Bethany hadn't been out in the courtyard for several days, and she basked in what little sunlight and heat remained. Before the Templar crackdown, she'd been allowed entire days to breathe in the salt air and to revel in the few hours of early afternoon light before the sun retreated behind the looming Gallows walls. She leaned her head back and let the warmth loosen the faint cramping in her shoulders. Ever since she'd received that funny little Bodahn's message, they'd ridden up close to her ears.

Maker, why did Lyssie wait so long?

And yet the rumors blazed their way from cell to cell like wildfire.

"Did you hear? The Champion shouted down the Knight Commander in front of all of Kirkwall's nobility!"

"She supports all mages. The First Enchanter worships at her feet!"

"I heard she makes regular visits to the Gallows and does Meredith's dirty work."

Bethany knew the last was at least partially true after meeting the de Launcet boy. You've changed, Sis. Then again, maybe she hadn't. The Starkhaven mages had begun their own kind of rebellion and her escort had fanned their flames to blazing. If only Lysandra had allowed them to go free… At the time, she had supported her sister's decision, fearing to kill even a single Templar, but if they had, perhaps the sun's warmth might not have been a luxury. Most feared to talk to these rebels, and it was their excesses that had led to complete lockdown for all but the Harrowed.

She shot a sour glance across the courtyard to that awful Grace. Somehow she always managed to get outdoor privileges. She's using Isabela's techniques with that Thrask—she must be! Why else? She's the most dangerous of the lot of us! Except that Isabela had always been kind, even if her mouth had been filthier than Gamlen's hovel.

The flash of pure white caught her eye before anything else and her shoulders rode up of their own volition. Fenris. Dear Maker. There was no mistaking that hair, and even in the shadows where he waited, it still blazed brighter than the exacting shine of the surrounding Templars' helmets. Bethany had to squint to make Lysandra out in the shadows. She waited, her head cast down, her hair a shroud that blended with her dulled armor. Only Ser Thrask's small cough forced Bethany's feet to move. She moved, but the air thickened around her until she had to wrench her way through molasses.

Lysandra's dull armor wasn't as dull as she expected, though the metal had somehow been forged black. She remained veiled beneath her shroud, which extended to the armor itself without a single break in color. Did the elf smell nothing as he stood beside her, one bare hand linked with hers? The reek was worse than that horrid, festering year-old cheese that Gamlen had forbidden Mother to burn. Bethany's stomach twisted; she'd hoped never to smell that stench again after the dragon had collapsed into a heap six years before. More dragons, Sis? Is it so hard to scrub armor before you wear it?

"Bethany," the elf said and bent over a little at the waist. His expression seemed half-pleasant, unlike the scowl she'd only slowly gotten used to when he'd looked her way.

"Fenris. I never thought I'd see you here. Well, not voluntarily, anyway."

"I do have a tendency to end up in strange places thanks to Andra." The elf had a nickname for her? More than a nickname—a special smile that seemed to light him up and made her see for the first time what Lysandra had seen all those years ago. Maker, he's easy on the eyes!

"Lyssie."

"Beth…" She'd never heard Lysandra's voice break. "I really like what Meredith has done with the place. The aura of oppression adds, I don't know, a certain sophistication to the crude lines of those statues."

"Stop it, Lyssie! The Knight Captain stands beside you."

"Yes, I forgot—these fanatics do have a tendency to take out their ire on innocent targets." She met the shifting Cullen's eyes and gave him an almost saucy smile. "Beth had nothing to do with this."

No, Lysandra hadn't changed in the slightest. The elf grimaced, and it was only then that Bethany looked down at the two clenched and bare hands. Lysandra had never taken much to browning in the sun, but her knuckles had gone dead white, even more of a startling contrast to the elf's deepened skin.

"Andra!"

"You know, between the two of you, you nearly produce my name."

"So that's it? You're just going to joke and laugh as if nothing has changed?"

"I have a smile on my face. Isn't that enough?"

"Maker's breath, Lyssie, you're impossible! You show up all of a sudden after three years and expect a few jokes will suffice to smooth things over?"

"Beth, I…" The silence after lingered far too long, and Lysandra closed her eyes.

"That's right, say nothing! I don't even know why you bothered to come. It's obvious you don't want to visit."

"Things aren't as they may seem, Bethany," Fenris said. "Your sister has suffered…"

He ran his gauntleted hand through Lysandra's hair and guided her head to the one non-spiky part of his armor—a small patch between his shoulder and his neck.

"Suffered what? Living in a huge mansion in Hightown? Endless parties? The love and worship of the entire city of Kirkwall?"

It was only then that Bethany noticed the band of red around that gauntlet, and the way that scarf had been tied by a deft female hand. Oh, she knew that knot, just as she knew that scarf.

"And then you gave him that! Oh, Maker, Lyssie! How could you?"

Mother had tried to teach her to sew, tried and tried, but she'd never learned how to make her stitches regular, or to thread the needle properly. She'd labored weeks on that little strip of fabric, trying to get the seams just right. She and Mother had ripped the seams out over and over, until one day something had clicked, and she'd finally produced a seam that didn't unravel, and almost looked straight if one didn't look too closely. She'd worked until late in the night every night on that thin little rectangle that matched her Lyssie's hair so she could have it ready for Lysandra's thirteenth birthday.

"Because it was everything," Lysandra whispered.

"I've never heard such nonsense! I can't… I just can't do this. Please, someone, escort me back!"

Bethany didn't bother to see which Templar accompanied her, and she didn't care. In her cell, she curled into a small ball on her bed and wished Thedas away.