Chapter Thirty-Three: Homecoming

She had thought she was prepared for this.

She had expectations, of course: there would be reprimands, scoldings, even an 'I told you so,' or two, and undoubtedly a heaping portion of guilt and blame being laid directly on Fenris' shoulders—that last part was more habit than anything else after all these years of bicker and banter between the two men. But Anders did none of it.

Hrodwynn stared at him, her bright green eyes filling with unshed tears, dazzling like a pair of emeralds against the backdrop of her alabaster skin. She stared at her oldest friend, a companion so close to her heart he was like family, but she no longer recognized the madman before her.

And a mad man he was, eyes as hard as flint, cheeks flushed with ire, jaw muscles flexing and clenching, as he stared down his nose at her and repeated, slowly and succinctly, "I said, 'no'."

Fenris and Hawke were of no help whatsoever, the bloody idiots. They stood along the edges of the room, Fenris behind her and Hawke behind Anders, and both of them stunned into silence by Anders' rejection. Hrodwynn supposed she couldn't blame them; she certainly was dumbfounded, her wine-colored lips ajar as her jaw hung loose, her breath caught in her chest and squeezing her heart. No one else spoke, though, no one else rose to her defense, no one else tried to voice reason, so she at last had to say something—anything—in her own defense. "Anders, please, you don't know…"

"And I don't want to know." He stood several paces from her, towards the middle of the room, his shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lowered to fall over the back of his shoulder as he held himself aloof.

The vehemence of his hasty interruption and the rudeness of his dismissal cut her to the quick, leaving her cowed and meek. She had been thinking that if she could only tell him what had happened—that if he only knew who Matthias was and what he had done to her and why—then Anders would relent and forgive and love her once more. She had to believe that he still cared, that he still held compassion in his heart, that he was still empathetic to others, especially to those so deep in need and who couldn't help themselves. She couldn't… she'd never believe he'd ever lose his compassion! Shoring up her courage, fighting back the tears, she tried again, "Let me explain…"

"I've already explained it to you quite clearly," he broke over her words yet again; apparently he would have none of it. His voice rose in pitch and volume as he continued, his hands coming free to jab and cut the air with emphasis as he turned back towards her. "I told you to let him do his own dirty work! I warned you something terrible would happen to you if you left on this little trip. I asked you…" he stopped gesturing to Fenris and focused on her, tears now filling his eyes, anger transforming into hurt, "No, I BEGGED you! I begged you not to go! I did everything I could to make you understand what a horrible decision you were making! I even begged you to choose me over him! But you would not hear me. You could not hear me. Perhaps you can't hear me, even now." Anders could barely stand to look at her, or she at him, the pain on his features was so great. Yet, without reluctance, without hesitation, almost as if he wanted it, as if he was simply taking turns, he let go of his self-control. Then he shifted, taking another step until he loomed above her, and changed.

Justice's blue-white light burned in his orbs' sockets, the spirit's power and energy overwhelming the man. Tiny cracks covered Anders' whole appearance, skin and clothing and hair, the light spilling through as if the spirit would explode the shell, shattering the man into a million pieces, just to win its freedom.

"But you WILL hear me." Justice lifted one of Anders' fingers, aiming it like a headsman's axe, sweeping it like a gavel, as it continued to speak, warping and twisting Anders' voice to do so. "All these years that Anders has known you, he has also sheltered you, fed you, clothed you, indulged you, taught you, healed you, given of himself altruistically—all for you. And you repaid him with betrayal. He warned you countless times, and you repeatedly scoffed at him. He forgave you over and over, and after each forgiveness you returned to your sin. You were even confronted and given a chance to recant, yet you would not. Therefore, everything that has happened to you, every hurt and harm, is your just penance. Let this lingering injury, your crippled hand, be your lifelong sentence, your constant reminder of your sins, lest you be led astray again. Anders will not heal you. Ever! On that we both agree."

Anders' rejection might have been hard to take, but Justice's sentencing was brutal. Hrodwynn was numb, numb like she had been when she faced down Jaxon less than an hour past. This time, however, she had not been able to predict Justice's moves as she had Jaxon's. This time, she could not have been prepared for what happened. This time, she could only stand there and watch her oldest friend disappear, watch helpless as Anders willingly relinquished himself to the spirit—watch and stand there and wonder if she would ever see Anders again.

Hawke cleared his throat, finally finding his voice; things had gone on long enough, far enough, for everyone's discomfort. After all, though he'd never had much love for the girl, Hrodwynn hadn't done anything to Justice personally, much less anything to deserve the severe punishment it doled out. All this talk about recanting and betrayal and sin was simply over the top. He decided to speak on her behalf, well, on the side of reason at least, and gingerly touched the sleeve of his lover, mindful to avoid any of the cracks were Justice was showing through. "Anders, love…"

Justice turned its judgmental gaze to Hawke, screwing up Anders' features into a sneer as if it had just discovered a disgusting bug on his sleeve. Hawke's fingers moved just far enough to be no longer touching, though still appearing to reach for Anders, even as Justice decreed, "Anders has spoken. WE have spoken. We will not be dissuaded."

"Hawke," Fenris almost moaned his voice was so weak. He could sense just how dangerous the situation was becoming and wanting to head off any further escalations before Hawke got into trouble with Justice as well, "Perhaps you shouldn't…"

"We should go."

Hrodwynn's voice was calm, eerily calm, far too calm considering the circumstances. The other three—four?—in the room stared at her, but she did not flinch. She knew, she knew with a clarity that was painfully sharp and cold and as final as death. Anders, her Anders, her friend, her adoptive uncle, was lost to her. And she to him. There was no point in Hawke accidentally incurring Justice's wrath by standing up for her. And she knew with a certainty that Fenris' voice wouldn't even be heard if he should try to speak in her defense. No, the trial was already over, the evidence weighed, the sentence given. She felt far worse standing there cozy and warm next to the fireplace in Hawke's mansion than she had in front of the Orlesian Embassy just before receiving her lashes, this judgment and sentencing a thousand times worse.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," she continued, her voice still far too calm considering she was standing practically toe-to-toe with a spirit-possessed mage, "For the inconvenience and distraught we've caused you and your household. We'll show ourselves out."

Hawke took a step forward, but she was already turning away. "Wynnie," he tried, hoping her nickname would stall her, hoping it would awaken Anders and bring him to his senses, hoping the innocent syllables could be imbibed with some sort of magic that would erase the past few moments and set everything aright in the world. But he was being foolish, and he knew it. He knew it when he locked eyes with Fenris, the elf looking pale beneath his swarthy tan. But he felt he had to try, for Anders' sake. "Wait…"

Anders/Justice was turning away as well, heading in the opposite direction.

"You can't… I mean…" he kept trying, but he was talking to her back. As she reached Fenris, who had remained standing at the entrance to the foyer, Hawke discovered something that might effect matters, "Just a moment… Fenris is hurt."

Hrodwynn paused then, of course she did, and turned her face far enough to see her love. Justice/Anders did not slow, did not even appear to have heard Hawke's words.

Fenris felt even more uncomfortable than before, wondering why the fuck Hawke simply wouldn't let this moment end, and tried to belittle the issue. "It's only a scratch," he protested, pressing his left arm tighter against his side. He glanced down and noted the drips falling from the bottom hem of his soaked tunic, "Though I do appear to be bleeding a small bit."

Hrodwynn had been stopped, but Anders/Justice had reached the base of the stairs and began to set one foot on the bottom step.

"Yes, and you need a healer," Hawke tried to hint, and none too subtly, waving them back into the main room. He looked over his shoulder, but was disappointed by what he saw.

Justice/Anders reached the second step. And the third. And the fourth.

"A healing potion will work just as well," Fenris glanced up at the possessed mage, knowing far better than Hawke that what he was trying to do was futile, "If not better. Sorry about the floor, though; send me the cleaning bill, would you?" He turned away and took Hrodwynn's hand, the whole one, and together they moved through the foyer.

Hawke stood there, making a few pathetic vocalizations of his frustration and disgust and confusion. "Well, then, see you later, tonight, at the Hanged Man."

Fenris lifted a hand in acknowledgment even as he ushered Hrodwynn through the main door, neither one of them bothering to look back or speak. Hawked huffed after the portal closed and spun around, but Anders/Justice was already upstairs and heading towards their bedchamber. He knew, rather reluctantly, that there would be no reaching the man until the spirit subsided its hold over him. And even then… no, he wouldn't allow himself to even consider that! Feeling a bit miffed, mostly over being so blatantly ignored by everyone, he smartly stomped his foot on the floor.

"Andraste's knitted knickers!"


Neither one spoke.

Not until they were blocks away, down a different street in Hightown, standing before the mansion Fenris had usurped years ago. "Didn't you lock the door before you left?"

"Yes," Fenris answered Hrodwynn's question, somewhat amazed, somewhat concerned, over how normal her voice sounded, "It's become habit, ever since working for Hawke finally began to pay off, and the two of us have been earning too much coin and had to start secreting it all away in there. It's strange to have to worry about thieves coming after our fortune for a change, so I lock the door every time we go out." Damn, now he was the nervous one, babbling his head off. He cleared his throat and tried to calm himself, his mind, his actions, and focus on what was important. "Why do you ask?"

"Because the door is open," she answered, still far too calmly for Fenris' liking, but he wasn't sure how to deal with that. He could, however, deal with an intruder in their home, and get rid of some of this nervous energy that was so out of character for him. His hands were already behind his back, pulling out his greatsword, readying himself to advance into the dark interior and immediately attack whoever was foolish enough to be inside and get themselves caught… but her hand on his chest stopped him in his tracks, her words breaking into his tumbling thoughts and sending them rolling off and away.

"Take it easy, Fen, there's no need to fight yet, especially since you're hurt already. Let's see here…" she hummed, thinking out loud. She knelt down to take a closer look, her experienced eyes noting every detail, the fingertips of her left hand pointing out each and every subtle marking. "The lock's been picked. Skillfully, too. And probably recently, or there would be more signs of foot traffic from other looters realizing the door was open and they could help themselves. No, this is someone who's careful; they closed the door almost all the way, to just before the latch could engage, making it appear to be untouched, but leaving behind enough evidence to give us warning of their presence." She straightened up suddenly and announced, "I think we're being burgled by a friend."

Fenris blinked at her, maintaining his grip on his greatsword, as he tried to keep up. "Who?"

"Well, there aren't many who have this skill," she began ticking off names, holding up the fingers of her left hand as she did so, "Isabela is busy fencing stolen goods. Varric is undoubtedly already at the Hanged Man rehearsing the tale of this latest adventure. And I'm standing right here. So," she pushed the door open the rest of the way with her other, twisted hand, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing look on her face, "Know of any other annoying rogue types?"

Fenris wanted to groan. "He wouldn't."

"He most certainly would, and did!" Sebastian answered from inside. He appeared in the archway as they entered the foyer, his face beaming, his merry blue eyes almost glowing. "Welcome home! Both of you," he began waving them further inside, to follow him back towards the disused dining table of the main hall, "But Hrodwynn especially. I'm so glad you're safe and sound. Sorry I couldn't have been a part of your rescue, but I did hear about it, of course. Actually, everyone at the Hanged Man has been gossiping about what happened between Fenris and his sister and former master. The cleanup took a good day or more, by the way, all those corpses and demon droppings and whatnots. And I think the bartender has been threatening to add it to Hawke's tab, but that's nothing for you to worry about. As for knowing that you two had returned, well," he continued to prattle, reaching the end of the table where he had placed a tray with a bottle of wine and three glasses. Next to the tray was an unusual package, long and cylindrical, and capped at both ends. Fenris wondered and worried about it, but he knew soon enough Sebastian wouldn't be able to keep himself from sharing whatever it was he had brought them. "Aveline's been keeping an eye out for Isabela's ship; I think she was sorry she had missed going with, but it's far too hard for the Captain of the City Guard to take time off for a sailing trip, even more so without a viscount to run the city. Anyway, she sent word to me the moment Isabela's ship was sighted approaching the docks, and I decided I'd meet you here, let myself in, straighten the place up a bit, stoke the fires, set up some refreshment, you know, make your home a tad more welcoming for your return. I knew it would have been quite a long journey for the two of you, so much must have happened, and you must tell me all of it. But first," he clapped his hands together and excitedly proclaimed, "We'll have a bit of wine, a celebratory toast, to yet another adventure wrapped up. Here, I've already poured the glasses. Allow me."

"Honestly, Sebastian," Fenris nearly dropped his greatsword on the table as he tried to find the patience and fortitude to deal with the effusive Brother. Venhedis, but his side was aching. "Now is not a good time…"

"Oh? What do you mean?" he spun around, two goblets in hand, one for each of them. Fenris made to take them both, but Sebastian only put one within his reach, the other he pushed towards Hrodwynn. It was shoved at her so hastily, she was afraid he might drop it, so she quickly took it, or tried to at any rate, with her right hand. Her first two fingers managed to latch onto the stem, but their grip was far too weak to support the heavy glass, and her thumb could no longer reach around to help support. The liquid inside sloshed thanks to her shaking hand, perilously close to spilling out and staining the front of her clothes, but she managed to hold on long enough until her left hand could drop the strap of her pack and take up the vessel.

"Blessed Andraste, but what happened to your hand?"

There was a ringing silence after his pronouncement. Hrodwynn almost felt her cheeks begin to burn with… what she wasn't sure… humiliation… embarrassment… self-disgust… fear… Whatever it was, or they were, the emotions boiling and roiling inside her, she could lift her eyes no further than the rim of her glass. Nor could she find the voice to answer him.

"Sebastian…" Fenris again tried to head him off. But there were no words, nothing to be said, no way around it, to explain it or evade it or excuse it. He stared at Sebastian, begging him with his mind to understand, to get the hint, to leave it for once.

The silence stretched, growing past confusion and beyond awkwardness and further yet, to rudeness and incivility. The Brother held his cup halfway to his lips, his dark red brows pulled forward, staring back at Fenris, undaunted. Apparently, he was not getting the hint.

"What's in the package?"

Hrodwynn couldn't know at the time, just how utterly that simple question would effect her life. But at least it got them all past the inhospitable moment.

"What? Ah, yes, my package, erm, I mean the package. Actually," he turned to the table, successfully distracted from the story behind her hand, more than willing to share his own story. He set down his wine to pick up the large, though light-weight cylinder, gesturing with it as he winked at her, "It's my gift. To you, milady."

She rolled her eyes, a little weary of his insistence on giving her a title, but the annoyance was far less discomforting than the moment they had just experienced. Half-heartedly she played along, "A gift? For me? What is it, a bow?"

Sebastian laughed, only a little strained, but also moving past the earlier awkwardness. "No, I know you're no archer, gentle lady. But this," he pulled the cap off of one end of the tube and began to shake it gently, encouraging whatever was inside to come out, "This is something I think you will appreciate, nonetheless."

Fenris was a little confused by the slithering noises he heard, like something rustling through tall grass. "Is it a snake?" he wondered.

Sebastian paused and blinked at him, "Why for Heaven's sake would I bring Hrodwynn a snake in a tube?" he countered, and for a moment the elf couldn't tell if he was joking or serious. Then he returned to shaking the tube, and in the next moment a rolled up length of silk canvas appeared. "No, no, no, it's… well… here, it's best if you simply see for yourself."

Sebastian discarded the packaging, now that the fabric was completely free, and took hold of one edge of the canvas to give it a shake. The fabric unrolled, flowing across the table, spreading itself out like a lake of color. When it was laying nearly flat, he spun it around so it faced them, three faces staring at three faces staring back.

"It took me some time," he began, obliquely explaining, "I first had to remember where I'd seen this paining, which city-state, whose mansion, the correct corridor, all that. The artist I commissioned did a fair job; I would dare say this was the original, if I didn't know that I commissioned a copy of it."

"Venhedis," Fenris breathed, but he found himself nearly speechless—hadn't he been babbling only a few moments ago? Yet for the life of him, or of Hrodwynn or Sebastian for that matter, he could not find the voice to end this now before matters could turn ugly.

Hrodwynn, too, seemed to be without voice, staring stoney and silent and expressionless as Sebastian prattled on and on and on.

"I know what you might argue, that I asked him to paint it this way, but truly I did not. I wrote to an artist I knew only by reputation, never met the man, asking him to go to Wycome, to the estate of the late Earl of Edmonte, and paint a copy of the family portrait. He did so, and this is what he sent back."

And there it was, as worthless of an explanation as the Brother had ever given for anything he'd done throughout this whole silly affair. But Hrodwynn could barely hear him, her eyes crowding out her other senses. She stared at the painting, at the three people represented there in oils and colors and cloth.

A father, with dark red hair and bright emerald eyes standing in stark contrast to his fair skin.

A mother, with softly rounded cheekbones and dark red lips on a heart-shaped face.

A daughter, with her father's coloring on her mother's features, her little face alive and bright with mirth and excitement.

"…fuck…"

"I know, right?" Sebastian almost crowed, overjoyed with the shock and awe he had created. He took her elbow and brought her even closer to the table, explaining as he did so. "This is why. This is why I thought you looked so familiar to me. This is why I couldn't let it rest, your past, your amnesia. This… Hrodwynn, I think this is your answer. This," his finger jabbed at the semblance of the little girl, "This could be you.

"This would be your mother, Lady Janelle. And this, your father," Sebastian continued, undaunted by the electrified silence, oblivious of the devastating revelation he was bringing down on them all, "Luke, the Earl of Edmonte, from the city-state of Wycome, on the eastern shores of the Free Marches. Or rather, he was the Earl. It took me ages to remember the story. I've only been to Wycome once, and that was, ahem," he faked a cough, not at all willing to go into too much detail regarding anything from his wayward youth, "Years ago, the maid there having given me a tour of the estate and telling me the whole story of what had happened.

"It was back before the Blight, in 9:26 if memory serves. The Earl was a very successful merchant, had an enormous fortune, with dealings and trade stretching throughout the Free Marches. He was looking to expand to Orlais, and had gone there to negotiate a deal with the Marquis Dupres. Even took his wife and daughter with him, sort of made it into a family holiday.

"As the story goes," Sebastian looked back to Hrodwynn, taking her hands, ignoring the crippling state of the one, and continued, "The Marquis was new to the business of being a merchant, and the Earl took outrageous advantage of his ignorance. Dupres didn't find out he'd been swindled until after the Edmontes had left to return home, of course, but being Orlesian and related, though distantly, to the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, the humiliation cut him very deeply. He simply could not allow the insult to become known.

"The Marquis thought to kidnap the Earl and force him to renegotiate. He borrowed heavily from his distant cousin, the Grand Duke, to hire mercenaries to capture the Edmontes. Only the Earl found out about it, and managed to stay one step ahead of his would-be captors until they reached the coast. There, he and his family split up, he on one ship and his wife and daughter on another. He had hoped the Marquis' men would come after him, but as fortune would have it, they didn't. They went after the wrong ship, the one with the Lady Janelle and their little girl.

"When the Earl arrived home, he found a letter waiting for him, a ransom note from the Marquis, demanding a small fortune for the return of his family, an amount nearly five times what the Earl had just won in the trade agreement. The Earl suspected the ransom demand was a trap, of course. He feared that he would mostly likely be killed if he showed up, and quite possibly his wife and daughter shortly thereafter. So he hatched a plan of his own.

"The note said to bring the ransom to Kirkwall, to the docks, and he would be contacted there with more instructions. The Earl suspected his family was being kept nearby, so he sent a decoy with a chest full of rocks to the ransom exchange, while he and a group of his most trusted men scoured the ships in port, trying to track down the true location of his wife and daughter. They did eventually find the ship and mount a rescue. Unfortunately, they all perished the attempt.

"Now, this is where things get a bit murky," he admitted, finally a little shamefaced. "No one can quite agree on what happened to the wife and daughter. Some say they both live, some say they were killed in the fight. Some say the mother lived, but was driven mad with grief over the deaths of her husband and daughter. Some say only the daughter survived and was sold as a slave in Tevinter. Some even say they were never in Kirkwall in the first place and are still being secretly held by the Marquis at his estate as his prisoners. But," Sebastian gave her hands a squeeze before letting go to gesture, "My dear Lady Hrodwynn, think on it. I know, it's far from a complete story, and I wish I could tell you more, something compelling, something that would remove all doubt and confirm that this is you. But it does fit, does it not? The timing? The likenesses? The location?"

"It is close…" she agreed, looking once more at the painting, seeing the faces, wondering, hoping, fearing…

Fenris watched the emotions flooding her features, warring and mixing with each other so violently it made his own heart ache. Finally, he found his voice. "Vishante kaffas!" he exclaimed, taking Sebastian by the shoulder and yanking him around, almost off of his feet. "We've talked about this, Sebastian. I've warned you, tried to explain to you, the pain you cause her, whether you mean to or not, how much it can physically HURT to know you can't remember your past, your family, no matter how much you try…"

"Fenris."

"… I told you she wants nothing to do with this theory of yours, your idea of who she is, it cannot be proven…"

"Ah… Fenris… you're bleeding," Sebastian tried to distract him, seeing him subconsciously wince with each wild gesture of his left arm. But the elf kept going, all but mindless of the pain and the mess.

"…and the false hope this might give her, like a narcotic, so tempting to let herself dwell on it and dream even though she will never know, it will only do her harm…"

"What was her name?" Hrodwynn's question, so quiet, spoken in a voice so small she even sounded like a little girl again. It brought Fenris up short, Sebastian too, though he recovered quicker.

"Sorry?"

"What was her name?" she asked again, without turning around, her eyes devouring the painting as if starving before a feast of color and shape, "The little girl? You gave us Luke's and Janelle's names, but not hers."

"Erm, didn't I mention it? Sorry," he managed to shake off Fenris' grip on his shoulder and answered her, "Maeve. The daughter's name was Maeve. She was named for the Earl's grandmother on his father's side."

"Maeve," she repeated, her fingertips barely touching the cherubic face in the portrait.

The silence returned, but not awkward like it had been before. This time, it was almost hesitant, almost anticipatory, almost pregnant as if waiting for something momentous to happen next. The two men held their breath, wondering, hoping, daring, as they waited for whatever was going to happen… to happen. The woman too, if one were to be brutally honest, was also waiting for something, a sign or a vision or a pronouncement, something… anything… to come and…

But nothing happened.

When Hrodwynn turned away from the portrait and towards them, her face was once more that too-calm expression that Fenris had been seeing more and more of recently, over and over again this day, the one that made Fenris itch. "You're right, Sebastian, Fenris is hurt. It was selfish to forget that. Excuse me, gentlemen, I should go get a healing potion." She walked past them to reach the stairs, the two watching her the whole way, but she didn't falter, she didn't race, she didn't cry or scream or, well, do anything except numbly walk up the stairs and along the balcony to the room she and Fenris shared.

Once the door closed, once he was fairly sure she was out of earshot, Fenris rounded on his friend. "Damn you, Sebastian," he growled so low it was all but unintelligible.

"Fenris, I… I was only trying to help her… Surely you can see that…"

"Help her? How!" he invaded his friend's personal space, his clenched fists shaking at his sides, his face twisted into a feral snarl, as he continued to spout and spittle, advancing slowly while forcing Sebastian to back away. "What were you expecting? That she'd take one look at the painting, hear the story, and say: 'Yes, that's me! I remember it now! Oh, thank you, Sebastian, you're my hero.' Is that why you wouldn't let this drop; you wanted to be her hero?"

"Honestly, I thought I could help her remember. I thought, if she heard the story, then it would all come back and…"

"It doesn't work that way, Sebastian. You can't fix amnesia with a snap of your fingers; I can tell you that much because I've been through it. It doesn't happen all at once, nor does it happen simply because you wish it to. It's a slow process. Slow and painful, with bursts and spurts of memory flashing so bright it hurts your mind's eye, followed by long droughts between that make you doubt your memory was returning, make you doubt your sanity. And all the while people are staring at you, or feeling sorry for you, or trying to help when all they're really doing is making matters worse!

"Get out." Though his words were quiet, they were filled with venom. "Get out, now, this moment, before I say something I'll regret. And take this…" his gauntleted hands threatened to tear the silk as he bunched up the painting, "This… this abomination…" he shoved it at Sebastian's chest, "With you before I make a bonfire of both it and you! Leave!" he hissed, a blood-dripping taloned finger pointing at the door, his whole body heaving as he panted from either his anger or his pain or his exhaustion—or a little of everything.

Sebastian opened his mouth, but wisely closed it again and beat a hasty retreat. Fenris stood there, not daring to allow himself move, not until Sebastian was out of sight, not until he heard the front door close, not until he was sure he wouldn't immediately race off after Sebastian and make good his threat. When he was once more in complete control of himself, he trudged slowly up the stairs to their bedchambers.

Hrodwynn was inside, head down, rummaging among their packs and chests. He was sure he had been quiet coming up the stairs, but as soon as he was in the room, she began talking.

"We seem to be out of healing potions."

"Hrodwynn…"

She walked over to the table, head still bowed, and went about setting up vials and herbs and a mortar and pestle. "I could make one, I've got all the ingredients I need, but it will take a bit of time to infuse properly. And I think you're going to need more immediate attention than that."

"Hrodwynn…" he repeated, but she swept on.

"Honestly, Fenris, I don't know how you did it this time. I didn't think Jaxon or his men laid a finger on you. But you are bleeding; that's for certain. Take off your armor and tunic so I can see how deep it is. Maybe it can heal on its own, or we can stop at a stall on our way to the Hanged Man and pick up a healing potion. Either way, I won't know what we should do until I see how serious it is."

"Amatus…" he tried again, taking her hand, stopping her movements, and praying she would be open to listening to him.

There was a hesitation, a single breath, hardly enough to register or to make him uncertain. Then she looked up at him, and whatever mania he loathed to see was not present. Her eyes were only a little bit brighter than normal, and the merest pink color stained her cheeks, but there was no mad glint or excited flush. And thankfully there was no sign of that cold, dead expression that had earlier forced out all emotion from her features. She even gave him a smile, bringing their hands to hover in the space between them, mimicking that intimate moment they shared on Isabela's ship before they docked, "Fen."

Venhedis, but she was strong. Strong and beautiful and the love of his life—of a lifetime! And he was so underserving of her. How he longed to… ached to comb his fingers through her hair and pull her in for a deep kiss, but that would have to wait for a time. Right now, they could only hold each others' hands between their hearts, and hold on to the dream of a better future. "Leave it," he decided, for himself and for them both, forcing himself to be as brave as she and suggest going to another mage. "For now, at least. The day is early enough; we'll go to the Gallows and have one of the Circle mages heal me… and your hand. Then we'll meet up with everyone at the Hanged Man. What was the name of that healer, the one who helped us before?"

He had no idea what he said, but something in his words caused her to change. He watched, all but broken hearted and chagrined, as she let go of his hand and moved off before… whatever it was… could be seen on her face. He wanted to say something, do something, to fix what had just happened, but without understanding the nature of the problem, he was helpless to cure it.

Hrodwynn wasn't much better off herself in trying to understand what was happening to her, only that it had to do with her crippled hand. She felt somehow—she supposed it was silly or selfish or just plain mean—but she felt it would be cheating if she had someone other than Anders heal her hand. That, and a part of her wanted him to see her broken hand, to see it and every time remember it was that way because HE was too self-righteous to fix it himself.

She sniffed, quietly, muffling the sound as she rummaged about a pack, pulling things out as she tried to get herself under control. She told herself it was mean, mean and petty, to leave herself suffering all in the hopes of making Anders suffer, too. The bloody git probably wouldn't even notice. Then again, it might serve him right, knock his ego down a notch, to find out there was someone else out there who could heal people just as well as he could, maybe even better!

"Right," she agreed, nodding and looking back at her love. "Vera. Vera was the woman who healed you after that fight with Ser Alrik and his men. And yeah, she was a pretty good healer; if she could fix your thick skull, she should be able to fix my hand. But take off that tunic first, and let me at least put a poultice on your wound, or you'll be leaving a trail of blood through half of Kirkwall."

She meant it as a joke, a small one, and even tried to end on an anemic sort of half-laugh. Fenris, however, was far too serious, far too quiet, and she feared him. Not that she feared he would do anything to hurt her, not physically, but she did fear what he might say.

And she had good reason to.

"About the painting and the story…"

"What about them?" she responded, her voice a little too tight, her neck bowed low again, as she packed a simple poultice.

"What Sebastian did…" he refused to take off his tunic or even his armor, but he did consent to lift his arm up so she could better see the wound, "It was wrong… I've told him off before…"

"He was only doing what he thought might help." Why was she defending Sebastian, she wondered. Hadn't she been mad at him before, hundreds of times it seemed, for calling her a lady, or trying to say he recognized her, or offering to find out… Well, he did find out. "And it's plausible, I'll give him that." She prodded the reddened and puckered flesh around the wound.

"Hrodwynn… ah!"

Whatever he meant to say was cut off when she pulled out the arrowhead. "Looks like it was just a glancing blow, and the shaft must've broken off during the fight, or I would have noticed it a lot sooner. Thank the Maker it didn't penetrate too deep, and nothing's been hit but muscle. Still," she pressed the poultice against the wound and lowered his arm to hold it in place, "The sooner this is healed, the sooner you stop leaking."

She tried to offer him a smile, something simple, some sort of way of saying that everything was alright. But as soon as she locked eyes with him, she knew—they both knew—it was a lie. No longer able to deny it, no longer able to hold it at bay, the mania slipped past her lips as she sputtered, "Oh, Fen, it is possible, isn't it? The timing fits; it happened in '26, and my first memories begin in '26. And the location, the docks, what I first remember is standing on the docks with my head hurting and feeling the urge to run. Like in my dream. I'm running. I could have been running from mercenaries, from kidnappers, from one of those ships.

"And the woman," she swallowed, her gaze dropping away from his face towards somewhere else, somewhere and somewhen else, "She… oh, I don't know. I honestly don't. I mean, sure, the likeness is uncanny. But the woman I remember in my dream, if my dream is even a real memory trying to come back, but if it is, and I know I know the woman, I know what she looks like, but now… when I dream that dream now, will I be seeing the woman as I remember her? Or will I be seeing that woman from the painting? I don't know," she hiccoughed, fighting back more tears. "I… I don't… I can't…"

His arms were there, around her, holding her, guiding her even as the tears blinded her. She didn't cry for long, she couldn't allow herself to. They had to get to the Gallows, heal his wound and fix her hand. Then they had to meet up with everyone at the Hanged Man. And then… "Everyone…"

"Don't worry about it," Fenris assured her, misunderstanding her meaning. "I've talked with Sebastian; I'll doubt he'll bring up the subject ever again. Nor will he tell the others about it. No one's going to pester you…"

"No," she sniffed, pulling back, blinking away the pains and the fears and the tears, "No, not everyone-everyone. 'Everyone'-everyone. The beggar. From the docks."

Fenris didn't answer her. He should. He should have stopped her right then and there. But he found himself speechless while he watched, fascinated and abhorred, as the mania grew ever more behind the emerald of her eyes.

"He knows, Fenris, all that happened, to me, to him, to my parents, to the kidnappers… if I am Maeve, if Edmonte is my father, if any of this is real…" she was gripping his arms in her hands, unthinkingly touching skin and lyrium alike, desperately clinging while trying to pull away, "If anyone knows what happened to me, Everyone knows. He was there. He was the other one in my dream, the one who kept telling me to run. Everyone tells me to run. I remember that. And you can't say Sebastian influenced it somehow or put that idea in my head; I remembered that before Sebastian's story, remember? We were on Isabela's ship, talking about my dream, and I said, 'Everyone tells me to run.' And you asked who else was there, thinking everyone meant everyone. But don't you see? Everyone is 'Everyone,' the beggar. He knows."

"His mind is addled…" Fenris tried to reason with her, but it was far too late, she was already in full swing.

"Oh, I know he's a bit funny, and very old, and blind, and he's been beaten probably for years, that's bound to take its toll on anyone. But he does remember, somehow. Some part of him keeps holding on to the past, to what happened. It's in that funny little poem of his, I'm sure of it! I have to see him again, Fenris. I need to. I need to speak with him and listen to his story and find out what he knows, what he can remember, about me, about the ship, about…"

"Hrodwynn!" he barked, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a small shake. She gasped, her eyes wide now in surprise where before they had been wide with obsession. Her lips, though still parted, remained silent and still. Her hands continued to grip his arms, but he didn't yet dare to let go of her shoulders lest she begin to slide once more down that slippery slope of childish dreams and false fantasies, grasping at every frail straw along the way. "Hrodwynn," he repeated, praying he was reaching her, fearing that she was too far gone already. "Listen to yourself, to what you're saying. Yes, Sebastian's story is plausible. And, yes, you did remember the word, 'everyone,' before we even docked in Kirkwall. But that doesn't make your dream a memory. Or a blind old man someone who knows you. Besides, there was no blind elf in Sebastian's story, was there?"

She pressed her lips closed, pressed them into a thin line, reluctant to admit it, but he was right. Only a little childishly, she shook her head.

"So while this is possible," he didn't completely negate her hopes, but he had to bring her back to reality, "It's not a perfect fit. Yes, my love, my amatus, we will go and speak with Everyone again, you and I, and we will try to understand his nonsense. But don't allow yourself to believe he holds all the answers you need. We may never get anything out of him but more gibberish. Or if we do get something substantial, it might have nothing to do with you at all."

She wanted to argue, but some small voice inside whispered that she should hold her own counsel, a small and jealous voice, similar to the one that had wanted her to leave her hand crippled just to spite Anders. Only this time, she listened.

"But not today," Fenris continued, oblivious to the dangerous deceit that was growing within her. "Today, we go to the Gallows to get healed, and then to the Hanged Man to get drunk. Tomorrow, or the next day, we'll track Everyone down. I promise."

He promised. She nodded, still not trusting her voice.

He promised. Something quite easy for him to do, speak a few words to ease her mind and make her smile. But her mind wasn't eased, and her smile was forced.

He promised. Why didn't she trust him? Was it because it wasn't as urgent for him as it was for her? He had his memories back, after all. He felt no rush, as she did, no pressure, as she did, no desire, as she did. His quest was over, finished, his questions answered, his mysteries solved. And after all the help she'd given him, after all the effort and sacrifice and pain and humiliation she endured to help him—he wouldn't spare an hour or two to look for one old man…

No! she gave herself a little shake. That was unworthy to think of him. Fenris did love her. He would help her. He would keep his promise. Hadn't he proven, time and again, all he would indulge her? All he would do for her? All he would give for her? Yes, she had endured quite a lot for him, all in the name of helping him find his sister and get his memories back. Of course he would repay such a debt; she should never doubt it.

"Amatus?"

"What? Oh, right," she blinked, coming out of her dark and maddening musings. "The Gallows. We should get going." She took a few steps, but when he didn't follow, she turned back to try to reassure him. "I'm alright, Fen, honest. It's… it's been a long day, first what happened at the docks, and Everyone, and then Anders, Sebastian… I'm overtired, that's all. You're right. The beggar can wait for another day; we've got enough to do yet today. Come on," she held her hand out for him and was reminded of something, from years ago, just after they first met, when walking down the streets of Lowtown late at night and he reached his hand out for her to take. There had been something there, between them, even way back then, just as there was still something there, between them, despite all that had occurred.

He walked up to her, studying her face, searching for something—what, she did not know—but he must have been satisfied because he took her hand and, side by side, they left for the Gallows.