The worst part about being left behind was that there was no one to argue with or appeal to about it. Kiara was gone — quite definitively gone, and over water no less (that portion of the news had almost made Amelle glad to have been left behind) — and, more to the point, there was no way to contact her. What had been done was done; Kiara was en route to Starkhaven and Amelle was left to fill her days and nights as she saw fit — and she saw fit to spend them down in the clinic.
It took a day or two before the brightly burning anger and quietly simmering resentment and betrayal began to fade; Amelle was doing what she wanted, which had always been what she said she wanted… and yet, she found herself troubled. The trouble was the same as it had been since the memorial: this wasn't like Kiara. Oh, they'd fought before, and Amelle was certain they'd fight again — and very possibly on the day Kiara returned from Starkhaven — but their arguments never lasted. But this one had — it had lasted and festered until… until Kiara left in the dead of night to leave Kirkwall for Starkhaven, without a real goodbye (a note hardly counted) and without the two of them clearing the air and putting their argument behind them.
It just wasn't like her. And the longer Amelle kept herself busy, the more she found herself reflecting on all the ways Kiara just hadn't seemed right since… since. Her sister wanting Amelle to be safe was common enough, but leaving without a goodbye wasn't. The two of them arguing was… well, normal insofar as they were sisters and bickering was sometimes part of the territory, but the strained silence lasting for days wasn't normal; it was leagues away from anything even resembling normal, in fact. So the more Amelle thought, the more she found she had to keep herself occupied; and the more she kept herself occupied, the more time she had to think. As a result, all of that frustration and worry got redirected into more… useful pursuits.
It was a mere two days after Kiara's departure, and already the clinic was beginning to look more and more as it had in her Fade construct. Oh, the exsanguination tables were still pushed together in a jagged, messy pile to be dealt with, and quite a bit of stubborn dirt still coated some surfaces, but it was already a brighter, cleaner, cheerier place. And on this particular morning she was armed again with cleaning supplies and two very full buckets stacked by the wine-cellar's ladder. The buckets were always an adventure — a wet, messy adventure, and this morning Amelle rubbed her chin thoughtfully, trying to fathom a way to transport the water down the ladder without sloshing everywhere.
Assistance would've been nice, but she knew too well Aveline and Cullen were busy with things that actually required their attention, and Fenris… well, Fenris tended not to be too fond of early mornings as a general rule. She certainly wasn't about to wake him for something like this. After another few moments of consideration, Amelle took a breath and flicked her fingers at the buckets, freezing the liquid within. The wood creaked with the change, but held.
At least this way I won't spill it, she thought, and had bent to grasp one of the handles when a voice came from the stairs: "Amelle."
She started with a jolt and turned, lifting her hand and calling forth a flicker of blue flame that chased away some of the darkness. She blinked once. Then twice. "Fenris?" she said, shaking her head and allowing herself a soft breath of laughter. "Maker, but you startled me."
"My apologies, Orana told me I might find…" Fenris trailed off, looking at the two buckets of ice.
Amelle just grinned. "Less apt to spill that way."
"I see. And you were going to… carry them down the ladder."
"That was the plan, yes," she answered slowly. "Unless you have a better idea?"
"You asked my assistance once; why not ask it again?"
"I didn't think you'd want to be bothered. Just because Kiara's asked you to watch over me while she's gone doesn't mean you want to spend every spare moment of your time helping me with little pet projects. Besides, I figured you'd still be asleep." She tilted a teasing smirk his way. "Which makes me wonder why you aren't. Or has Orana gotten you addicted to her sticky buns?"
"I…" After a moment, Fenris looked to the side and grimaced.
"I thought so." She came forward, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't worry; you wouldn't be the first to succumb. I understand completely." Then, linking her hands behind her back, she dipped her head and smiled sheepishly at Fenris. "But, since you're here… would you… mind helping me with the buckets? We can work up an appetite before buns and tea that way." His expression was curiously unreadable — or maybe that wasn't so curious, since this was Fenris, and "inscrutable" might as well have been his middle name. "Let me put it this way: there will be buns later, Fenris. You're welcome to join me, or not — but don't even think about standing between me and Orana's sticky buns."
A beat of silence passed, and then another; he was frowning at her as if trying to decide whether she was joking or not. Finally, he shook his head — all right, let's be fair; remember Fenris isn't much of a morning person, she told herself — and turned his attention back to her supplies.
"Very well. If I carry the buckets, I assume you can manage what remains?" When Amelle nodded, Fenris strode forward and hefted one bucket before descending lightly and quickly down the ladder, soon appearing again to carry the second one down. She joined him, a bundle of rags and scrub brushes under one arm, to find several large crates stacked, somewhat unceremoniously, blocking the clinic's wide, swinging door.
Crates, Amelle was suddenly sure, more than large enough to hold the supplies she'd asked Varric about.
"Varric," Amelle breathed, setting the bundle down and rushing forward to open the smallest of the crates. Inside was a collection of dried medicinal herbs, some common, some not, and all of them useful. "Varric Tethras, you are a miracle worker. Fenris, help me with…"
But Fenris was already working at opening the largest crate; inside, nestled in pine shavings, were crafting reagents and more potion bottles than Amelle had ever owned at one time. Together they examined the contents of each crate — rolls of clean linen for bandages, poultice ingredients, materials for splints, and a collection of needles and spools of thread for stitching up wounds. Varric had managed everything she'd asked of him and more.
"I can't believe he did this," she breathed, kneeling and sitting back on her heels. She shook her head slowly and looked up at Fenris. "I can't believe he was able to do this."
Fenris only rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "He believes your pursuit is a worthwhile one. Why wouldn't he assist you if he was able? Though he pretends otherwise, Varric understands you are taking on a role desperately needed here."
His words were enough to make her stop what she was doing. "I…" Amelle shook her head a little and breathed a soft laugh. "I've got to confess, Fenris, it still surprises me a little to hear you say things… like that."
He shrugged again, then looked intently at the crate packed full of empty bottles, the glass reflecting the lanternlight in little starbursts. After a moment, he looked back up at her. "You and Hawke both exhibit surprise when I express such a sentiment."
"Yes. Well. A vi—"
"Viper in the nest," he finished for her, looking ceilingward and shaking his head. "Had I even the first idea how frequently those words would be revisited upon me…"
"You would've said them more quietly?" she teased, nudging him.
"Amelle." The look he shot her was a strange blend of sheepishness (entirely out of place on his countenance) and reproach (less out of place). "You must underst—"
"Oh, Fenris… that's— that's… where you're wrong." She plucked up a pine curlicue and stretched it gently between her fingers. "I do understand," she said after a short silence. "I understand, and… and I don't…" Amelle hesitated but a moment before deciding to the Void with it. "I don't blame you," she said, finally. "For hating magic, for distrusting mages. I don't blame you for any of it. I mean…" She twined the curling ribbon of wood around her finger as she spoke. "I… I did blame you. Before. And I didn't understand at all, for a time. A— a long time."
When Amelle looked up, it was to find Fenris watching her intently, his expression characteristically — and maddeningly — inscrutable. "Go on."
"Well… I— I was sort of… well. In the middle of all that not-understanding, we… we met Hadriana." Amelle stopped suddenly, making a face and shaking her head at herself. "Listen to me," she muttered with a snort. "We 'met' Hadriana. As if we all sat down to have tea and cakes together." Slowly, she unwound the curl of wood from around her finger. "After that, after what I… what I saw, I… began to understand a little," Amelle admitted, not daring to meet his eyes, not knowing what she would see if she did meet them. "And then… well. Merrill was practicing blood magic and Anders was—" she stopped sharply, nearly biting her tongue. "Well. They weren't the most… responsible wielders of the arcane, let's just say."
"Amelle…"
She put her hand up, urging Fenris to wait, and after a moment or two, he subsided and gave her a nod, silently inviting her to continue.
"But then… just when I thought— then there was Danarius. And I— I saw, Fenris," she said, remembering the icy superiority in the magister's eyes with far more clarity than she liked. Doing a poor job of suppressing her shudder, Amelle continued, "In him I saw… wrongness, and everything bad.Not just magic, but everything. We'd seen horrible things — what Quentin d-did…" Swallowing hard, Amelle turned away, rubbing at her arms. "But Danarius left me feeling… unclean. And I realized it wasn't any wonder why you hated magic and mages so much. Honestly, I'm not sure I blamed you at all, after… that."
"Amelle." Fenris said her name quietly, but she shook her head, as if to block him out, hugging her arms tighter around herself, and plunging on:
"All I'm trying to say is that I understand a little better than I did before. And I don't blame you. And the fact you're here at all, that you're helping me — Maker's sake, you let me heal your hangovers… all of that gives me hope." She turned, offering him a tremulous smile.
Fenris inhaled deeply and sat upon one of the crates. "I realize, Amelle, that you are not… cut from the same cloth as Danarius — or Hadriana, for that matter. Or Anders. Or even Merrill. But you must admit you are outnumbered. For every mage like you, there are at least a dozen too selfish or too weak or too hungry for power. Your sister knows this — you must be aware of it as well."
Amelle nodded, not daring to speak; she knew all too well the sorts of monsters magic made. She thought of some of them now, of Gascard duPuis, and again of Quentin, of the atrocities acted upon her mother, and this time she gave a violent shudder she did not suppress.
"But," Fenris was saying, "invoking the Rite of Annulment… was not the answer." And Amelle's shocked look must have telegraphed itself clearly, for he shook his head. "No, I would not always have said so. But as you are allowed to alter your opinions over the years, I may as well. And I see that the work you do here is good."
"…Thank you."
Fenris held her gaze for longer than Amelle expected; she was the first to look away, feeling another rush of heat warm her cheeks. Fenris then turned to the crates still waiting to be unpacked.
"You are welcome. And with that out of the way, perhaps we ought to turn our attention to the work at hand."
Amelle agreed. And after some discussion, they decided the first thing that required their attention was the pile of exsanguination tables Kiara and Fenris had moved from the clinic. She'd always hated the tables; it was as if she could feel the dark, tainted magic soaked into the grain, exuding corruption so deep the wood nearly stank of it. They stood before the pile, neither of them speaking for several minutes.
"Your sister wondered if they should be burned. I… believe she was concerned about the smoke."
Amelle's smile was a grim one. "There are ways enough around that," she said, breathing in deep and letting her mana flow strong and bright and fierce, sending out a blast of fire so strong, so hot, that the wood splintered on contact. Then she froze the blackened, smoldering remains, encasing everything in ice. The wood cracked, and soon the jagged ice sculpture collapsed in on itself with a crash that sounded like so much breaking glass. It was loud, discordant, and above all, satisfying.
Even the fact that the clinic now had nothing even resembling a bed didn't bother her, because Amelle Hawke had plans. She turned to Fenris, grinning.
"You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"And now that you have?"
She considered this. It was a deeper, more profound question than anything having to do with the tables, she felt. The question seemed… larger than that. Amelle had wanted to do many things for longer than she cared to remember, and now was the first time she felt, was aware of her own agency. She was in a position to make plans. It was a unique place for her to be.
"Let's empty the crates," she replied, "and then see if there are any carpenters looking for work. The clinic's going to need some proper beds."
Plans. Plans. It was almost enough to make Amelle giddy.
#
Days passed in Kirkwall, and with those days came progress.
Nearly a week after Kiara's departure, progress had come in the form of new tables, freshly sawed and nailed and sanded, filling the clinic's space with the clean scent of new wood. Actual beds. They had no mattresses, and only a thin, hand-sewn cushion — Orana's contribution — where a pillow ought to have been, and there were half as many blankets as she needed, but everything was clean and there were beds in the clinic instead of gruesomely stained tables. The clinic didn't have much in the way of windows — narrow spaces letting in very little light at all — but Amelle's windowboxes were in place, each of them growing elfroot and embrium and spindleweed; though their presence was entirely practical, Amelle had to admit they also brightened things up pleasantly.
And, with every one of those days that passed, Fenris arrived every morning without fail, without complaint. He moved benches until they were flush against the wall, and helped Amelle drag tables and beds around until they began to show some semblance of order. He worked alongside her, helping until every last bandage was cut and rolled and put away, until every last potion was placed meticulously in the spots Amelle had designated for them. When the sick and injured began filtering into the clinic again, their faces showing a strange mixture of wary hopefulness as they asked whether the healer was in, Fenris stood quiet guard while Amelle mixed potions and poultices, healed broken fingers and dislocated joints, and treated ragged-sounding coughs and wheezing breaths.
Every night he stayed until Amelle, exhausted and mana-drained, dragged herself up the ladder; he remained until she ate whatever dinner Orana had prepared for her, and did not leave until she finally decided, in between wide, jaw-cracking yawns, to go to bed.
When the morning finally came that Fenris did not appear soon after breakfast, Amelle was not terribly surprised. She didn't flatter herself to think that she was his sole responsibility in all of Kirkwall, and wasn't as if she was in any sort of danger that required such a bodyguard. All the same, she lingered over her tea, her ears trained for that soft knock at the front door that always heralded the elf's arrival. By the time she'd finished her third cup it was soon clear he wasn't coming.
With a shrug, Amelle pushed away from the table and made her way down to the tunnels, stopping first to collect a small-but-sturdy chest from Kiara's study — it was empty, and the perfect size to store some of the smaller, more delicate potion crafting items — and keeping a vial or four of lyrium potion handy wouldn't go amiss, either. The chest was small enough that she could still manage the ladder, but awkward enough that she couldn't manage the ladder easily. It was while she was trying to navigate the ladder that Amelle misjudged the distance from one rung to another, her foot missing the rung entirely. She barely had time enough to suck in a surprised gasp when a warm, sure hand closed around her calf, guiding her foot back to the rung.
"You ought to be more careful," a voice said. It was Fenris, waiting for her by the clinic doors.
It took Amelle a moment to process his appearance here. "You're down here," she said slowly. "Waiting… for me?" When the elf only shrugged one shoulder, she nodded at the ladder and said, "You've got to admit this is the shorter route."
"It is," he agreed.
"And I've… got to admit I'm wondering why you didn't take it this morning."
Fenris said nothing for a moment, then his gaze slid to the side. "I had certain responsibilities requiring my attention this morning." Amelle narrowed her eyes at him and waited, clearly expecting more of an explanation. After several seconds of silence ticked by, Fenris' jaw tightened minutely and he added, "Varric's absence has given certain… factions in Darktown the impression that this clinic and its healer were… unprotected. I needed to address those false assumptions."
Amelle stared. "What?"
Now Fenris looked at her. "Surely you knew Varric paid to keep this clinic protected from both the Carta and Coterie when the space was Anders' responsibility."
"Still?"
Fenris' answering glower was a stern one as he took the chest from her arms and turned on his heel, making his way into the clinic. Amelle followed him in, still digesting this — not only had Varric paid for her protection, but Fenris apparently had… enforced the dwarf's arrangement on her behalf?
"And you knew this was going to happen?" she asked, trailing after him.
Fenris placed the chest down on a table. "I knew it was a possibility. There is no cause for concern — the matter has been… settled."
It was at that point Amelle noticed how disheveled Fenris looked. A generous spattering of blood marred his boots and leggings.
"Are you… all right, then? Are you hurt?"
"I am most assuredly not the one hurt by the altercation," he said, and there was something in his tone that told Amelle everything she needed to know about Fenris' morning. "But I thank you for asking."
Amelle cast about for something to say, feeling strange that the clinic — and, by extension, she — had been in any sort of jeopardy and she hadn't even known. "So, you…" she began hesitantly, "I didn't realize you— I didn't realize there was—"
Folding his arms, Fenris inclined his head. "Danger is not only a product of an elder sister's overprotective mind, Amelle."
"I didn't say that," she replied, frowning. "It's…" Her words faded into silence as she thought, finally saying, "It's unpleasant to realize one's own naiveté, I think. I didn't realize Varric was…" Amelle looked around. She'd been coming down here without so much as a staff. Foolish. Idiotic. That would have to change. "Well, in any event, you've done your good deed for the day. …Unless you think they're coming back?"
"I sincerely doubt that," answered Fenris, and Amelle wondered fleetingly if he'd even bothered to try and hide the bodies. Probably not.
"Then," she said, smiling, "consider yourself off the hook for the rest of the day."
Confusion clouded in Fenris' eyes for a moment as he narrowed them at her. "I… beg your pardon?"
"Well, you've beaten the bad guys off with a stick — literally, even," Amelle explained with a shrug. "Don't tell me you don't have anything you'd rather be doing today. Not that I don't appreciate the help, but if they aren't coming back—"
"Do you… wish me to leave?" Fenris asked, the question coming out strangely blunt. The note of defiance puzzled her.
"No," Amelle replied evenly, "but I sincerely doubt you actually want to stay. I mean, it's… it's Darktown, Fenris. I don't think anyone comes here who doesn't have to."
"You do," he countered mildly.
"I'm the healer; I hardly count."
"I beg to differ."
Amelle wrinkled her nose, scrunching her face into a look, part guilt, part puzzlement, and part exasperation. "It just seems like… of all the places for you to choose to be…" she trailed off, her shoulders rising in a helpless shrug as she looked around at the clinic.
Crossing his arms, Fenris regarded Amelle steadily for a few moments. "I grow… weary of this conversation, Amelle," said Fenris, and he indeed sounded so. "My… feelings will not be hurt if you prefer me to go. You may tell me."
Amelle flung her hands up helplessly. "It's just… I know Kiara probably threatened you or something to make sure I wasn't left alone. And that's hardly fair to you, especially when we have no idea how long she'll be gone. Are you supposed to stick by me every hour of every day just because my sister said so?" She let out a sigh and shook her head. "I just… I want you to know… I'll… support your decision. Without fear of repercussions from her for deserting your post."
He watched her a moment, narrowing his eyes as if in scrutiny. "You'll support my decision."
Nodding, Amelle said, "To do whatever you like while she's gone."
"I have your word?"
Taken aback somewhat, she blinked at this, her mouth working silently for a moment. "Y-yes. You have my word. Of course."
Fenris then gave her a small smile. It was almost… crooked, in a way that implied he was at least partially amused by the exchange. "Then we'll have no more talk of me going anywhere."
This was not the way Amelle had imagined the conversation going, and with a sudden, fiery blush coloring her cheeks, she began to protest. But as she opened her mouth to protest, she remembered she'd given Fenris her word that she wouldn't, and so her mouth snapped shut again, though her confusion remained.
"Have you something to add, Amelle?" Fenris asked, and, Maker help her, was he actually smirking?
"N-no. No, I—"
From behind her came the the sound of a baby crying. Thankful for the distraction — if not quite thankful for the nature of it — Amelle turned to find Ianna, the mother of the child she'd delivered some weeks ago, pale and troubled, carrying the infant, Adan, in her arms. It looked to Amelle like the sort of worry that was on the verge of tipping over into fear and she wondered just how frayed Ianna's nerves were, and what had happened to put her in such a state. She crossed the clinic, meeting the new mother halfway, and before Amelle could even ask, Ianna's tenuous control slipped and her eyes went unnaturally bright with a sudden deluge of tears as the words came tumbling out.
"Mistress… Mistress Amelle, please. I… he…"
"It's all right," Amelle murmured reassuringly, taking Adan's swaddled form from his mother's arms. Almost instantly she could feel the heat radiating through the cloth, and she looked down at the child's face — he was no longer the full-cheeked, ruddy-faced infant she'd delivered. His cheeks were not nearly as full, and his face seemed pale, aside from the flush of fever upon his cheeks. Something was wrong indeed and Amelle felt her heart give a little lurch as she ran her fingers over his forehead, grimacing at the heat there.
Ianna scrubbed at her damp cheeks with her hands. "I thought… I thought it just the colic, at first. Nothing to worry over. Nothing to trouble you with. But he's— Maker, he's so hot." She looked down at her child and covered her mouth with one hand, as if trying to push back the flood of emotion that had already broken through. She trembled a moment, then broke into the hysterical sobs of the beyond exhausted and Amelle looked at Fenris, then gestured with her chin to the shelf of potions.
"Fenris?" she said quietly. "The… one on the end. The pale gold? Give her a little, will you? Just a finger."
With a nod, he obeyed her immediately. They both knew what it was — a calming draught — and they both knew the mother would refuse it if she knew what it was. But she took the potion with little fuss, and after a few moments, began to settle. Amelle didn't blame Ianna at all for her worry or her exhaustion, but the child in her arms needed every once of her attention. She could hardly believe this was the same babe at all — Adan was a mere shadow of the infant she'd brought into the world; his lusty cries faded to the dullest of whimpers.
"What ails him?" Fenris asked softly, coming to her side.
Amelle could only raise her eyes to his and shake her head. "I-I have no idea."
The fever was unlike anything she'd ever seen before; it withstood every potion — drinkable and topical — in her considerable arsenal, from tincture of elfroot to ice balm, and cool compresses grew entirely too warm entirely too fast against his skin. Finally, she took the Adan and sat with him upon one of the heavily constructed tables, cradling the tiny, whimpering form against her breast. She closed her eyes and took a breath of mana, calling upon and tapping into the healing energy that swirled like a current inside of her, focusing it on the child and letting it pour into him.
Amelle felt wave after wave of healing magic sink into the child, but the longer she held him, and the longer she poured that energy into him, the more she became certain something was very, very wrong. No fever should take this long, this much effort to relieve. She tried to reach out with her mind, tried to feel something, but instinct only screamed at her that whatever had caused this fever was not natural. And yet, there was no obvious trace of magic on the child — that in itself wasn't surprising; it's not as if a plethora of mages were left in Kirkwall.
All around her more patients were filing into the clinic: a nose broken in a fight, a sprained ankle, various and sundry aches and pains. A hangover. It was busy — busier than any midmorning ought to have been — but the others were going to have to wait.
Taking in another breath of mana, Amelle closed her eyes tighter and blocked out everything else going on in the clinic. She felt the child's heat and his too-rapid heartbeat — and Fenris nearby, watching her, she knew, keenly, as wave after wave of blue-white light pulsed into the infant. She could feel her mana depleting, a deeper exhaustion than anything she'd ever known creeping into her blood. She was starting to feel cold, numb, and as she reached the end of her reserves, Amelle felt the healing magic's flow stutter and nearly wink out, when the child in her arms finally shifted and let out a loud, healthy wail. Slowly she blinked her eyes open, fighting the sudden wave of vertigo as she adjusted Adan more securely in her arms. Whatever the ailment, it was no more, but Amelle was left entirely drained, and barely able to keep her eyes open.
In fact, it took a moment for her to find even the energy to stand, which she managed, but unsteadily.
Fenris, ever present, ever watchful, took the child from her arms and deposited him into those of his very grateful, intensely relieved mother. Amelle sank back onto the table and noticed, with an odd sort of detachment, a splash of red against her sleeve. When she touched her nose she found it bleeding.
Huh. That's new.
"Blessed Maker and his Bride," the mother whispered reverently, "is he — did you cure him, Mistress Amelle?"
"I…" Amelle began, but trailed off and blinked hard, trying to clear her mind, which was feeling increasingly fuzzy and making it more and more difficult to think.
Maker, she was just so tired.
"I believe he will recover," she said slowly, hating how thick her voice sounded to her ears. "But bring him back tomorrow, to be safe, and let me know if there are any changes — for the better or worse — as soon as you can."
Ianna left, a little more optimistic and a little less exhausted; Amelle wished she had the latter in common with the woman, but she was fairly swaying even as she sat. Warm hands steadied her and she closed her eyes. She could feel the blood trickling from her nose again and she swiped at it with her sleeve, hating the wet warmth, the compulsion to sniffle. She reached up and swiped her sleeve across her face, knowing she'd left a smear across it, but she found she was too exhausted to care.
"Rest, Amelle," Fenris said, putting her fingers beneath her chin and tilting her face up. When she pried open her eyes, she found him watching her with an expression very near to angry, his dark brows lowered and furrowed together.
"Can't," she mumbled, shaking her head. "…There're more waiting."
"They can continue to wait until you are sufficiently recovered."
"There's… there's lyrium potion. In the chest. Find it— I'll be okay. It'll help."
"Amelle."
"I'll be okay, Fenris. Promise. Just…" It was better — it was always better — for a mage's mana to be allowed to return naturally. And it did, with rest. But there were times when rest wasn't an option. During those times, lyrium potion had to suffice. Maker knew it wasn't an option to take a nap in the middle of a battle.
Fenris was back again before she'd fully realized he was gone, pressing a bottle of shimmering potion into her hands. He didn't look pleased, but Amelle could hardly blame him that; she wasn't particularly keen on her condition either.
"You shouldn't drain yourself so," he said quietly. She struggled with the cork for a few seconds pulling it free with a soft pop and downing the bottle's bitter contents in a few deep swallows. "You do no benefit to anyone if you exhaust yourself completely."
Amelle shuddered and grimaced at the taste, but nodded. "I know. Believe me, I know." The potion coursed down her throat and into her belly, warming her from the inside out, until her mana swirled back to life inside of her. Her exhaustion vanished and her mind sharpened. She rubbed at her forehead; the memory of mana-drained exhaustion remained, and such fatigue replaced so quickly with alertness was a sensation she'd never grown accustomed to.
"Are you all right?" Fenris asked, still frowning.
"I'm better," replied Amelle, sliding her hand around to rub the base of her neck. "Still no idea what in the Void that was, though." She rubbed at the residual tension, tamping down the urge to release a wave of healing magic into herself. It wasn't a smart move, especially after such an intense use of magic. "Whatever it was," she said, "it was stubborn."
"Stubborn?" echoed Fenris.
Amelle nodded grimly. "Apparently, the Maker has seen fit to send all manner of stubborn ailments my way," she grumbled, though unable to shake the strange coincidence of Sebastian's wound and Adan's fever — two instances that took nearly all of her mana before they even started to show improvement. And in Sebastian's case, Amelle had pushed herself nearly to depletion more than once. That wasn't common — especially when it came to stab wounds. It was one of the furthest things from common.
With a frown, Amelle let her hand fall from her neck as she stared down at her palms. There was, of course, the possibility that the wound and fever weren't "stubborn," but rather she just wasn't quite as good at healing as she thought she was. Or perhaps after calling on her powers in such a singular manner over the years had… dulled her abilities, rather than sharpening them. She flexed her fingers slowly.
No, that didn't seem right. It didn't feel right.
The matter was still bothering her, still niggling at the back of her brain hours later. The strangeness of it. The wrongness of it. She thought of the times she'd released wave after wave of magic into Sebastian until her power had begun to feel as if it were trembling beneath a weight it could not support.
But a wound isn't the same as a fever — unless that wound is infected. But even if that were the case, how would a stab wound develop the same kind of infection as—
"You have not eaten."
Her mind pulled suddenly from both her thoughts and her work, Amelle looked up at Fenris, then down at what she was doing — this batch of elfroot potion wasn't quite ready to be set aside yet — and shook her head. "No, not yet. Nearly there, though."
"It can't wait?"
"It can wait, just not yet," she explained. "I'm nearly ready to bottle this. Why don't you run a quick check on things outside? By the time you get back, we can find some lunch." He looked almost surprised at this suggestion and Amelle grinned at him. "I think I'm not the only one who hasn't eaten anything." The grin slid and quirked into something more teasing: "Or were you thinking you might sneak off to the Rose for a meal with prettier company?"
"I… hadn't given it thought." He hesitated, then added, "I did not wish to presume to… impose upon your time."
Amelle still smiled, shaking her head as she ground the mortar down, crushing the elfroot into a fine paste. "It's hardly an imposition. Besides, you know Orana always makes too much food anyway — and you've certainly been keeping busy around this place. So if you want to join me, you're more than welcome. However, if you think your presence at the Rose will be missed…" She gave the mortar a twist and examined the pulpy elfroot again. "It's up to you."
"It truly will not be an imposition?"
Amelle began straining the pulp through a square of linen. "Fenris, was it an imposition to… enforce on Varric's behalf this morning?"
"No. Of course not."
"Well," she said, squeezing as much of the vibrant green liquid as she could into a glass flask, "there you have it." Pausing again, Amelle looked up and sent Fenris a look of mock-exasperation. "This is what friends do, Fenris. Aren't we—" she stopped and blinked, suddenly unsure how to continue. It certainly felt like they were on some sort of path to friendship, but whether they were actually there yet, Amelle did not truly know. "Never mind. You're welcome to join me if you like. If you've other plans, you won't hurt my feelings."
"I have no other plans."
Amelle held the flask up to the light, looking for any bits of pulp or leaf that might have made it through the cloth. "That settles it then," she said, squinting at the liquid. "I'll be right here when you get back. Probably just putting stoppers in the bottles."
With a nod, Fenris left Amelle to her work. The day had been a busy one so far, and she was making full use of the lull in the steady stream of patients in order to supplement her potion supply. Elfroot potion had been one of the first recipes she'd ever mastered, and it took nearly no time at all to restock the dent that had been made that morning. Besides, now that she had bottles to put potions in, it was a waste not to use them. Especially when a solid stock of potions was exactly what she needed.
Amelle's frown deepened as she strained the liquid a second time. It was unusual, she thought; considering everything Kirkwall had undergone in the past months, it seemed intensely strange more people hadn't fled. She found it baffling and reassuring at the same time — she'd certainly expected more people to leave Kirkwall in the chaos. The Qunari uprising was one thing — they'd been a fixture, but still a foreign presence, and one people had never been entirely sure of. But after the Chantry lay in ruins, Kiara had found their enemy not to be horned zealots intent on destruction, but on people they knew, were familiar with. Amelle had liked the First Enchanter at one point; he'd seemed so… level-headed, so reasonable. And then…
Her hands shook as she poured and a small droplet of green splashed her cuff. With a whispered curse, Amelle steadied her hands and strained the last vestiges of pulp from the liquid.
But if today was any indication, people weren't leaving Kirkwall — or, at least, the poorer folk weren't, which made a sort of sense, Amelle had to admit. She'd overheard a number of the Fereldan refugees (though she wasn't sure it was fair to call them "refugees" so many years later) talk about what exactly had made them leave their own homes in Gwaren or Lothering or Amaranthine or Highever; a number of them muttered darkly that nothing short of another Archdemon would make them pack up and leave again.
Amelle let herself wonder for a moment what sort of force the Divine might yet send — though clearly not an Archdemon — and she shuddered; whatever action the Divine took (and Amelle had no doubt there would be action taken now) had the potential to be as devastating as any darkspawn horde, but with better teeth and clearer skin and shinier armor and, ostensibly, the Maker and Andraste themselves on their side. It was difficult not to let herself feel even a little panic when she thought about that — when she thought about what repercussions the coming weeks and months and even years would bring. Amelle was sure they'd be far from Kirkwall by that point, but where? And how did one avoid a holy war?
She took a deep breath and shook her head. You have enough to worry about right now, she thought, holding the flask in one hand and letting just enough heat come forth that the liquid within began to thicken slightly, giving off a sharp astringent scent. She let the morning's events turn over in her head once more, wondering yet again what could have caused such a fever in a child.
How might a child develop the same manner of infection as a man stabbed in an alleyway? A child with no physical wounds to speak of?
Her frown deepened as she added concentrator agent to the thickening elfroot and let the two liquids blend, swirling them gently in the bottom of the flask. Whatever had been wrong with the child had felt as if it existed deep within him — normal fevers were fairly easy to treat; it was a matter of searching out the illness, whether it originated in the lungs, as did frequently happen with smaller children in Darktown, or elsewhere in the body. But whatever illness had been causing Adan's fever, it had been nearly impossible for Amelle to sense it, to find its point of origin.
It was as if his entire body had been sick, as if the illness had existed everywhere at once.
It also hadn't felt natural — and yet Amelle was entirely certain the child hadn't been hexed or poisoned. If the illness had been caused by magic, Amelle would have found the source, would have sensed it, and from there would have applied healing energy — or a combination of potions — to attempt to unravel the spell or counteract the poison.
No, this was… different.
She added distilling agent to the potion and let her hands warm the mixture again, watching as the potion took on a sharp jewel-green color, the murkiness simmering away until the potion was as clear as the most flawless emerald. Amelle poured it into smaller potion bottles before it cooled completely, then stuck a small cork in each — it was best to trap the steam and let it reconstitute into the potion, making for a more a more potent dose.
Placing both hands at the small of her back, Amelle stretched, letting her spine pop softly as it realigned itself.
That lull that had lasted long enough to allow her to craft a batch of elfroot potion was just that: a lull. Amelle knew it wasn't going to last. She just didn't expect it to end quite so suddenly, or to end with the very sound that had started her day off to a less than auspicious beginning: the heart-sinking sound of a small child crying.
Amelle rushed to the clinic's doors — It can't be Adan again, surely not,she told herself even as she tried to shove down the panic rising in her chest — and found, not Ianna and Adan, but another, different terrified parent carrying a different flushed, whimpering child.
Amelle knew Colm and his daughter, Rinna; she was a little older than Adan — just learning to walk, in fact. The girl's mother had been taken soon after birth, claimed by the filth and death that always permeated Darktown, and Amelle found herself remembering all too clearly the night Anders had delivered the child within these very walls. She'd been down here on such a simple errand — delivering Anders' portion of payment on a job — when she'd walked in to find the healer, up to his elbows in blood and other matter, placing the tiny, writhing infant against her exhausted mother's breast.
She remembered the night the woman had died, as well. Anders hadn't been in the clinic; no one had known where he'd gone off to (though Amelle had a fair idea now), and it had been Kiara who'd burst into the library and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the house and down to the clinic in a mad rush to help. But by the time Amelle had reached Jeannette — and Amelle remembered that from the way her husband had been pleading with her to stay, to not leave him please — she was truly gone, her spirit having already passed through the Veil and into the Fade. There had been nothing she could do — it was simply too late.
"She ain't right, Mistress Amelle," Colm said, the moment he spied Amelle, waiting in the doorway. "I don't know what — she was just fine yesterday, but she's so… it's a fever — she's burning up."
Without a word, Amelle met Colm as he reached the top stair and took Rinna into her arms, resting the child against her breast. Rinna's arms went instinctively around Amelle's neck, burying her hot face against the crook of her neck. Amelle clutched the girl a little tighter, but forced her voice to remain light:
"Well, let's see what we can do, hmm?"
It took no time at all for Amelle to discern that Rinna's fever was of the same nature as Adan's. Though this little girl was a little older — and stronger — than an infant, Rinna was also sicker. Amelle felt it in the heat rolling off of her in waves, in the blotchy red fever-flush at her cheeks, and in her eyes rimmed with red from so much crying. Feeling a wave of dread she didn't dare show, Amelle carried the girl to one of the nearby beds, taking care to sit no more than an arm's length away from her modest cache of lyrium potion.
Rocking the girl slowly, Amelle closed her eyes; with a breath of mana she summoned her healing energy and focused it on the child, feeling a sudden pang of dismay upon realizing just how much sicker Rinna was. Still there was no location — the fever was simply there, simply everywhere — leaving Amelle little choice but to focus and concentrate and push, pouring healing magic into the child until she saw enough light from behind her eyelids to know both she and Rinna were glowing with it.
Finally, like a dam weakening beneath wave after crashing wave, the fever broke. Whatever had been making the child burn up finally relinquished its hold; Rinna shivered hard, then relaxed against Amelle. After a moment, she began sucking her thumb. The heat, almost instantly, began to ebb away.
Amelle would have been extraordinarily pleased indeed, if she hadn't been so bloody exhausted by it all. Rest, she thought shakily, sounded like an excellent idea. But before she could reach for a bottle of lyrium potion, Colm rushed forward, relieved tears in his tired, worn eyes.
"Thank the Maker — Mistress Amelle, I thought she was gone for sure, and I couldn't— not after my Jeannie, Miss. I couldn't."
Amelle sat very still, letting Colm take the suddenly, and understandably tired Rinna from her arms. She held her hands carefully in her lap, hoping the gesture hid how very badly they were shaking. Her vision hadn't gone blurry yet, but the headache blossoming behind her eyes hinted that things were going to progress in that direction shortly.
"Take her home," she said slowly, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Let her rest. Do keep an eye out and let me know if there's any change." She paused to reorder her thoughts. It was harder than it should have been. "There was something like it this morning, and if there's illness making its way through Darktown, better we're prepared."
Colm nodded, almost giddy with relief, never noticing Amelle's own slowed speech, her careful gestures. Once she was alone, Amelle regarded the small chest of potions just over an arm's length away. From there, the lyrium taunted her, the bottle of shimmering liquid swirling just out of reach.
Funny. It had seemed so close before.
Taking a deep breath, Amelle pushed herself to her feet, taking one shaky step, then another toward the chest of potions. But the headache that had only been threatening moments before washed over her, pounding mercilessly behind her eyes, making the clinic go blurry as she sank to her knees, her hands braced against the floor. Her head pounded, and she was so very tired.
A little nap — just a tiny one — really sounded like a most excellent idea.
#
Someone was talking to her. The words were soft and muddled, as if one were trying to speak — or be understood — underwater. It required too much concentration to understand the words, and Amelle was too warm and comfortable to care.
Maker, she thought with a groan. Kiri, go away. The fire was crackling, the divan was soft and cozy, and she cuddled down, pressing her cheek against the cushion. Kiara would take the hint and leave, sooner or later. Maybe. Probably. Amelle thought about opening her eyes and telling her sister to sod off, but she was so tired. Even opening her eyes felt like a chore; she wanted to roll over and sleep for at least a week. Maybe two. Two sounded good.
But, no, the words kept coming, and then someone gripped her shoulders and — not Kiara, surely not; Kiara would have started singing or whistling or some other Maker-forsaken thing, but she wouldn't be shaking Amelle awake. Kiara certainly wouldn't be—
If you really wanted to keep me safe, you'd stop being my bloody sister.
—Oh.
With that thought, Amelle's slumber burned away; as she woke, more details came into focus. The person speaking to her was more assuredly not Kiara — but the hands were warm, despite their grip — and Amelle tried to listen, tried to piece together what the voice was saying, but the words slipped out of her grasp, refusing to focus, refusing to make sense.
Gradually it sank in that whatever those words were, they weren't being said to her, but rather at her. It was a low growl of a voice that sounded alternately furious and afraid and—
Wait. I know that voice.
She knew that word, too— that one. That one was particularly bad. Amelle could remember hearing that word on a number of occasions, and not a single one of them pleasant. Someone was cursing at her.
No, someone was cursing at her in Arcanum.
"…Fenris?" she croaked out, softly. Amelle's mouth felt dry and her tongue felt huge and her head still felt as if it were splitting, but the elf appeared not to care. He stopped mid-swear and for the barest fraction of an instant, relief crossed his features, soon replaced by something that… well, if it wasn't anger, it was extreme exasperation.
"What have you done?" he growled, eyes flashing.
Definitely angry, Amelle thought muzzily, and as she tried to push herself into a sitting position, she realized somewhat disjointedly that she was in the library, not the clinic — she'd been in the clinic earlier, she was sure — and Amelle wondered anew what in all the Void happened.
"I'm all right," she said thickly, as she slowly pushed herself up — it was a long, slow process; probably longer and slower than it really ought to have been.
"You are not 'all right.'"
"I am," she insisted, pressing her fingers to her forehead and rubbing. Her headache felt as if it had taken up residence in the whole of her head, pounding and throbbing against her eyes and down her spine. With a breath of mana, the headache melted away, but it was too soon for magic use just yet, and while the measure sent the pain away, expending the mana left Amelle feeling vaguely nauseated and empty. "I'm better," she insisted, lamely.
At least without the headache clouding her mind, she remembered how she wound up on the floor, and she looked up at Fenris, explaining, "Another child came in with a fever."
"And you overextended yourself again," he replied, his scowl never lightening.
Amelle let out an annoyed sigh. "You say that like I did it on purpose."
Fenris' expression didn't change; if anything, he looked as if his annoyance grew. "After the first incident you were hardly ignorant of what could happen."
"I didn't realize I could pass out."
"And now that you do realize it," he snapped at her, "I would urge you to demonstrate caution."
"Caution?" she echoed. "What, should I have sent them away?"
Fenris stood, clearly full to overflowing with restless energy, and paced from the divan to the fireplace. "You ought to have waited," he said to the flames. "You were aware I was planning to return."
Amelle opened her mouth to snap a retort back at him, to defend her decision, when she realized, with an uncomfortable, creeping sort of discomfort, that he was right. Taking in a deep breath, she shifted on the divan and tried to push to her feet. The world wobbled and she sank back down against the cushions.
"Yes, well," she said, trying not to feel so bloody sheepish about it. "Everything's all right now, isn't it?"
"Fenris?" Merrill's voice floated into the library from the hall moments before she came hurrying into the library. "Fenris, Orana's put on some tea and— oh!" She blinked owlishly at Amelle and she let out a relieved sigh, shoulders drooping as she placed a hand over her heart. "Thank the Creators, you're awake."
Amelle stared uncomprehendingly at Merrill, who seemed to realize rather quickly she was being stared at. Gesturing vaguely behind her, she said, "I was just stopping by to see to your sister's plants — she does realize they do need to be watered, doesn't she?" The question would have sounded impudent on anyone else; on Merrill, it sounded… earnest. "Anyway, I'd heard you were rather busy down in the clinic and wanted to say hello, if it wasn't too forward of me, that is. I'd hoped not. But then I saw you down there, and couldn't wake you — are you always such a deep sleeper? — and I was about to fetch some help when Fenris walked in and once he saw you he—"
"I sent Merrill upstairs to let Orana know I would be bringing you up shortly," Fenris cut in brusquely.
"Oh, Maker," Amelle muttered, clapping a hand over her eyes. "Lovely." Embarrassment burned hotly at her cheeks and she didn't remove her hand as she added, "I'm fine. Really. Whatever it is has passed."
But then Merrill and Fenris exchanged a look. That in itself was odd, as the two rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary — or unless Merrill gave in to her natural inclination toward prattle. But when they exchanged that look, Merrill's expressive face fell suddenly and she looked utterly, unaccountably sad. She hesitated, clasping her hands together as she stepped closer.
"No, Amelle. It… it hasn't."
Amelle looked between them, waiting for an explanation. None seemed forthcoming. "What… what do you mean?" But neither of them looked her in the eye.
"There has been another fever," Fenris finally said, looking again into the fire. "Another child."
And with those words, Amelle pushed herself to her feet. Again the room spun and the floor tilted, but she gritted her teeth and took a few staggering steps forward, grabbing hold of a high-backed armchair and letting it support her weight as she leaned. "Then we have to go back down there. Where's the—"
"Dead, Amelle," Merrill said gently, coming forward and resting a hand on her arm. "The babe was dead by the time his parents got there." She looked at Fenris as if silently beseeching him to say something — anything. But Fenris merely bowed his head, his jaw tightening. Merrill bit her lip and added, "I… there was nothing you could have done. It… it was too late. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
With that news, the floor seemed to fall out from beneath her. Amelle clutched harder at the chair, fingers sinking into the soft, supple leather as she fought to stay upright. This fever, this illness, whatever it was, had claimed one already? It didn't seem possible, and yet she knew better than to think Fenris and Merrill would collaborate on such a falsehood. And the worst of it was that Amelle still had no idea what was causing it, and only the vaguest idea how to fix it — and that required draining her mana, a measure both inadvisable and impractical.
What she did know, and positively hated reflecting on, even as she let Fenris place his hand beneath her elbow and carefully guide her back to the divan, was that she couldn't let it — whatever it was — get any worse.
