"Wait!"

At the sound of the plaintive voice, Sebastian froze. No, he didn't just freeze. He was frozen. His chest began to ache with the strange, persistent throbbing he now recognized as the vestiges of the wound he bore in the waking world. This is the Fade. This is the Fade. Compassion said we were free to return to our realm. I cannot be held here against my will. I need only wake. He wanted to raise his hand to rub at the spot, to make certain he was not bleeding here as he'd bled there, but he could not. He could not swallow. He could not blink. He could not move at all.

"Wait," the little voice repeated, softer, more insistent, just to the left of Sebastian, but behind him. The single word, the single syllable, curled around him, coiling tighter and tighter, squeezing the resistance out of him. He couldn't turn his head, but he didn't need to. He knew whose voice it was. He knew what the owner of the voice wanted.

And you'll stay with me. You'll stay with me the whole time.

I'm not going anywhere.

Amelle was already at the door, and had pulled it open just enough for a beam of bright light to spill across the floor, making the interior of the chantry seem even dimmer by comparison. When the voice rang out, however, she released the handle.

No, Sebastian thought, as grief tugged at him, as hopelessness dragged him down with grasping, cold fingers. He could feel himself crumbling under the weight, giving up. Dying. No. Amelle, no.

But he couldn't find a way to give voice to the cry, and the door slammed shut again, leaving them to candlelight and stones still trembling with the aftereffects of the battle with Vengeance. The abrupt shift back to darkness made Sebastian's throat tight, and when he tried to inhale, his breath caught on an unvoiced sob.

Amelle turned, taking a few steps away from the door and back toward him—them—and all the while Sebastian wanted to plead with her, wanted to tell her to go, to leave him behind, to forget him, but he couldn't. The word wait ran circles in his head, echoing and redoubling on itself, trapping him in a cacophony of unkept promises.

Her dark brows furrowed as she looked past him, and the expression on her face was unmistakably pity, tinged with sorrow.

Not sorrow, Sebastian wanted to warn her. Anything but sorrow.

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian could see Compassion, and the spirit looked near as frozen as he. The spirit yet wore Anders' face—Anders' face and not—but wearier, more drawn, more haggard.

Not unlike the Anders Sebastian had known in Kirkwall. Anders beaten. Anders desperate. Anders despairing.

By the turn of the spirit's countenance, Sebastian knew it, too, was looking upon the little boy, but unlike Amelle's pity, Compassion's expression was one of confusion and pain.

And still Sebastian felt himself held immobile, snared by the word wait. A moment later, he felt a tug upon his mail coat. This, at last, freed him enough to look down. The orphan boy looked even more pitiful than he'd done the last time Sebastian had seen him, in the garden—Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey—ragged and filthy, face a mess of tears and snot.

"You promised," the child whispered, releasing Sebastian's clothing and slipping his cold fingers into Sebastian's numb ones. His breath caught at the touch, and though every fiber of his being longed to recoil, he could not. The child gripped tighter. "You promised me."

I know, Sebastian thought.

"Sebastian?" Amelle whispered without looking at him, her eyes locked on the child's slight, disheveled figure. He wished she might look at him, might see in his face the warning he could not speak aloud. "What—what's going on?"

The little boy turned his devastating gaze on Amelle, and tears spilled over his cheeks. Even now that Sebastian knew the boy had lied—had deceived him with images of Kiara Hawke's death—he couldn't help the pang the tears pulled from him. Amelle sank to her knees before the child, her own eyes wide.

"I'm lost," the child said.

Amelle pressed a hand to her heart and Sebastian heard the sharp inhale of her breath.

She knows, he told himself. Of course she knows. She has to know. Don't listen, Amelle.

But when Sebastian glanced at Compassion, he nearly gasped himself. The spirit was thinner, wanner, very nearly translucent in the dim chantry light. Streaks of silver threaded the fair hair, and hazel eyes were rheumy and clouded. Compassion's edges seemed almost frayed, as if losing grip on the form altogether.

Around them the walls still shook, and every now and again a piece of masonry crumbled from the ceiling or the wall, thudding to the ground, the sound a horrifying reminder of what Anders had done. Perhaps it wasn't a single blast of red light, but it was a destruction all the same, and Sebastian's eyes prickled with tears he couldn't shed.

"I'm lost. I can't find my way."

Amelle nodded. "We can help you," she said softly, settling her staff on the floor beside her.

No, we cannot. Don't listen to him.

Hands open and palms up, Amelle continued, "I know it's frightening, but you're only dreaming. All you have to do is wake up, and you'll be safe and sound, snug in your bed."

Even Sebastian could hear the waver in Amelle's tone, however, and it occurred to him to wonder just how safe a place Kirkwall was these days. The thought brought him pain. The pain brought further tightening of the coils of despair. His heart was beating too fast, and every pulse increased the ache in his breast.

"Everybody leaves me," the boy replied, and though he did not once slacken his grip on Sebastian's fingers, he raised his other little hand and held it toward Amelle. "You'll leave, too."

Tilting her head, Amelle extended her hand. At the last moment, caught by something—please, Amelle, please look at me, please look at Compassion, please—she curled her fingers in toward her palm and dropped the loose fist back to her lap. A brief spasm of frustration twisted the child's features, but his small fingers remained outstretched.

"Your… there's something about your voice. Where are you from?" Amelle asked, a hint of something more than just the usual query in her tone. "Where's your family?"

"No family," the boy whispered. "No home. Only this."

No.

"No," Sebastian managed to croak. It was a terrible, broken sound, hardly recognizable as a word at all, but it was enough to make Amelle look up at him.

"No!" cried the orphan child. "I'm lost! You promised!"

This time Amelle's hands didn't reach for the child or flutter to press at her breast, they covered her mouth, capturing her gasp. "Oh, Sebastian," she whispered, the words muffled by her fingers. Her green eyes swam with tears, and when she blinked up at him, fresh tracks dampened her cheeks. "Oh, Maker, he's y—"

"Go," Sebastian said. It was hardly more articulate than the no had been, but Amelle only shook her head.

"Everything's broken," the little boy said, the delight in his tone terribly at odds with the features still painted with grief. "You have to come with me."

He tugged on Sebastian's hand, hard, and Sebastian felt himself wanting to follow.

Wanting to give up.

Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey.

Amelle bowed her head. An instant later her hand shot out, wrapping tightly around her staff. "Begone, demon," she said, all quaver gone from her voice. "You are not welcome here. And you saw what happened to the last of your kind."

"Vengeance," the child scoffed. His voice still held the faint trace of Starkhaven, but mingled now with a strange, inhuman echo like several voices speaking at the same time. Several unpleasant voices. "Bluster and arrogance in a fragile shell. No. He is mine. You will be, too."

Here, Compassion made a sound that—had he still been in his cat form—would certainly have been a hiss. It sounded as unwillingly torn from him as Sebastian's own no had done. Sebastian lifted his eyes, and Amelle turned her head. Even the demon child wearing his tearstained face granted the other spirit a moment of attention.

"Weakness," the child said, in the terrible voice that was no longer very much like a child's at all. "Giving. I can always take more, you know. I can always take and take and make you feel you're still not giving enough." The boy tilted his head and smiled sweetly, even through his tears. "What will you do, mage? Burn me? Freeze me? Take me and you'll take him, too. He's mine."

The cold little hand pulled again, and Sebastian moved half a step backward. Torn between horror at the demon-child's words and relief that he could once again move, he almost missed the resolve hardening Amelle's eyes and setting her chin. No, he thought again, more desperately. He knew that look. It was the one Kiara Hawke had worn the moment before she accepted the Arishok's challenge. It was the one she'd worn when she turned so sharply and snapped, "Do not interfere, Sebastian."

He didn't feel rage, now, when he remembered it. He felt only fear—fear and sorrow and the certainty he'd fail Hawke here as he'd failed her in life, only this time he'd not be the only one to pay the price. Amelle, with her determination and her kindness and her blighted compassion, would fall with him, and in the waking world, Hawke would mourn her.

"No," he said aloud, as clear and strident as his earlier attempts at speech had been the opposite.

"You promised," the child reminded him. "You promised me."

Sebastian inhaled deeply, slowly. He felt Amelle's eyes on him, and wondered what she was thinking. "I've broken promises before."

The demon's lips twitched into a smirk. "And I know the grief those broken promises have caused you. I see the open wounds, still oozing despair, still poisoning you, binding us ever closer."

For a moment, Sebastian believed the demon. He believed with his whole heart. And then he remembered. He remembered the body on the bier—Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey—and he knew the vision for what it was. A trap. A ploy. "You lied to me," Sebastian said, trying to pull away from the child. The demon still clasped his hand tightly, but Sebastian didn't miss the way the child's blue eyes widened, or the flash of annoyance in their depths. "You lied to me," he repeated, "and you're lying now."

The demon's eyes narrowed, and the blue drained away almost entirely, leaving them a strange, milky hue. "Perhaps it was an… exaggeration, but she's just as dead to you."

"No," Amelle insisted. "That is a lie. Hurt or frustrated or… or angry isn't the same as dead."

"You lied to me," Sebastian repeated a third time, not once taking his gaze from the demon-child's. "And I do not owe you anything. You cannot hold me here against my will."

The demon howled, and Sebastian waited for the change. He waited for the child to twist and shudder and become a dark creature like Vengeance. He thought about how many arrows were left in his quiver, and then wondered if quivers in the Fade merely filled themselves again once they were empty. But the child did not change, and the only sound was another vast chunk of masonry falling loose from the ceiling. This one crashed into the huge statue of Andraste with the wretched, shrieking cry of stone tearing through metal.

Sebastian pulled his hand away. It still felt cold—cold to the bone; cold as death; like it would never be warm again—but at least it was his once more.

The child began, once again, to weep. They weren't just tears. It was grief unlike anything Sebastian had ever heard. Broken images from his own childhood flooded through his mind, bathing him in remembered sorrow. The night his mother miscarried his baby sister. His father, turning away from him in disgust and disappointment again and again and again. The subtle torment of his elder brothers. Things taken and broken and stolen and lost. Do not interfere, Sebastian.

"No," he said. "No."

And he turned toward the door, remembering that single beam of light, that narrow path to freedom.

It wasn't like the fight with Vengeance. It wasn't like the battle they'd waged with Allure under the Harimann estate. It was even more personal. Even more painful.

He paused, wanting to take another step, wanting to move forward. Wanting. Not quite able.

And then a small cat darted into his path, though it wasn't quite as solid as it had been, and though it looked more grey than orange now, the jewel-bright eyes were the same, and when it opened its mouth and uttered a plaintive little mew, Sebastian found he could take another step. He heard Amelle beside him, the swish of her robes almost lost under the incessant cries of grief behind him. The cat dashed ahead, waited, meowed, and Sebastian followed.

No, he thought, pushing the old pain away, banishing the old sorrows. One step at a time. No. No. No.

He was startled when Amelle reached out and gripped his hand tightly. The warmth of her skin chased away the residual chill the child-demon's fingers had left behind, and he felt yet another coil of the demon's hold loosen and fall away. Perhaps not all of it could be banished—the grief was his, after all, and it was real.

But it didn't have to hold him.

It didn't have to kill him.

"Don't look back," he whispered.

"You don't look back, either," she said. "We're getting out of this together."

"Aye. Together."

He did look back, though, just for an instant, when they'd almost reached the base of the steps—the spot where once a chanter's board had stood. The Kirkwall Chantry rose towering into the purple sky, gleaming in the sunlight the way it never again would in the waking world. He spared a moment's thought—a moment's prayer—for those who'd died with the building, and another for those who'd been wronged by it.

And then he let it go.

The little cat sat at the top of the stairs, swishing its tail in the bright sunlight.

Amelle still held tight to his hand.

Then she turned, facing him, and gave it a hearty squeeze. Faint lines of worry still creased her brow. "Okay," she said. "Are you ready to wake up?"

"Aye," he said, and meant it.

Reaching up, she laid her other hand over his heart, and as the hot-cold thrum of magic filled him, he woke.

###

Amelle's eyes flew open as she sucked in a sudden breath. She lay still a moment, taking in her surroundings — a darkened room, shadows dancing chaotically across a cracked ceiling as flames licked hungrily at logs in the roaring fireplace, and beneath it all, an earthy, spicy scent. Everything was warm, cast in a golden glow, and for a fleeting moment she wasn't sure if she had woken, but she was warm, and Amelle could feel the chill of the Fade, the bone-deep cold she'd felt sinking through her in the despair demon's presence. It was gone, and she was awake. And warm. Part of that warmth, she realized dimly, came from the woolen blanket covering her, scratching gently against her cheek as she turned her head. She didn't recognize the blanket, didn't remember covering herself with it, but was grateful for it all the same.

She blinked again, slowly; Amelle was at home, in her— no, not her home, but Fenris'. She remembered that now, but it was of little consequence. What truly mattered was that she'd made it out of the Fade, that she'd succeeded.. Kirkwall was dark beyond the cracked window — it was still nighttime, then, or near morning. The sky hadn't been quite so black before, but rather a dusky purple-grey. Now, though, she had no idea what time it could possibly be and she had to give her head a shake to rid it of the lingering cobwebs and disorientation.

With a slightly shaky breath of relief, Amelle sat up, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders. She held her head in her strangely unaffected hands — after such a battle, she ought to have felt the residual tingle of fire, ice, and lightning along her fingertips, but there was nothing — slowly massaging her temples.

Fenris' voice came from somewhere in the vicinity of the hearth, somewhere to her right. "Amelle."

For a moment it was nice to simply hear his voice, the gentle crackling of the fire beneath it, all without the vast echo that imbued all sounds in the Fade. The colors, the noises, the battle — oh, Maker, the battle — had left her head pounding. She wanted to sleep for a week,which was pretty ironic, all things considered.

"Present and accounted for," she mumbled. "Dare I ask how long I was out?"

"Several hours. It is late, but not yet midnight. Did you accomplish what you wished to?"

"I think I did. I hope I did." She looked up to see Fenris standing not three feet from the bedside. "Several hours?" She gave him an apologetic grimace. "Don't tell me you were standing there the whole while."

His lips twitched in something like a smile, but it passed too quickly for Amelle to be sure. "I did sit, on occasion. I believe I even have walked from one end of the room to the other."

"As long as you weren't bored."

"I am accustomed to being alone with my thoughts."

She smiled a little at that. "Yes, I suppose you are." Then, stretching her limbs, she pushed herself up and off the bed. "I suppose we ought to go see if my endeavor worked, hmm?"

There was a heavy pause before Fenris spoke again. "There is one matter we must attend to, first."

Amelle laced her fingers together and stretched her arms high above her head, arching her back. "And what's that?"

"There is a task you charged me with. Do you not recall it?"

The lingering fog that clung stubbornly to the corners of Amelle's mind dissipated in a rush. "Oh, right," she said, letting her arms fall and swing by her sides. "Fair enough." She cleared her throat. "Fenris, I, Amelle Arista Hawke, am not possessed, nor am I an abomination, and I give you my solemn word that I most certainly did not enter into any pacts with any demons while I was in the Fade." She grinned. "Now, let's go check on Sebastian, shall we?"

But Fenris didn't say anything. He only pulled his sword free from its sheath, twisting the pommel resolutely in his hands. Amelle blinked at the long blade; for a moment it seemed even bigger than she was, and far sharper than she remembered.

"Um, Fenris?' Amelle said, pausing to clear her throat. "You did hear me say I'm not an abomination, right? Which is…" she stopped, never taking her eyes off the blade, and let out a groan, "which is probably exactly what I'd say if I were one. Blast it." She tipped her head back and addressed the ceiling. "Maker's breath, I should have seen this coming."

"Words are well and good, Amelle, but you must provide me proof you have not been… compromised." Fenris' tone was heavy, and each word felt like a lead weight hung around her neck. Proof? Proof? What proof could she possibly ever hope to offer him? Amelle put her hands up in a placating gesture and took a cautious step back, just to place a bit more distance between herself and that blighted sword.

"Okay, now, Fenris," said Amelle, casting about the room for inspiration and finding none, "let's not be hasty. Kiara will be incredibly put out if you behead me without her say so. Why don't we just discuss this a moment like civilized people? You want proof? I can… I can probably give you proof. Just tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it."

"I… cannot tell you what will satisfy me, Amelle," replied Fenris, with a slow shake of his head.

"Oh, well that's just asinine," riposted Amelle with a flash of impatience. "You want proof, but won't tell me what proof will satisfy you? Andraste's tits, don't you think that's a bit unreasonable?"

Fenris took a step closer. It really was a large sword. Amelle had never had cause to examine it so closely. "I am doing what you asked," he said, his tone resolute.

"No," she replied, sidestepping the blade and picking up the staff she'd abandoned. "No, no, this is absolutely not the same thing as what I asked you to do. I am reasonably certain I'd remember having asked you to do anything like this. I said, if I come back talking crazy—"

"Demons are canny creatures, Amelle." Each word sounded as if it were being torn from him "Surely you know that."

Amelle sighed — that was all too true. Painfully true. But still. "Okay, well," she began brightly. "How about I just keep trying, and maybe if I'm very lucky I'll trip over something that passes for acceptable proof?" She wondered if Fenris heard the sarcasm in her voice. She wondered also if said sarcasm could be heard over the tremble of fear she was beginning to feel, deep in her gut.

Fenris only nodded, inviting her to continue.

"Okay," began Amelle, gripping her staff tightly in one hand, taking slow, measured steps backward, away from Fenris — it did no good, he only came closer — as she wracked her brain for what in the Maker's name could pass for proof that she wasn't possessed by a demon.

Amelle decided, fairly swiftly, that such a task had no business being this hard.

"Okay," she said again, speaking quickly and trying to think even faster than that. "I remember the night we first met — you called me a viper. And, I mean, really, Fenris? A viper? Really? And— and the chest you sent us after — well, you, through your proxy — was empty. And you weren't very happy about that, I remember. Not surprised, but not happy. I remember that. And do you remember the time—"

But Fenris cut her off with a jerk of his head. "A demon would have access to your memories."

Amelle flung up the hand not holding her staff. "Oh, Maker's asscrack, Fenris! I'm running out of options! Throw me a bone, here!"

"You must think of something, Amelle." He raised the sword. "I beg you, do so quickly."

Breathing a particularly foul curse under her breath, Amelle turned on the ball of her foot and sprinted from the room, yelling back over her shoulder, "Kind of hard to think when you've got that blighted bloody thing out, you know!" She drew in a breath, feeling her mana shift inside, and on her exhale, a shield shimmered into place around her; Amelle wasn't sure how long it would hold Fenris back, but something was always better than nothing. If it bought her time to think, that would be enough.

Sweet Andraste, she hoped it would be enough.

"Okay, all right — I'll tell you what happened in the Fade," she called over her shoulder. "How about that? It was like I thought — Sebastian was trapped there. And there were demons, and we beat them, Fenris. We fought, and we beat them. No demon-pacts were entered."

The whistling swish of the greatsword behind her — close, too; she could feel the breeze through her shield — was enough to tell Amelle her words hadn't been enough. Again, she swore, hurrying down the stairs, taking the bottom three at a jump. She hit the floor hard; her thin leather slippers provided no cushion against the hard floor, and Amelle's ankles ached with the shock. Fenris' sword came down, hitting the outer edge of her barrier with a muffled, twanging noise — more than enough to send Amelle running again. Gripping the banister, she spun around the corner, nearly tripping over a desiccated corpse in the process, Amelle shrieked and though she missed the corpse, stumbled and fell hard to her knees, the staff clattering to the floor and rolling out of reach.

Amelle flung herself onto her back and put up her hands, calling forth another shield in time to see Fenris standing — looming — over her, his sword raised.

Breathe, rabbit, she told herself as she struggled to obey. Breathe and think. Think, damn it!

"Okay, all right, let's be civilized about this," she began, keeping one hand up to control the shield while she pushed herself up on her other elbow. "Did I say that already? I think I said that already. Doesn't matter. Okay, so. Proof. Proof I'm not possessed. Right. I can do that. I'm sure I can do that."

"So you've said. At length," replied Fenris, dryly. But for how wry his tone was, the elf's features — his eyes in particular — reflected… something that looked a great deal to Amelle like worry.

Gradually, Amelle pushed herself to her feet. A wild thought occurred to her, sure to be filed under So Crazy It Just Might Work, provided it did work and didn't end horribly. She really wasn't in the mood for this to end horribly.

"Right," she said, unable to hold back a nervous, frantic little giggle. "So I did."

"Very well." The sword moved — not back into Fenris' scabbard, but rather higher and closer: precisely at the same height as Amelle's throat.

It's now or never. And, with another breath, Amelle let her shield shimmer away. She lowered her hands and lifted her chin, meeting Fenris' gaze steadily. Maker, she hoped she was meeting his gaze steadily. "This is my proof," she said evenly. "This."

Fenris said nothing; he only lifted his dark brows at her, a tacit invitation to elaborate.

Very, very carefully, Amelle took a step forward, until the very tip of Fenris' blade rested lightly — so very lightly — against her skin. She held her palms out in surrender, never taking her eyes from his. Amelle was satisfied, to say nothing of grateful, to notice that while her own breathing remained slow and steady, Fenris' hitched slightly. His eyes widened a fraction.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice so low she fancied it could have been lost in the mansion's shadows.

"My proof," she answered, privately shocked at the quiet resolve in her voice. "I'm not going to defend myself against you, Fenris. Not now, not ever." Amelle lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. "My proof is my trust. It's all I can give you that a demon wouldn't."

###

Now that she knew what she was doing, feeding Sebastian his broth was an oddly soothing task. She almost found herself looking forward to the hypnotic rhythm of it. Still, it was only broth, and he wasn't a small man, and each time she sat on his bed with his head in her lap, she noticed the subtle—and not so subtle—differences brought about by his long illness. She found herself staring, unblinking, at the curve of his cheek, wondering if the cheekbone was even more prominent than it had been just that morning. It seemed impossible, and yet. And yet. She couldn't ignore the way his body took up less space beneath the blanket, or the way, even closed, his eyes seemed sunken in their sockets. She couldn't ignore the pallor of his skin beneath the remnant of his tan.

She couldn't ignore that he was dying. Every drop of liquid she forced down his throat felt like standing before a horde of enemies with only her bare fists as defense. It wasn't enough, and she knew it.

But knowing and accepting were two vastly different things. Even now, with the bowl of broth empty, and Sebastian's head inert on her lap, she wasn't willing to concede defeat. "I know you're tired," she said softly, setting the bowl aside but not yet rising. "Amelle is trying. She's trying really hard. Give her a little more time, okay? Just… give her a little more time."

Leaning back, Kiara rested against the headboard and turned her neck, to look out the window. Amelle had left the curtains open, but the sky was dark now, and outside the little circle of light cast by the candle on the nightstand, the room was shadowy. "I should light some more candles," she said. "Not that it's a trial sitting here alone in the dark with you, Sebastian Vael, but—"

And then he… made a sound. It was soft, hardly more than a breath, and so faint she almost thought she'd imagined it. Indeed, if the sound hadn't been accompanied by movement, she might have believed she had. But his eyelids definitely twitched. His lips definitely parted. His head moved ever so slightly; she felt the shift against her legs.

Kiara froze. Putting out both hands reflexively, she braced herself against the bed and held perfectly, completely, utterly still. Or at least as still as her pounding heart would allow. You imagined it, she told herself firmly. You're so desperate for some sign, any sign—

And then his eyelashes fluttered, and she found herself looking down into Sebastian's ever-so-blue eyes. His body might be thinner, his hair unkempt, and his cheeks hidden beneath a very unfamiliar beard, but the eyes were the same. Unfocused and bleary and bloodshot as they were, they were Sebastian's eyes, and they were open, and he wasn't dead.

And Maker's balls, she had to get Amelle. Her lips were parted to shout when she realized perhaps screaming into the ear of a man who'd been asleep for nearly two weeks probably wasn't the intelligent choice.

He blinked—blinked, but his eyes did open again; she wasn't imagining things—and this time she saw the hint of recognition flicker across his face. The recognition became a grimace, however, as he inhaled deeply and something pained him. His lips parted again, and his brow furrowed when—she suspected—he tried to find words and could not.

"I'll get Amelle," Kiara whispered. She feared the words sounded a great deal more strained than reassuring. As gently as she could, she extricated herself from her position on the bed. He gasped when she settled his head on the pillow, and again she hesitated. Hands hovering, torn between running for Amelle and making sure he wasn't going to bleed out before her sister could return, Kiara gently drew back the blanket. The bandage was crisp and white, just as Amelle had left it. Satisfied, at least for the moment, Kiara pulled the blanket up again, covering Sebastian's chest. His eyes followed her. Heart still racing, she met his gaze. "I'll get Amelle," she repeated, trying to sound reassuring. The quaver in her voice undermined the intent, somewhat. "Please… just try to be still until she comes."

He blinked, and tipped his chin into the tiniest nod she'd ever seen. It was a nod, though. She felt certain of that.

She was also certain of the panic and the pain. He'd have hidden them if he could, she knew him well enough to know that, and because they weren't hidden, she knew he was suffering. Touching her fingertips swiftly, lightly to the back of his hand, she whirled and fled toward the door. The candle flickered with the breeze of her passing, but remained lit, and when she allowed herself a brief look over her shoulder, she could see Sebastian in the tiny pool of light, eyes still open, staring back at her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she ran for Amelle's room. She didn't bother knocking; Amelle would be sound asleep, and it was always kinder—and more effective—to wake her sister with a gentle shake in place of a panicked scream or a sudden smash of fist to wood.

However, instead of a dark, tousled head on the pillow, Kiara saw only an empty bed. Untouched. Obviously unslept in. Damp towels lay abandoned near the wardrobe. She didn't think she was imagining a missing staff from the collection Amelle kept lined up along one wall.

"Shit," Kiara breathed. "The bloody Blooming Rose. Again. Shit."

And though she knew Aveline—and Cullen, for that matter—would have her head for it, Kiara had to go get her. She didn't trust Sebastian's condition. She didn't want what could be a narrow window to close forever, not if she—and Amelle—could do something about it.

She didn't bother going for her bow; there wasn't time, and she didn't want to invite trouble by going armed into a city already predisposed to see her as a threat. Instead, she grabbed one of Amelle's cloaks, sweeping it around her shoulders as she strode from the room and headed for the front door. It was too short, but that hardly mattered.

"Mistress Kiara?" Orana's sleepy voice came. The girl stood near the door to the kitchen, wrapped in a shawl, blinking blearily. "Is something the matter?"

"Did my sister say where she was going?"

Orana shook her head. "I… I didn't know she left. I'm sorry, Mistress."

Curious. Kiara paused, itching to go, but suddenly not quite certain where. "Someone didn't come for her?"

Again Orana shook her head, her face falling as though Amelle's disappearance was somehow her fault. "Not unless it was after I retired, Mistress. But I… I didn't hear anyone at the door."

Maker's bloody balls, Amelle.

"Okay," Kiara said. "No, I'm sure it's fine. She… she probably went on her own. It's probably fine. Orana, Sebastian is awake. I wonder if you could… could you go sit with him? Until I return with—"

Orana's eyes widened. "But, Mistress, you're not supposed to—"

Kiara shook her head roughly. "I can't wait for Amelle to show up on her own. I'll take Cupcake." She whistled sharply, and a moment later the mabari came bounding in, looking pathetically happy about being included. He butted his huge head against Kiara's thigh, and in her exhausted state the force was nearly enough to send her staggering. Instead, she reached out and settled her hand on his steady head. "C'mon, Killer. You'll protect me, won't you?"

The dog whuffed and licked her hand.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Kiara said. "Please—he's probably—make sure he stays still. I don't know what's going on with that wound, and I don't want him to move until Amelle looks at it. Give him more broth, maybe. If he'll take it."

Orana nodded, and Kiara pushed the door open. The night air was cool and sweet, and she felt almost—almost but not entirely—hopeful as she turned toward the Blooming Rose.

Only to be stopped by her mabari's sharp bark. She whistled again, but he sat heavily, resolute. "Come on, Cupcake," she muttered. "We don't have time for this. We've got to go find Amelle."

He barked again, and rose, but did not follow her. Instead, he took three or four steps in the opposite direction. Kiara grimaced, trying to rein in her instant frustration. "She's probably at the Blooming Rose," she explained. The mabari tilted his head and took a few more steps away. "She goes to heal people there."

If a dog's expression could be scathing, Killer's would have been. He gave another little bark before trotting off without a backward glance.

"Do you have her scent or something?" Kiara called after him. The dog turned, tongue lolling in a canine grin. "If you're leading me on a wild goose chase, I'll turn you into stew."

The huffing sound the mabari made as she caught up with him almost sounded like laughter. After a few minutes of walking as fast as they could, Kiara paused, tilting her head. "Fenris? You think she went to get Fenris? I mean, it's what I'd've asked her to do, but taking the initative…?"

They hurried the rest of the way, half-jogging, while Kiara held close the memory of Sebastian's open eyes. Open eyes had to mean something. It had to mean Amelle's power was working, or Sebastian's body was finally healing, or… or something. It had to mean something. She only hoped it was something good, and not like the way the very ill could sometimes appear to take a turn for the better just before…

No, she told herself firmly. No, it isn't that. He's not dying. He's not. He's going to be fine. Amelle will make sure he's fine.

She flung open the door to Fenris' estate without knocking—there was no point to knocking; he was always holed away up in the rooms he'd taken for himself at the very back of the place and never heard knocks even when she attempted them.

And she stopped, frozen.

Because Amelle and Fenris were in the foyer. The point of Fenris' blade was resting against her baby sister's breastbone. Amelle's hands were raised in surrender. They didn't so much as turn to look at her. Kiara's mouth worked, but for all the cursing running circles in her head—and for all she wished she'd brought her blighted bow after all—actual words eluded her.

Killer whined, tilting his head. Then, instead of jumping Fenris, instead of pinning the elf beneath his weight as Kiara wished he would do, the mabari sat.

And, as if she were not there at all, Fenris nodded once, slowly, letting out a deep breath as he lowered his sword, returning it to its sheath.

"I am satisfied."

Satisfied? Kiara thought. Satisfied about what?!

"What?" Amelle blinked, dropping her hands. "But… I didn't do anything."

"That is the point, Amelle." He tilted his head—not unlike the mabari still sitting placidly at Kiara's side—and the faintest smile played at his mouth. "You did nothing. You didn't even use magic to defend yourself — which, I confess… surprises me."

Amelle sank to the floor and began to giggle.

"Maker's blood, Fenris," she managed.

"What," Kiara finally found the words—the voice—to bellow, "in the name of all that's holy is going on here? Satisfied?! Defend yourself? What?"

"Ahh," Amelle said, finally actually meeting her gaze, and having the good grace to blush ever so slightly. "Um. Not what it looks like."

"What it looks like is Fenris about to kill my little sister," Kiara said, glowering at the elf. The look Fenris gave her in return was obnoxiously inscrutable.

"Ahh," Amelle repeated, pulling herself upright once again and running brisk hands over the wrinkles in her dress. "No. Not quite." She giggled again, sounding just a shade this side of unhinged. "Maker, nothing like a little Exalted March to get the blood flowing."

This at last made Fenris' stony expression shift, though Amelle didn't seem to notice the concerned—even hurt, Kiara thought—turn of his countenance.

Exalted March. Exalted bloody March.

Kiara started to giggle, too. And then Amelle raised her eyes to meet hers, and they both started. Fenris crossed his arms over his chest and settled into a truly magnificent glower. "I fail to see the humor," he muttered.

Which only made them laugh the harder. Until Amelle stopped just as abruptly as she'd started and said, "Kiri! What—what are you—is it Sebastian? Did something—"

"He woke up," Kiara said. "Well. He opened his eyes. And then you weren't there. I was going to go to the Rose, but Cupcake wouldn't let me."

"Good dog," Amelle cooed.

"Good sister should have left a note, at the very least," Kiara said sternly. "Maker's breath, Mely, what were you thinking?"

Amelle winced, and offered her a brief, placating smile. "Scold me later? I should make sure he's recovering."

"Oh, there'll be a later," Kiara threatened. "And there'll be scolding. Don't you worry about that. Especially since I get the feeling you're telling me exactly as little as you think you can get away with."

But it didn't matter, not really. Amelle was safe. Somewhere, Sebastian's eyes were open.

For the first time in a long time, Kiara almost felt hope.