Amelle woke early — far earlier than she might have otherwise done, given the wine they'd drunk the night before — feeling not only refreshed (or she did after applying a bit of healing mana in the direction of her hangover) but eager to do something.

And she had a feeling she knew exactly what.

The events of the previous night had stayed with her, burning bright, even through the Aggregio's intoxicating effects. Long after she retired, Amelle had lain in bed, thoughts circling madly through her head, memories flickering rapidly behind her eyelids, replaying the first moments she'd held Ianna's babe in her arms. Such a tiny thing, with tiny fingers clenched into tiny fists, and tiny feet with tinier toes kicking in something akin to indignation as the baby squalled with lungs that certainly sounded full-grown.

Life. It was life held in her arms, pink and wrinkly and loud, but it was enough. Enough to remind Amelle that as horrible as things had been lately, and for as much death blanketed Kirkwall now… there was always life. And where there was life, there was hope.

Never had Anders' actions seemed further away. The many innocent lives he'd taken in an act of vengeance dressed up so poorly as justice had stuck with her, clung to her, dogged her every step, and with every victim recovered or — as was more frequently the case — every partial victim recovered, Amelle had felt more and more heartsick and betrayed.

You were supposed to be a healer!

Amelle struggled with Anders' actions — still — in a way she wasn't sure she could explain to anyone else. As a mage she felt sickened by the idea that such an act had been committed on her behalf — if such was the price of freedom, it was too dear, and Amelle was left feeling as if the blood of those innocents stained her hands as well. But the deepest betrayal was the one she felt as a healer. She'd looked up to Anders at one time, sharpening and fine-tuning her own considerable healing abilities, always pushing herself to improve, to learn new skills and spells and potions, to help.

It was not Amelle-the-mage, but rather Amelle-the-healer who struggled most with what Anders had done. The healer who had soothed burns and mended bones and oozing battle wounds — of bystanders and templars both — in the aftermath. Anders had remade this world, and Amelle was left to pick up the pieces knowing nothing would ever truly be the same as it was.

But holding that life in her hands — squirming, screaming, red-faced life — changed something in her. No matter what Anders had done, no matter how many he'd killed in the wake of his grand gesture, life still persevered. They would endure, all of them, and even if the worst should occur, life would still march on, and the world would be made whole again, somehow.

It was with equal parts optimism and raw determination that Amelle levered herself out of bed and dressed in her shabbiest clothes. Downstairs, she found Orana gliding about the kitchen, making the morning buns. The elf had been overly modest about her cooking skills from the start, but with a few recipes and after a little trial and error, Amelle and Kiara had decided the girl was the best thing to happen to them since arriving in Kirkwall. Varric inevitably looked tragically hurt and put-upon at these words — but only until he held one of Orana's sticky-buns, still warm from the oven and covered in a gloriously melty sugar-glaze, in his hands.

Amelle padded silently through the kitchen and opened the door to one of the storage closets at the back of the room, vanishing inside. She heard Orana slide the buns into the oven and the soft footfalls as she followed Amelle to the closet. She paused at the doorway and tilted her head curiously as Amelle peered at the contents of the closet, stacked so neatly on the heavy shelves. Another thing she admired about Orana: the girl was organized. But alas, the items Amelle was looking for were nowhere to be found.

"Mistress?" Orana asked, watching Amelle as she summoned a gentle blue light into existence and rose upon tiptoes to examine the higher shelves. "What are… what are you doing?"

"Where do we keep the scrub brushes and buckets?"

But the elven girl simply looked at her, as if she didn't quite grasp the intricacies of Amelle's request. She then cocked her head a little, reminding the mage vaguely of Cupcake. "But why are you looking for such things at all, Mistress?"

Amelle's mouth worked silently a moment. Why else would someone be on the hunt for cleaning supplies? "Because I… want to clean something?"

"But…" Orana hesitated, looking distressed as her fingers went to the hem of the apron she wore and fiddled anxiously with the material.

Amelle lifted both eyebrows at the elf, inviting her to finish her thought. "But…?"

"But that's my job, Mistress Amelle," she explained, looking strangely concerned. "To keep the house clean for you and Mistress Kiara. If you think I haven't been doing a very good job, I promise I'll—"

"No, no, Orana!" blurted Amelle, holding her hands up. "No, it's… no. You're doing fine, really. Wonderful, in fact." Here her expression went slightly sheepish. "This isn't… in the house. Exactly."

"If you just let me know what it is you'd like taken care of—"

"Truly, Orana," she broke in, "it's all right. I want to do this myself; I promise. I want to. I swear it. It's okay. Just tell me where the buckets and brushes are and I'll be out of your hair until such time as those buns come out of the oven."

After some negotiating and several more assurances that Orana kept the house in excellent condition, Amelle found herself in possession of several scrub brushes and two buckets. She went out to the well and filled both, and as Amelle struggled to carry in the two very full, very heavy buckets of water through the kitchen and down to the cellars, she found herself in the path of yet another elf — this one looking far more displeased with her than the first had.

"Good morning, Fenris," she chirped, blithely ignoring the water she'd just sloshed onto the floor. "You're looking…" Amelle trailed off, peering at him. "Not very well at all."

"It… is early," he said slowly, looking curiously at the buckets.

"And you're… hungover."

For a moment — and only a moment — Fenris looked ready to deny this claim. Then he only grimaced and shook his head, evidently realizing too late he should have thought better of it.

"Perhaps."

"I did promise to help." Amelle shrugged, gesturing briefly. Her gift for healing hangovers was well-known among her sister's friends; Isabela managed to require it twice in a day, once. But for reasons that were no secret to Amelle, Fenris had always abstained. He'd never been rude about it, and she still always offered, but he'd simply… didn't.

This time, however, Fenris appeared to consider for a moment, and for half that moment Amelle was certain he'd refuse. In the end, though, he nodded once. "Very well."

"Very well?" Amelle blinked. "I— you… Fenris, did you just say yes?"

"I did."

"Oh."

He canted his head at her after a moment. "Is there… a problem with that?"

"No, no. No problem at all." Amelle felt her cheeks warm as she lifted her hands. "No, it's just… odd, that's all." She placed her hands against Fenris' head, fingers resting gently by his temples. The hot-and-cold pulse of her healing magic shifted forward, trickling out until Fenris let out a sigh of what was almost certainly relief.

She pulled her hands away and peered at him. Smiling suddenly, she said, "You know, there was a time when you wouldn't have let me pull a splinter from your hand."

Fenris let out a soft snort. "There was a time when I would have accused you of putting it there." He paused, then. "Thank you."

Suppressing the width and brightness of her smile — or at least reining in her smile — Amelle said, "You're very welcome. And beware those dreaded magical splinters. I plan to rule the world with them one day."

"And a more terrifying dictator I'm sure we'll never know." He nodded at the buckets of water, still sitting at their feet. "Tell me, are these part of your cunning plan?"

Amelle breathed a laugh and bent to retrieve the buckets, grunting at their weight. "Hardly. This… is a different errand." Maker, but they were heavy.

"Amelle." But before she could turn to reply — and spill more water in the process — Fenris let out an exasperated sigh and took hold of both handles, smoothly relieving Amelle of the buckets entirely.

"You don't have to—"

Fenris reply was brusque. "You are far too likely to spill every drop before you reach your destination." He paused and frowned down at the buckets. "And I would repay you for…"

"Alleviating your hangover?"

"Indeed."

A tiny germ of an idea formed in Amelle's brain just then. "All right, then. If you're in the mood for a little heavy lifting, follow me. I think I've got just the thing."

###

"You look pleased," remarked Sebastian as Amelle came into the room, her arms full of bandages and poultices. It had been difficult at first, coming into this room to treat him while he slept, but over time, that ache healed over, and Amelle found it was slowly getting easier to enter the room that had once been their mother's. For now, the space was more or less Sebastian's. Orana had been up here already, it seemed; her patient, still propped up by pillows, held a cup of tea in his hands.

"And you are looking more and more like you're thinking about hanging around," she said, setting the supplies on a nearby table. A cloud seemed to pass over Sebastian's brow at her words and she quickly amended: "And by that I mean you're looking less and less like you're on death's door. It's a good thing, Sebastian. I assure you."

The look he gave her was a wry one. "Then I'm not overstaying my welcome?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, plucking up one of the jars of topical potion and working to unscrew the cap. "Overstaying your welcome in this house?" She paused, giving the lid another twist, to no avail.

"Aye."

"Why, we're just two helpless little girls, Sebastian," Amelle simpered, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly at him, even as she kept working at the jar.

"I see."

"I'm glad you do. It's a relief to have such a big strong man aroun— Maker, what the bloody hell's the matter with this thing?" she snapped suddenly, glaring down at the jar before giving it a quick, controlled flash of heat followed by a similarly quick, controlled whack against the edge of a table. With another twist, the lid came free.

There was a choking sound from the bed and Amelle hid her smirk as she opened the jar with ease and set it aside. "Don't aspirate the tea, Sebastian. Healer's orders."

The old bandages came off, and Amelle settled on the edge of the bed, leaning forward and scrutinizing the wound as she pulled the poultice free. She frowned at it. Then she glared. "You said it was feeling better."

"It was," Sebastian remarked with a grimace as Amelle continued to examine the red, angry skin. "I thought it was improving."

"Well, you're leagues better than you were," she said, and it was the truth, at least. He was awake, after all. He was also, more importantly, not dead.

Sebastian looked down at the injured area, shaking his head slowly, as if he could tell Amelle's thoughts. "It is truly a miracle you came along when… when you did."

Amelle only made a noncommittal noise, bowing her head — and avoiding Sebastian's eyes — as she concentrated on cleaning the area. She didn't quite feel like telling Sebastian precisely how close a thing it had been, finding him in that alley, the work it took to keep his spirit from departing. Once clean, she pressed gently at the skin around the area; it still felt hot. "You know, it's odd," she said, half to herself. "This is almost behaving as if the blade had been coated in poison."

"Why is that odd? Is it not entirely possible?"

"You said they were templars, right?" When Sebastian nodded, she shook her head. "Templars have little use for any poison that's not magebane based."

"Magebane?"

"Oh, nasty stuff," replied Amelle, her nose wrinkling as she sat back a bit. "My father laid hands on some once — took a trip all the way to Denerim for it."

"Why?"

She coughed lightly and shrugged. "So I could… experience it."

Sebastian gaped at her. "You're joking."

"Indeed not." She turned and picked up the jar she'd set aside earlier. "He wanted me to know it, to be able to identify its effects so I'd know the very moment I'd been exposed to it."

"What does it do?"

"It completely inhibits a mage's ability to spellcast. In large enough doses, it can be toxic — especially to spirit healers."

"But… that doesn't make sense."

"Think about it," said Amelle, gesturing with the jar, sending the herbal, medicinal scent of the topical potion within wafting out. "A spirit healer heals herself — or himself — constantly. If we're exposed to any common poison, we use that healing magic to combat it, purify it, and purge it from our system. We heal our own injuries and illnesses, but as a result we compromise our ability to work work up any sort of natural immunity to anything. Once you inhibit our spellcasting, we cannot protect ourselves even on the most basic level."

"Can you… build up an immunity to this magebane?"

"I don't know — no one's ever had access to enough of it to try." Amelle stuck two fingers in the sticky substance, and began applying it to the reddened, irritated skin surrounding the wound. "The templars keep it under pretty tight lock and key as I understand it. Father only managed to procure some on a fluke; there's a shop in Denerim — the Wonders of Thedas. The proprietor sometimes carried a small supply of… black market items."

"And your father… poisoned you with this magebane? How old were you?"

Amelle sighed and shook her head at him. "It was an important — if incredibly unpleasant — lesson. I understood at thirteen that he took no joy in it, but… I'll know if I've been exposed to magebane, and I can… well, at least I'll know that I won't be able to count on magic to get me out of that scrape. Which means falling back on charm." She grinned and gave him a wink.

"And what happened once you took it?"

"It worked entirely as advertised. I couldn't cast a spell, couldn't muster even the tiniest, most insignificant spark of magic. I also… well." Here Amelle stopped and grimaced, looking away as she set the jar back on the table.

"Dare I ask?"

The grimace didn't fade. "…Threw up. A lot." When Sebastian mimicked her expression, she shrugged. "I was working minor healing spells by then, so… yes. I learned how much harder healers get hit by it."

"Can the effects be counteracted?"

"My, you're interested in this stuff," said Amelle on a laugh; she tilted her head and sent him a smirk. "Planning to poison me in my sleep?"

In an instant, Sebastian went deeply pink, and Amelle realized too late she'd put her foot in her mouth — this was the man, mere days before, who had vowed to rain vengeance upon them all. "N-no, of course not! I wouldn't—"

"Calm down, Sebastian," said Amelle, giving him a level look. "Only teasing — I didn't mean anything by it. Truly. You ought to know me a little better than that by now, I should hope." She looked again at the bottles on the nearby table and plucked one up that shone an iridescent green in the glass. A tincture of elfroot that would help ease the heat that radiated from the wound. She handed him the bottle, silently indicating he drink it. "Anyway, to answer your question, nothing can really counteract magebane other than time. Lyrium potion does help, though. Father put me to bed and gave me a dram of it." She smiled then, a bittersweetly fond quirk of her lips. "Carver kept asking him if he could keep a vial of magebane for himself."

He handed her the empty bottle. "But your brother wasn't—"

"To use on me when I got insufferable."

"Insufferable? You?"

"Oh, you're not getting any of those stories out of me, serah. Weasel them out of my sister if you must, but on the topic of myself and the many foolish things I did as a child, my lips are sealed. I will not incriminate myself beyond acknowledging I might have been on occasion somewhat troublesome."

She hated the way his smile faded the moment she mentioned Kiara.

Idiots, she groused silently. The both of them.

"Now…" Amelle cracked her knuckles and shook out her hands as she stood over Sebastian. "Time for you to let me do the real work, hmm?"

Sebastian was healing slowly, too slowly, but he was healing, and that was enough for her to feel a measure of relief. She placed her hands over the injured spot, closing her eyes and feeling that little surge as her spirit healing energy surfaced. She felt the blue light surge into existence, felt it grow until the glow surrounded her hands, and she began pushing waves of the healing energy into the wound. When she looked down, she frowned to see the flesh still taking its time about healing. She drew in a breath and felt her mana shift, felt the light around her hands grow brighter, stronger, until that hotcold thrum turned more hot than cold, and the blue-white light turned more white than blue.

And still she pushed harder, drawing more intently upon her mana, the frown at her brow turning into a scowl as she worked to convince, coerce, and downright badger the flesh into knitting itself back together again.

Finally, when she couldn't sustain it any longer, Amelle let the light fade, and shook her head, leaning heavily against the bedpost for support. She blinked hard at the spots dancing before her eyes. "Why do your injuries have to be as stubborn as the rest of you? Honestly — everyone else, I just have to nudge a little here, pull a little there, and everything comes together. You? You have to go and be difficult."

"I suppose if I call it a talent, you'll just hit me."

She stared. Rising to the bait and returning a volley? Wound be damned, her patient was feeling better, it seemed. "Hitting? Please. I never resort to such barbaric measures," she sniffed. "That's what I have fireballs for."

"I'm sure it's a very… effective negotiation tool."

"Did you know I can make it so a man's eyebrows never grow back?"

"…Effective indeed."

She grinned crookedly and began applying the topical potion, settling the poultice in place. "You know, since you are feeling so much better, it might be a good time for you to try what we talked about last night." She glanced up from her work to send him a gently pointed look. "Remember?"

"Aye," Sebastian replied. He couldn't quite keep wariness out of his tone, she noticed. "I… would not mind a change of locale," Sebastian he added. "Provided the healer approves."

"As it happens, the healer does approve. How do you feel about rolling bandages?"

###

Kiara's door was closed. It would not do.

Amelle tripped downstairs, breathing in the scent of Orana's nearly-finished sticky buns. It had been a productive morning — Fenris had already helped her carry the cleaning supplies down the ladder and into the clinic; Sebastian's wound had been cleaned and tended, and Amelle's lightheadedness from that strangely intense rush of healing magic was gradually fading; Fenris was due back from the mansion any moment now; and Varric was on the hunt for more medical supplies. No telling how long that last one would take — bandages were a rare commodity right now — but she had faith in the dwarf's ability to find that which proved difficult to locate.

The only thing remaining was the matter of her sister.

"The buns are nearly finished, Mistress Amelle," Orana chirped. "Is Mistress Kiara awake yet?"

"Not yet," replied Amelle as she dragged a chair across the kitchen and stood upon it, the better to peer up at the highest shelf in the room. "But that's about to change," she added under her breath.

A simple, dented tin had been pushed back all the way to the wall, half hidden behind a delicately crafted porcelain tea-service — Orlesian make, according to the stamp on the bottom of the pieces, and one of the best discoveries the old family vault had yielded. The porcelain was nearly translucent, adorned with delicate, pale blue flowers and gilt accents. It was, in a word, exquisite.

It was also one of the sisters' favorite items in the house — their mother had been the one to find the tea service in the first place. "Girls, look at what I've found — Maker, I thought this lost forever. This was your grandmother's tea service, you know. Given to her on her wedding day." And how she'd smiled at this, eyeing her two daughters so speculatively. "And which of you shall I give it to, I wonder?" she'd asked, eyes twinkling. And then Leandra Hawke had lovingly and carefully cleaned the dirt and grime from every piece, before inviting her daughters to join her for afternoon tea, and presenting it to them with a flourish.

That day, filled with sunshine and laughter and three Hawkes sitting down to tea and cakes seemed like so many lifetimes ago. When Amelle touched the delicately curved spout of the teapot, she closed her eyes and saw her mother, healthy and radiant and alive, fussing over the tea and gently teasing Amelle about the days when she'd liked more milk and sugar in her tea than actual tea. Then drawing in a deep breath and steadying her hands, Amelle pulled the tray — and the tin of what Amelle knew was Kiara's so-called "secret" stash of Orlesian black tea, its leaves caramelized and dotted with flecks of tiny blue flower petals — from the shelf and crept carefully down from the chair.

"I've already put some water on for tea, Mistress Amelle."

Amelle chuckled and shook her head, the tea-service clinking gently as she set down the tray. "One step ahead of me again, Orana. I hope you won't mind if I speed things up a bit?"

The girl smiled and ducked her head as she shook it. "No, Mistress. Magic… you know it doesn't bother me."

No, Amelle supposed it didn't, though, as she sent a quick flare of magic to the kettle, she did hope she was a better example of it than Hadriana had ever been. Soon steam was rushing from the kettle's spout as it gave a strident whistle, and by the time the tea had finished steeping, Orana was pulling the buns from the oven and separating them, the gooey glaze pulling away in long, melting strings. Amelle grabbed one, then two, and placed them on the tray with the tea service. They only had sugar, as milk was still too difficult to come by in the market these days. Armed thus, Amelle swept up the tray and carried it up to her sister's room.

The bedchamber was, Amelle was entirely unsurprised to discover, dark. She could just barely make out the lump of blankets on the bed, a tuft of mussed red hair sticking out. So Kiara's head was under the pillow — a bad hangover, then.

Well, she'd try not to enjoy this too much, in that case.

Amelle set down the tray and moved to the window. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" she sang out, flinging the drapes open and letting midmorning sunlight stream into the room. Kiara's reaction was instant: Amelle's sister, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the woman who defeated the Arishok in a duel armed with only a bow and arrows, rolled over, jamming the pillow more firmly over her head, and whimpered.

"'M gonna kill you," mumbled a voice thick with sleep and misery. "A lot."

"Last I checked," Amelle replied cheerfully, "I was the one of us who could kill things with the power of her mind. You, on the other hand, would still have to get out of bed and do things like open your eyes. And focus."

"…Shut up. Still gonna kill you."

"I brought tea."

There was a calculating pause. "…Kill you after tea."

"And Orana's buns," added Amelle, temptingly.

That was enough to get Kiara to shove the pillow up from her head. "Buns?" she asked, peering out from beneath the pillow.

Amelle arched an eyebrow at her sister. "You have an appetite?"

The pillow came away as Kiara sat up, blinking in the bright sunlight. "I will after you, you know…" Kiara wiggled her fingers, gesturing at her head.

"You have no idea how tempting it is to pretend I have no idea what you're talking about, just to see if you'll do that again."

"You know, you're supposed to be my shining example of how all mages aren't mean and cruel," Kiara muttered sulkily. "I'm suffering, Mely."

"And we don't want me perpetuating the stereotype, do we?" sighed Amelle, sitting on the edge of Kiara's bed. Her sister grimaced at the sudden movement. "You know, maybe if you can't handle your Tevinter wine, maybe you shouldn't consider it a good idea to kill a whole bottle."

"I didn't kill the whole bottle. Fenris helped. And you too." Kiara peered at her sister. "Which makes me wonder why you're always so bloody bright eyed and bushy-tailed after we stay up too late drinking."

"Kiara. I can counteract Crow venom. A little bit of wine is child's play."

"I… cannot help but think that is a horrible waste of excellent wine."

Amelle grinned, poking Kiara in the arm. "You're just jealous I can enjoy it and not shamble about like the undead the next morning."

Kiara pouted. "I think you're a cheating cheater."

"A cheating cheater who brought you tea, buns, and is going to make all of your immediate woes go away."

Kiara's gaze drifted to the waiting tea and buns and she beamed. "And did I mention the best sister ever?"

Amelle grinned and leaned forward, kissing her sister's forehead, then touched the spot, sending a rush of healing energy free, washing away the aftereffects of indulgence until Kiara let out a relieved sigh. "Not lately, but I never get tired of hearing it."

"Anything you want," Kiara said, sagging with relief. "Anything. No price too high."

"As it happens," Amelle said, pouring her sister a cup of tea, adding sugar, and handing over the teacup, "I may let you make good on that."

"Is it illegal?" Kiara asked, scooting forward on the bed and reaching for a bun.

"I could tell you it is, if it'd make you happy. But no — it requires no sneaking, no skulking, no lockpicking, no daggers, no arrows, no feats of daring-do—"

"And you made me tea and brought me Orana's buns." As if the idea just occurred to her, Kiara looked up and narrowed her eyes shrewdly at Amelle. "What exactly is it you're angling for, sister dear?"

Amelle's smile was such that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Then she told her sister her plan.

"I can't tell if you're mad or brilliant."

"I'm too charming to be mad," Amelle quipped with a wink. "Let's go with brilliant."