Preoccupied by the necessity of finding adequate words to explain to her sister just what to expect downstairs, Amelle was momentarily caught off-guard by the scene waiting for her behind Kiara's bedroom door. She wasn't sure what shocked her more — the number of empty bottles on the floor, or bloody Anders standing at the hearth. It took only a moment to register his appearance — he looked weary and older than his years — and it took less than a moment for Amelle to decide she didn't care. Her fingers tightened around her staff and she couldn't have said whether she wanted to shoot fire at him or simply bludgeon him with the thing.

For the moment, bludgeoning was winning out.

So blinded was she by the sudden rush of anger — no, it wasn't even anger; it was fury, white-hot, and enough to make her blood heat as power and energy swirled beneath her skin — she almost, almost forgot about the pale, still man so near death downstairs. Not now, she thought, sternly. There are more important things at stake. Amelle breathed in and pushed down on the eddies of power inside, willing herself still and quiet and, above all, calm.

"What is he doing here?" Amelle managed, quietly, smoke and battle and exhaustion conspiring to render her voice hoarse and ragged.

"Anders was just leaving," Kiara volunteered, her tone eerily even despite being unusually wobbly on her feet. "For good."

Amelle glanced again at the bottles on the floor and then looked up at her sister. Kiara was drunk. Very drunk. She had to be. And on the one hand, Amelle could hardly blame her sister; but on the other, she felt the faintest flash of irritation — there was too much to do, too many people still dying. Sebastian, for the Maker's sake — Amelle couldn't be troubled with bloody hangover remedies later, not when there was so much she needed her mana for now.

There's too much to do and not enough time. Maker, I need more time.

"Then go," she said. "Leave."

A flash of something burned in Anders' eyes as he looked at her, something not quite human, something she'd seen more than once since meeting him, and she stood a little straighter, meeting his gaze steadily.

"I did this—"

"Don't you dare say you did this for me, or any other mage," ground out Amelle, taking a step closer. "You didn't. You did this—" she shot one arm out and she pointed at the window with one shaking hand; smoke and soot and ash swirled beyond the glass, where things still burned, where the dead still littered the streets "—You did this because you're selfish. You did this because you're a complete flaming idiot. But you did not do this for me, or for any other mage in Thedas." Her voice wavered and her eyes stung with tears she stubbornly refused to shed. "I have been out in the streets and let me tell you, Anders, what I saw had nothing whatsoever to do with the freedom of mages."

Every time she closed her eyes, she still saw twisted, broken bodies, people whose lives had been ripped from them in seconds, who'd never had any hope of being saved, who'd never had any chance of being healed. Their lives had been snuffed out with no hope of salvation — with no hope at all.

Anders only shook his head, and there was a time when it would have been a condescending gesture, as if she were too young and simple and stupid to understand. Now he simply looked tired. "Things had to reach this point," he said wearily, but it sounded strangely as if he were trying to convince himself. "Don't you understand?"

Amelle just shook her head back at him. "Anders: you made everything worse. How in the Void do you think people are going to treat mages after this? They won't rest until they've hunted every last one of us down. Don't speak as if you had no choice."

"You of all people know I didn't."

"You had a choice!" she cried, cursing the fresh tears pricking at her eyes and thickening in her throat. "None of those people had a stake in this quarrel. They were going about their lives, and you killed them." Amelle drew in a hitching breath that sounded too much like a sob. "There's always a choice, and you chose—" Her voice cracked, and there, beneath the roiling anger, was the truth of it: despite their differences, they had both healed people. It was the one thing they'd ever had in common. "Damn it, Anders! You were supposed to be a healer!"

Whatever else the mage was, whatever else he'd become, he wasn't a healer. Not anymore. But Amelle was, and there was still work to be done. She glanced at Kiara, still so unsteady on her feet, her eyes bleary with drink and tears. She'd never seen her sister so wounded, and where there had once been irritation, now Amelle found it hurt just to look at Kiara. Her tears receded; crying was a luxury she'd allow herself later.

Amelle closed her eyes and turned away from Anders; there were other people who needed her more. They had so little time, and there was so much to do.

"You were leaving," she whispered. "So go."

A low, gravelly voice from behind Amelle made her start. She turned to find Fenris in the doorway, still streaked with gore and ash and filth, leveling a murderous look directly at Anders. "I suggest you take your opportunity, mage," he said. "Their goodwill already far exceeds my own."

"Fenris," Amelle said, trying to read beyond the fury in his green eyes, fearing Sebastian's condition had worsened, fearing she'd already wasted too much time. "What are you doing up—"

"So this is the company you prefer to keep these days," said Anders, shaking his head at her. "You've put your trust in someone who hates all that you are? You honestly don't think Fenris would have handed you over to the templars at the first opportunity?"

Amelle opened her mouth to reply, but never got the chance. A blur of movement was followed by a sickening crack, and in what felt like less time than it took to blink, Anders lurched and stumbled backward, slamming so hard against the wall the paintings rattled. Amelle saw his eyes flash wildly with the unearthly light that always presaged the appearance of the spirit within him; she drew in a quick breath of mana and adjusted her grip on her staff, a litany of defensive spells poised on her lips and power warming her fingertips, even as the soft voice in her head cried out, We haven't the time for this!

"Do not dare presume to know my mind, mage." Fenris' words were a growl, his expression dark with rage, counter to the bright white light coming off his skin. "You were told to leave — now go."

Amelle couldn't tell if Anders looked mutinous or simply wretched, but with one last look at them all, he slunk from the room. Fenris followed him out, leaving the sisters alone.

Once they were out of earshot, Amelle turned to Kiara, rushing to close the distance between them and hugging her tightly, mindless of the soot and blood covering them both. After the briefest hesitation, Kiara wrapped her arms around Amelle, squeezing in kind.

"Kiara," she said, somewhat breathlessly, "we've found Sebastian."

At Sebastian's name Kiara stepped back, holding Amelle at arm's length. Her grey eyes were wide, her face nearly bloodless. "You what?"

"We've found Sebastian."

She could see the calculations in Kiara's eyes — reliving Sebastian's unadulterated fury at her decision to let Anders live, no doubt — and something about her seemed to go almost preternaturally still.

"Are you… Did he hurt you?"

Amelle shook her head. "No — he's… he never made it out of Kirkwall. He was wounded in the fighting. He'd been injured by the time we found him."

"Badly?" Kiara asked almost reflexively.

Amelle nodded. "It's… it's not good, Kiri. There's more yet to do, but I… I think I've got him somewhat stable. Given time I…" she pursed her lips, wondering how much to tell. Given the number of empty bottles on the floor and the hurt radiating off her sister in nearly palpable waves, Amelle decided to reveal as little as possible until she knew more. "I think I can do it. Heal him. It's—I need more time with him, but…"

Kiara nodded wearily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Amelle saw her hand shake, and didn't think the tremor had anything to do with the amount her sister had imbibed. "Where is he?"

"I had Fenris bring him into the kitchen — more towels there. I… didn't expect to find Anders up here, but—"

"That makes two of us."

"But," Amelle said again, pointedly, "the way I see it, if I'm able to heal him, there's a chance we could—it might—"

Kiara lowered her hand. Her expression was unreadable as she said, "You're thinking it might… mollify him." From her tone, Amelle knew her sister thought it unlikely.

Then again, Kiara hadn't been in that alleyway.

"Emotions were running high — everyone's were. I don't believe he really—if he'd killed Anders, Kiri, it would've haunted him. I know it would have."

"He didn't just threaten Anders. He threatened Kirkwall."

Amelle bit the inside of her cheek, remembering the way the scene had played out, Kiara and Sebastian toe-to-toe, both crackling with rage and pain, each unwilling to listen to the other, and Anders huddled between them. "I know," she said. "But right now he's bleeding in our kitchen, and Kirkwall has nothing to fear. From him, anyway. I… I'm going to help him if I can, and then we can see. He's hardly a threat right now, and… and hasn't there been enough death?"

Kiara rubbed at her forehead, further streaking the grime there. "Yes," she answered wearily. "Yes, there has been."

She paused, peering at her sister's face, trying to read something there. Kiara's expression remained unnaturally inscrutable. It made Amelle uneasy—even more uneasy—as usually she had little trouble reading the map of her sister's face. "And maybe… maybe we can make him understand. Maybe he'll see reason."

"You honestly think so?"

"I think we need to at least try." Together they went into the kitchen where Sebastian lay on the floor, a folded towel beneath his head, his breastplate hastily pulled away from his injured body and discarded. The bleeding had slowed for now, but had not stopped entirely. She looked down at her patient then rocked back on her heels a bit, giving her sister what she hoped was an optimistic smile.

"And if it backfires horribly and he tries to kill us all?" Kiara asked, a shadow of her old tone creeping back into her voice.

"…I think I still have one of Varric's tar bombs. That should give us a head start at the very least."

Kiara glanced down where the injured prince lay, but Amelle noticed her sister seemed not to want to look too closely at him. And she would have sworn she saw pain flash across her face the moment she took in the dark red cloths covering the wound — but that expression vanished too quickly. Finally, she sighed. "At least it's a start."

"And that, sister dear," Amelle said, squeezing Kiara's hand, "is better than an end, any day."