murmured. "The Architect, I mean."

Anders suddenly swore a string of oaths, ending with, "The Architect? That's who they were talking about?"

Startled, Hawke looked at Anders. "The name means something to you."

"Yes, but… Later. Amell's still talking." Anders pressed his lips together, clearly disturbed but also clearly focused on the mirror in front of them.

Hawke tamped his curiosity as he did the same, knowing that Amell would be most open now, when he thought himself to be alone.

"He thinks I can't control you forever," Amell continued in an almost singsong voice. "He wants me to use Zevran as the Vessel, but he doesn't understand what Zevran means to me. To him, an elf is disposable. Nothing. A source of power through bloodshed and little else." Amell's fingers danced and wove around Hawke's head, playing with the hair in an oddly tender fashion. "And I can't do that. Zevran is the best thing that ever happened to me, the only person who stays with me out of choice, even when my turns come on me, when the world goes red and everyone is my enemy."

Hawke shifted uneasily on his feet, not liking what he was hearing. He preferred Amell as a monolithic figure to hate, an almost demonic figure of evil incapable of human feeling. Knowing that he had doubts and fears and emotions but still couldn't quite understand the value of others made it almost worse, because it forced him to contemplate when Amell had actually been human.

"It's ironic, I know," Amell admitted. "I can't even control the Architect all the time, and he's doing everything he can to turn Zevran away from me. And based on his recent activity with you, it's succeeding." There was no regret in Amell's voice, but there was a tinge of sadness—which was almost more difficult to believe. "Still, it's better than forcing Zev to endure if he's with me and I lose control. The last time that happened…"

His voice trailed away, his hand hovering in mid-air over Hawke's face as Amell's lips pressed together. "I can't bear to see that look in his eyes again. I just can't. And every time I try to tell Zevran that I love him, that thing rises up inside and grips my throat. We're all trapped because of me." His eyes blazed bright red. "But I will fix this. All of it. And then we will all be free."

"Dammit, Amell," Hawke muttered under his breath, but the sting was lacking. Quickly he brought to mind all the horrors Amell had perpetrated through him, the pain Zevran's dagger had inflicted upon him, and took a steadying breath. A small hint of humanity could not forgive what Amell had done, not now, and not ever. Pity might slip through for Zevran, since it was clear that Arainai was as much a victim in his own way as Hawke had been, but for Amell?

No. No excuses. There could never be enough excuses for what Amell had perpetrated.

But then, there were many in Kirkwall, and one in the Imperium, who would say the same about Hawke.

The thought made him look at the man standing next to him, again wondering if anything he could ever say would be enough to truly make up for what he'd done to Anders. Anders said he'd forgiven Hawke, but, as he watched Anders scowl at the mirror and thought about what Amell must have put Anders through, Hawke realized that he hadn't forgiven himself for what he'd put Anders through.

"Hawke?"

He blinked a few times, realizing that Anders had gone from looking at the mirror to looking at him, and quickly turned away. "It's nothing." A bald-faced lie, on the front of it, and he knew that Anders knew it. But he wasn't ready to voice the epiphany he'd had, not until he'd worried it around in his noggin for a while.

Amell. Yes. Hating Amell was much easier than trying to decide if he should keep hating himself as well.

"I wish I'd been able to persuade you to my side, cousin," Amell murmured, entirely oblivious to Hawke's emotional turmoil. "You're still an Amell. You hold the key to magic within you, I can feel it. Together, we could have ruled Kirkwall with the hand it truly needed, a haven for all against the cruelties of the Chantry. Even Anora couldn't get the Chantry out of Ferelden, but you? You ruled Kirkwall with an iron fist that controlled both Templar and mage, as well as keeping the Chantry in line. A pity I became occupied with my own concerns once you were selected as Viscount."

"I used an iron fist for good reason," Hawke growled, unable to keep from commenting.

"So that another rebel mage wouldn't blow up an important landmark?" Anders asked in an acid tone.

"So that another rebel mage never needed to blow up an important landmark," Hawke growled. "Oh, I've been a bastard, but everyone hates me from an equal position of helplessness and, more importantly, none of the factions had been able to get a leg up over any of the others. Unless they're all plotting to destroy me together, they won't be able to keep the others down. Having Bran helps with that, of course. If there's anyone people hate more than me, it's him."

Anders snorted, then pressed his lips together. "Shush," he scolded Hawke. "Amell's talking."

Hawke focused once more on Amell, frowning as he listened intently.

"—other hand, he's as obsessed with Cullen as he is with you," Amell murmured. "The fool latched on to my memories of Cullen as if the man were a juicy treat laced with lyrium, and that, apparently, is what he desires for his special servant, his incaensor . I was almost able to tempt him with that Templar Corypheus discarded, but then Samson crystallized. Who could use someone like that for anything but harvesting red lyrium?"

"Samson?" Hawke grimaced and shook his head. "I may not have liked the man, but I like the sound of that even less. Poor bastard." Still, Amell wasn't done, so Hawke shoved that revelation away for later.

Fingers toying with Hawke's dark hair, Amell mused, "Of course, once he found out that Cullen belongs to the Inquisitor in more ways than one, his fixation grew worse. Apparently depriving an enemy of someone valuable to them seems to be a Tevinter pastime. A pity the red lyrium on its own hasn't been quite enough power to accomplish our aims." A faint smile touched his lips. "Or at least, that is what I want them to believe."

With a frown, Hawke leaned forward. What did Amell mean by that?

"But soon you will see," Amell crooned. "Soon you will understand why I do what I do. I am no Corypheus. I saved the world from the Blight inflicted upon it by these darkspawn magisters, after all. My methods may not be popular, but they worked. Tactics and strategies don't have to be popular to succeed, and that is still my intention. To save the world from the bumblings of both the Inquisition and the one they face. To save the world from that which threatened to swallow even me."

"Sweet Andraste's tits," Hawke growled. "What is he barking about?"

Amell, meanwhile, had fallen silent, shifting his position so that instead of standing at Hawke's head, he was at Hawke's side. His fingers still stroked through Hawke's hair, but now he also stroked Hawke's cheek. "You remind me of my father," he mused. "Before the Templars killed him, at any rate, when they came to take me. Odd how that works, how we both have so many deaths in our family. Your father, your brother, your mother, your sister… Though you lost only one to the Templars, rather than all of them."

Hawke felt his hands tighten into fists as his face flooded with angry heat. "You mean you lost her to the Templars," he shouted at the mirror, then forced himself to take a deep breath. Getting angry would accomplish nothing, and he had to listen in case Amell said something important in his maundering.

"I'm sorry you had to lose Bethany that way, but she wouldn't go along with what you needed to do," Amell murmured. "What I needed you to do. Ah, cousin. You should have listened to me. We could have accomplished so much." Amell leaned down and planted a soft kiss on Hawke's lips, then stood again. "If only—"

Suddenly he stopped, his hand pulling away as it tightened into a claw. "N-no," he groaned, stepping back and twisting his head back and forth. "No. Hawke is mine."

"Give him to me." The voice leaked from Amell's mouth, but it clearly wasn't Amell. "I will forge him into a mighty weapon, far greater than anything you can imagine."

Amell shook his head violently. "No. You will have the Templar when the time is right."

Suddenly Amell's body was slammed down onto the ground, his own hand wrapping around his throat as the eldritch voice emerged from his mouth once more. "I have been patient, but I still have nothing. When will I get this Templar, this Cullen who I see so often in your dreams?"

"S-s-soon," Amell said. "The…pieces are all…in place. You…can see them…"

After a long pause filled only by the sounds of Amell gagging, his body went limp as the hand fell away from his throat. Shakily Amell rose to his feet, coughing and pressing trembling hands to his face as he strove to recover his breath. Finally he staggered back to the table, gripping the edge with his hands as his breathing slowly normalized.

Eventually he growled and shook his head, muttering under his breath as he spoke seemingly to himself. "Damn him. He's getting more powerful with every passing day. It's getting harder and harder to shut him away. Hopefully…" Amell glanced up at Hawke's body, as if it could hear him speak. "I must emerge victorious in the Arbor Wilds, or all is lost." Reaching up with a shaking hand, he stroked Hawke's face in an almost intimate fashion. "Do not fail me, cousin. Not this time. I—I wish you could be here. I wish…" His voice trailed away as he stared into Hawke's inert face for a long moment.

"His magic is stirring," Vengeance said suddenly. "He's touching the spell keeping your soul away."

"Then he might undo it?" Hawke asked, taking an excited step forward.

In the next moment, though, his hopes were dashed as Amell pushed himself violently away from Hawke's body. "No. You betrayed me before. I won't bring you back until I know you won't betray me again. Then, cousin, you will be mine in mind, body, and soul all."

As the sharp taste of disappointment filled Hawke's mouth, Amell disappeared from view.

"He's mad," Hawke breathed.

"More than you know," Anders said bitterly. "The Architect… I wouldn't have thought even Amell would stoop to that."

"When he spoke of it with Zevran before, Amell made it sound like he didn't have a choice," Hawke reminded him. "That they were both forced to come to an agreement with each other."

"That's right. He did mention that." Anders shuddered and shook his head. "Still, I wouldn't have dreamed it was the Architect. I thought Amell was stronger than him."

"Apparently not. But who is the Architect?" Hawke asked as he turned to face Anders. "You seemed a bit upset about that earlier."

"The Architect…" Anders' lips pursed in distaste. "When Amell first took control of the Warden Keep at Amaranthine as Warden-Commander, he encountered darkspawn who could talk."

Hawke's brow rose. "Talking darkspawn?"

"Yes. Amell was surprised as well. During quite a few shenanigans, including the induction into the Wardens of yours truly, we managed to trace it back to a darkspawn called the Architect. Or so he called himself: a darkspawn who had 'awoken' and wanted to free the other darkspawn from the control of the Old Gods whom we know as the archdemons."

Hawke thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "And without knowing about Corypheus, I can see how you would believe the Architect was just an unusual darkspawn."

"At the time, we had no reason to think he wasn't." Anders grimaced. "Anyway, shit happened, and we found out that the way the Architect intended to free the darkspawn involved using Warden blood. Which they obtained by killing Wardens."

"That sounds less than good," Hawke observed.

"It wasn't bad enough for Amell to kill the Architect when he had the chance," Anders said. "I still don't know why he let the bastard go, but it looks like that particular decision came back to bite him in the ass."

"Good. At least something did," Hawke muttered, then frowned as Amell suddenly appeared in the mirror, holding a leather-wrapped bundle between his hands. "Oh, Maferath's black balls, what now?"

"You will need to fight for me before that moment arrives," Amell told Hawke's still body as he set the bundle on the table. "And thankfully my magic allows your body to fight to its fullest extent to keep itself alive." Tugging aside the leather, he lifted a dual-bladed dagger from within and held it up to the light, admiring it.

Hawke couldn't help but do the same. "Fuck me, but those are beauties," he breathed. His hands itched to hold them in real life, hoping they were the masterworks that their appearance indicated. "At least he's not sending me into battle empty-handed." As magic suddenly lit the blades with a shimmering purple glow, he groaned lustily. "Oh, I want those."

"To cut his throat open?" Anders guessed.

"That sounds good for a start." His fingers twitched as Amell lay the blade down once more. "I suppose I could cut off something a bit lower, whether or not he's still capable of using it. Might not be worth the effort, though."

Amell, however, was not done talking to Hawke's still form. "There. Magic to enhance your attacks, but also to keep you from ending Corypheus. I must be the one to land the final blow, and no other."

Hawke frowned and looked to Anders and Vengeance. "What does that mean?" When both of them shook their heads, he looked back at the mirror. "What is he planning?"

As Amell closed the leather package, Hawke heard the sound of running footsteps from the mirror an instant before Zevran appeared with a piece of paper in his hand. "Word just arrived, mi amor. Corypheus himself is finally heading to the Wilds."

"Then it is time." Amell grunted. "Send word to—"

His next words were interrupted with a grunt, followed by a sudden, curt scream as his body twisted and contorted in place. When Amell suddenly straightened and lifted his head, Hawke took a reflexive step back from the mirror, recognizing the signs all too well as Amell's monster—the Architect—glared at Zevran.

"Prepare the Vessel so that we may depart. There is little time to spare, and we must be in position when the opportunity arises." Hawke heard Vengeance growl and glanced at him, but when nothing more came of the reaction he locked his eyes on the mirror again. "It is time to deal with the incompetence of Sethius once and for all."

"Once they're not near the eluvian anymore, how will we keep track of things?" Hawke asked with a frown. "We can't afford to lose contact now!"

Vengeance reached out and touched the mirror, and abruptly the image went dark. Hawke frowned, but before he could ask what had happened, he heard Zevran's voice as if from very close. "Yes, master." There was a rustling sound, and then a whisper, "Get up. It's time to fight."

Suddenly there was a picture again, one that captured a view of the ceiling of the room they'd been watching. Suddenly that view shifted and jostled until Zevran came into view with Amell behind him. Only then did Hawke realize what was happening. "We're seeing through my eyes?"

Vengeance nodded. "As long as they are open. Otherwise, we will be in the dark. Of course, we must be more cautious around Amell this way, given what almost happened earlier."

"But we can still hear even if the eyes are closed, and that's better than nothing," Hawke said grimly. As the view jerked and jostled, he winced. "Though I can tell this is going to be annoying to watch." Still, it was more than he could have hoped for in those dark moments after Amell had banished his soul from his body. Hopefully it would be only a matter of time before he was back in his body once more.

And then, well… hopefully Vengeance would also be with him.