Knight-Commander Meredith beckoned to Hawke. Glancing to her companions, she followed the templar into the hall at a slow pace.

"A number of mages have broken out of the Gallows following an incident where a number of phylacteries were destroyed," the Knight-Commander said. "I have not the resources to track them, but you have proven yourself a protector of this city. They must be brought in to avoid incidence and to keep the denizens of Kirkwall from their blood magic."

Hawke bristled before saying, "I will not help you trap more mages within these walls."

Stopping in the atrium at the end of the hall, Meredith turned around, "Then let me be blunt. I have known for some time that you visit your sister, despite the restrictions upon her and the other mages here. You will do this, or she will come under scrutiny – and I do not know the outcome."

A chill settled through Hawke, and her brow drew down in consternation, "She is a picture of what you wish a mage to be. You will not touch her."

'That may be, but I do not have the resources to track these potentially dangerous individuals," Meredith sighed.

"If she has done nothing wrong," Aveline said, taking Hawke's shoulder, "You cannot punish her."

"All that is known is that Bethany has been meeting with someone outside of the allowed visitations," the Knight-Commander said, her voice even and hard. "It does not bode well for any mage to keep obscure associations, even one as exemplary as your sister. Nevermind you, Champion. It is well known that you keep company with a variety of dangerous apostates. Your position is tenuous at best, and your popularity remains your protection. But should it falter, I cannot guarantee what may happen to them."

Hawke bit her tongue till she tasted copper, closing her eyes to lash down the outburst that threatened to reveal itself. Swallowing it away, she looked at Meredith, "Then tell me what I need to appease you."

"Of course, Champion," Meredith replied with firm sweetness. She motioned to the tranquil nearby. "My assistant shall provide you with what you need."

Later as they descended the steps of the Gallows, Varric and Aveline struggled to keep pace with Hawke. When they were on the ferry, she nearly kicked a hole in the hull.

"I try to keep an open mind, but I almost fear Anders has been right," Aveline quietly said, elbows on her knees.

"Don't worry, Hawke," Varric said, leaning in the bow. "Meredith isn't stupid enough to harm Bethany and risk those who back you turning on her. You're the most powerful person in Kirkwall, whether she thinks you are or not. She can't touch you."

Hawke leaned on the gunwale, exhaling sharply through her nose, "But who knows what other peons she has that might touch Bethany. What accidents might occur before she could be saved. What might force their hand to make her tranquil."

"Bethany can handle herself," Aveline said, furrowing her brow.

"It is always the others I worry about," Hawke said, finally sitting down. Brooding eyes on the horizon, she continued, "What other sticky fingers get in the way."

"We should get Blondie," Varric said, lighting a pipe. The movement of the ferry dragged the smoke away and rustled his hair. "Daisy too maybe? Mages to show them we mean no harm."

"I don't think Merrill would come," Aveline tactfully said.

Varric raised his brow and looked at Hawke.

"We are not strictly on speaking terms," Hawke said under her breath, reaching for his pipe. He let her take it, and she drew deep, closing her eyes. The smoke escaped as she spoke, "After what happened with the keeper. Our differing views have made things unpleasant."

"To say the least," Aveline said, crossing her arms.

"A pity," Varric replied, taking up his pipe again. He hummed to himself, watching Hawke.

"I'm going to kill that fucking woman," Hawke said, looking back towards the Gallows.

"Doesn't that seem a bit extreme, Hawke?" Aveline asked, still frowning. "Merrill is… still a good person inside, even if she..."

"Not Merrill," Hawke chuckled, looking back to her friends.

Anders was nowhere to be seen when Hawke packed her armour at twilight and crept into the street. With her hood up, she moved through the shadows of the setting sun, avoiding the markets and eavesdropping as she could, hurrying to the docks.

Leant against a stack of crates, she watched the ferryman as he waited for the two templars to board. Hawke was in the water without a splash, dragging herself under the dock to work towards the boat. The water was frigid, but it scarce touched the burning core of her anger. She clenched her jaw to keep from chattering, making it to the boat just in time as the ferryman pushed off. Clutching the side, she hugged the curve of the bow to reduce her drag.

Hawke could hear voices from above, but the lap of water against her and the penetrating chill drowned it out. She closed her eyes, her hands locked frigid as she gripped the boat for her life. The passage blurred together, her ears filled with the slosh of seawater and flap of the breeze in the sails.

It was only when the boat jarred and stopped that she opened her eyes. The dark presence of the Gallows stretched above the docks. Prying her hands open, she dropped down into the water, swimming in a crawl under the dock as the templars moved away, and the boat was tied. The sky was overcast, leaving the waters dark as she inched away from the docks and hauled herself onto shore out of sight.

On her hands and knees, Hawke shuddered in the near freezing air.

"Couldn't wait for summer," she murmured to herself, hanging her head. Dropping her satchel, she pulled out her mostly dry leather armour, keeping an eye along the wall for any patrols. She had asked Anders about them – she should have ten minutes at best. The fact he hadn't questioned why she wished to know spoke of the growing distance between them.

Hawke stripped out of her wet clothing, the wind off the sea freezing her dry. Clenching her jaw, she hastily put her armour on, pulling up her hood and gathering the rope, before stashing the nondescript pack under a rock. Creeping along the wall, she prepped the rope, looking up the crack she had identified. Based on her calculations, it should take her into the atrium where she had spoke with Meredith – close enough, at least.

There was movement nearby, and Hawke cringed into the shadows. The templar swung his lamp though, and when the light hit her she held her breath. Unseen, she stepped behind him as he passed, grabbing him around the neck and pulling him on her dagger. The man gurgled, and she whipped him around, jerking his neck with a sick snap. He choked on the ground before she was on him, smashing his head against a rock to silence him.

"Andraste's ass." Panting, Hawke took his lantern and threw it in the water, before looking around. It was still silent. She wiped her hands on her leathers before grunting and rolling him into the water.

It would have to do, she thought.

Readying her rope again, Hawke got it to catch in the crack on the third try, and gave it a tug before shimmying up. She hung there, breathing roughly through her nose before pulling onto the rampart. Moving low to the ground, she crept around a bend, in sight of the courtyard. Perched on the rampart, she pursed her lips and plotted her descent.

"You there!" A shrill whistle followed the call, and Hawke was on her feet, daggers in hand as the pair of templars ran along the wooden rampart. "On your knees!"

Hawke spun and ran the other direction, gripping her daggers as she sprinted the length of the wall. Around the back of the Gallows, she ran smack into a templar, and each floundered before their weapons met.

"Surrender and you will be shown mercy," the man ordered as he parried her stab.

"Like hell you will," Hawke hissed, before slipping beside and kicking him in the knees. The templar fell awkwardly and hit her, arm pinned under her weight. When he jerked to recover, she was knocked back off the ramparts, her short scream accompanying the whistle from the other guards.

The sound cut away when Hawke smacked flat in the shallow water, her left arm dashed against a rock. Pain blossomed as the deluge of seawater enveloped her, losing her dagger in the waves as she choked. Breaking the surface of the water, she panted and coughed, blinded and dizzy as she heard the distant cries of the templars.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot!" she cursed, grinding her teeth as she touched seabed and pushed off. The tide was rolling in, she might have a chance. She swam into the channel before the arrows sought the water, moving slowly as she cradled her arm. She was bleeding heavily, and the wound was aggravated by the saltwater yet numbed by the cold. Floating on her back, Hawke looked at the sky. The clouds were starting to break and she could see the stars. There was a boat in the distance. Hawke kicked slowly, pushing herself with the current as it urged her towards the City of Chains.

Somehow she avoided capture, washing into an abandoned berth in the docks. Dragging herself from the waves like a waterlogged cat, Hawke collapsed on the wood and shuddered. A meagre slick of blood was left behind as she queasily got to her feet. If she fell asleep now, she'd be a corpse by dawn.

Cradling her arm, Hawke stumbled through the early morn, shivering all the way. The colours of dawn were starting to brighten the sky by the time she smacked into the Hanged Man. Ignoring the few patrons that raised a brow her way, she slogged up the stairs and half collapsed onto the table in Varric's suite.

"Varric," Hawke rasped, shuddering with cold. When she tried to sit up, her numb hand slipped, and she nearly fell. "Varric."

Varric caught her, "I heard you the first time." Easing her into a chair, he more fully closed the lush red robe. "Where the hell have you been, Hawke?"

"I went for a dip," she replied, shuddering and closing her eyes and cradling her arm. Her words slurred together with cold, "Lovely time of year."

"Hey, hey, hey," Varric leant in and smacked her cheek a few times. "Eyes on the chest hair, beautiful."

Hawke's dark eyes opened, unfocused upon him as she said, "Oh good. I rather thought I'd wake up dead." She sucked in through her teeth as she tried to move.

"You're bleeding all over the rug," Varric said, smoothing a hand through his hair as he lit another lamp and closed the door.

"I'll pay for it," Hawke murmured, her head lolling again. "Promise."

"Stay with me, Hawke," Varric said, "You're soaking wet and freezing. And you reek. You have to tell me what you were doing."

"I thought men liked a wet lady," Hawke drawled, leaning her head back against the chair as she looked up at him. "I went to kill the Knight-Commander. I failed."

"Really," he smirked, pulling up a chair and sighing. "What gave you that idea?"

"She might be dead, though not because of me," Hawke defended, cringing visibly again. The last of the colour drained from her features. "I got pushed off the wall of the Gallows."

"Shit," Varric said, shaking his head. "Why didn't you use that passage through Darktown?"

Hawke paused from loosening her cuirass and looked at him, "Fuck, Varric. I can't be expected to remember all these things." She looked at the ceiling, throwing her belt on the floor. "Is it still unguarded?"

Varric laughed, "No, I'm shitting ya."

"Asshole," Hawke muttered, resuming her one-handed undressing. Varric leant forward to loosening some of the straps and she cursed again in pain.

"You know, maybe there's a reason more mages don't escape," he muttered. "Did you think they might make it difficult to get in and out of the Gallows?"

"Shut up and get me something strong," she said, blinking lengthily. When he didn't move, she looked at him, "For my arm. Fuck, Varric, you're enjoying this."

Varric chuckled and moved to his cabinet, retrieving a tinted bottle, "Sorry sweetheart, here you go."

Pulling the cork out with her teeth, Hawke took a few swigs of the bottle before she poured it on her arm. She arched in the chair and swore again, her eyes opening wider. Varric took the bottle away as she writhed in pain. "I need Anders."

"Then I'll get him," Varric said, moving back through his suite to get dressed. "Is he at home? Or the clinic."

"Who fucking knows," Hawke's voice cracked as she started to shiver. She stared blankly at the wall, pain lancing up her arm. "He's been gone again for days. He only tells me half the time, anymore."

Varric put a hand on her shoulder, "Shit..." He sighed and went to kindle the fire, before pushing her chair closer. "Best leave your arm clad."

"I know," she chattered, staring at the fire. "I'm pretty sure it's broken."

"Stay here," Varric said, gathering some bread and water beside her. "I'll track him down."

"Has she had any potions?" Anders asked as Varric led him through the streets.

"How should I know," the dwarf replied. "I've been looking for you all day. Hopefully she's still alive."

Anders picked up the pace past him, and the dwarf had to hurry to keep up. The Hanged Man was packed, the fires burning hot, and he was upstairs before Varric was in the door.

"You," Anders furrowed his brow and advanced on Merrill. "Maker, I swear if you've used any of your vile ways to help her..."

"I only used rudimentary herbs," Merrill coldly replied. "She's back there, still alive I'll have you know."

Anders pushed past her as Varric walked in.

"Well, he's certainly pleasant," Merrill murmured.

"Thank you for coming, Daisy," Varric gave her a squeeze.

"Oh, anything for you, Varric," the elf thinly smiled.

Meanwhile in the backroom, Anders pulled back the covers from Hawke, touching her cheek to wake her, "Love, open your eyes. Maker, what was she doing letting you sleep!"

Hawke's head rolled on the pillow, eyes dark as she opened them and murmured, "You know me, I don't take no for answer."

"That's for sure," he replied, touching her arm. Hawke hissed awake more, cursing. "I need to look."

"Where have you been?" she croaked, closing her eyes as he unwound the bloody bandages.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Anders furrowed his brow, trying not to move her arm. "It's broken - badly."

"Really, I thought it was a bit scratched maybe," Hawke murmured. "At worst, a little nick."

Anders' eyes clouded as light coalesced around his hand, and the wound was suffused with the glow. Hawke shuddered, feeling her flesh unnaturally moved and knit. She rolled her head to look at him.

"How does that feel," he softly said, opening the satchel on his belt. He took out a poultice and bandages, wrapping the tender skin.

"Less problematic," she said, her eyes still on him. "Where have you been?"

"I won't answer until you tell me how you did this," he frowned at her, leaning over the bed to smooth the bandage. He sat beside her.

Hawke looked away, voice scratchy, "Then I guess we'll never know."