Cullen, true to his word, had dispatched templar and the remaining guard alike — requiring them to work together in many cases — to find even a single Andraste's Grace in Kirkwall. Some had scoffed at the errand, until they were told they were searching for a key component to the cure for this strange, pervasive ailment; nearly everyone in the city knew someone afflicted. The most dangerous, violent victims had been locked away in cells. Little by little, people succumbed, and there appeared to be no rhyme or reason to those who resisted infection and those who… didn't, which of course meant there was a reason that Amelle simply couldn't see. Most noteworthy of those immune was Donnic, something for which Amelle was truly grateful; she was certain Cullen was even more thankful than she.
Amelle and Cullen didn't speak again of what transpired in the garden. They acknowledged it, of course, but came to a tacit agreement that what had happened had happened for the best — and whatever didn't exist between them was not mourned. They enjoyed each other's company, certainly, just not in any… romantic sense, and Amelle was strangely satisfied with that.
She was curled on the divan, the botany book open on her lap and several sheets of parchment spread out on the cushion beside her. It was early yet, and the cup of tea by her elbow still steamed without any help from her. She couldn't worry about the Andraste's Grace — not now, at any rate. She had to pin down the location of this Ozmidiannum vine. She'd kept an eye out for it both in the Viscount's garden and when she and Merrill had gone to the Wounded Coast, looking for Harlot's Blush, but to no avail. Frowning, she marked both spots off her map. So much for it being pervasive as a weed, she thought with a scowl at the map.
She wondered, briefly, if Sundermount was worth a look; the spot where Marethari and her clan had settled — long gone, now — hadn't been short on vegetation by any means. It also hadn't been short on huge rock monsters, giant spiders, bandits, and various and sundry undead things. To say nothing of the occasional Witch of the Wilds.
"So, really," Amelle muttered to herself, looking at a map of Sundermount and her own sketch of the Ozmidiannum flower, "if it's going to be anywhere, it's going to be in the least pleasant place I know of, because that's just how these things work." She frowned and chewed her lip, not bothering to pull her eyes away of the notes before her as she reached out for her cup of tea. "Though if that were true, it'd be all over the bloody Bone Pit." She paused, tilting her head. "Then again, it might." She circled that point on the map as well. "We'll check that one after."
"Ought I to be worried that you're talking to yourself?"
The sudden voice made Amelle give a slight jump, the tea in her cup dancing perilously close to the edge. "Fenris," she blurted, setting the cup down on its saucer before it could actually spill. "I didn't hear— Maker, we need to put a bell on you."
His expression remained impassive. "…A bell."
"So I can hear you coming?"
He didn't smile. He'd never smiled often, but for a while there it had seemed… Well. No matter. That was then and this was now. "That would rather defeat the purpose of being quiet."
She blinked. "So you were trying to sneak up on me?"
"I would hardly call it sneaking, Amelle," and there was just a hint of exasperation to his words. "You did send for me."
It was true, she had. She just hadn't expected him to come so early. Amelle looked rather pointedly at the window and the misty pre-dawn light beyond the glass. "You're an early riser when your card-mates are away from home."
He came around and perched on the edge of a well-padded armchair, resting his hands on his knees. "I am also entirely aware you prefer to get to the clinic early. I… did not wish to miss you."
"You could have found me downstairs," she countered, grinning, but Fenris didn't appear amused.
"Amelle, tell me what it is you require. As you have already observed, the hour is early."
With a crestfallen sigh, and unable to shake how easily chastised she was whenever Fenris began to lose his patience with her, Amelle looked down at her notes, collecting her thoughts. "You know how important this potion is."
"You know I do."
She smoothed a hand over the piece of parchment bearing her sketch of the bloom. "It is… proving more difficult than anticipated to collect the ingredients. I need to leave for Sundermount."
"I assume you do not plan to make this trip alone."
"I was… hoping you'd come with me."
Her request surprised him — she could see it in the way he jerked with a nearly imperceptible start, the way his eyes widened minutely. But the expression didn't linger and once more he was watching her with the wary intensity she'd come to expect from him. "Would it not make more sense to bring Merrill on such an errand? I am not… familiar with herbs and plants."
Amelle sifted together the loose sheets of parchment and slid them into the book, closing it. "If there are any remaining Dalish lurking around Sundermount, bringing Merrill along would invite more trouble than I'm of a mind to contend with. In a perfect world, I'd be asking you both to come along with me, but as we've seen demonstrated quite a bit lately, our world is leagues away from perfect." There were other reasons she wasn't sure she wanted to bring Merrill along, but Amelle wasn't prepared to share those reasons just yet. "Merrill is going to watch over the clinic in my absence."
Fenris' brows lifted, but he said nothing.
"She needs something to do, Fenris. She needs to feel useful. More than that, she needs to be useful." When he still didn't look convinced she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "There… is another reason, but I would prefer not to get into it until I know more about the situation itself."
"Very well." But he didn't look happy about it. "And what of the Knight-Captain?"
Amelle shook her head. "With Aveline compromised and so many of the guard falling ill now, I cannot ask him to leave Kirkwall for such a trip. He got me into the Viscount's gardens — and given how many templars were stationed at the Keep, I needed his assistance more than I knew — but that's still within Kirkwall."
"The guard are falling ill, but the templars… are not?"
"Not that I know of," Amelle said slowly. She took a moment to think it over. "We can certainly ask, but as far as I know they're all quite healthy."
"…Odd," murmured Fenris, looking into the fire a moment. "You seem quite… in control of your faculties as well." A faint whisper of a humorless smile touched his lips then faded. "I daresay I haven't gone mad, but perhaps I am not the best judge."
Amelle thought briefly on those recent moments when Fenris' temper seemed unusually short. Those, however, had been isolated incidents; they hadn't escalated and he certainly seemed well enough right now. "I might be able to… check, if you'd like?" She shrugged one shoulder. "So we're sure."
He went still, considering her offer. "If it would ease your mind, Amelle, you… may check me for illness."
A soft, short laugh puffed past her lips. "That you're acquiescing at all could either point to madness or clarity." At his stern look she smiled and cleared off the divan, waving him over. "I was only teasing, Fenris."
"You… haven't, lately." He got up from the chair and joined her on the divan.
"Yes, well, you've been making yourself rather scarce. I can't tease you if you're not around."
"I…" His brow furrowed in a frown and he shook his head briskly. "You are right."
"Hmm, accepting magical assistance and admitting I might be right? Maker, Fenris, are you sure you're feeling all right?" He glowered at her as she lifted her hands to his temples, brushing the pale hair out of the way before laying a hand on either side of his head; Amelle wasn't worried — she knew all of Fenris' glowers by heart — this one rated fairly low insofar as his annoyance levels went. It was a pale shadow of the detente they'd reached earlier, which felt a close kin to friendship some days, but it was such a welcome change from his short-tempered growls.
"I did not think you were able to sense this illness in adults."
"I didn't know what I was looking for, before," she murmured, closing her eyes and concentrating on the task at hand. "I was healing headaches and broken bones, never looking deeper than the superficial problem." His skin was warm against her palms even before she took a breath of mana and loosed a wave of healing magic.
"Symptoms only, then." Amelle felt rather than heard Fenris draw in a quick breath as the hotcold thrum vibrated down her fingers, and she ran her thumb slowly against his temple.
"Easy," she murmured, letting the magic unfurl and seek out any injury, any illness, anything, but… no, there wasn't anything…
No, wait. There. There. What's that?
Whatever it was, Amelle could tell by the way it felt that whatever it was, it was old. Not this illness then, but something… else. Some sort of old… trauma of some sort. Like an old scar, hardened over. She let the magic flare off and lowered her hands, frowning at Fenris.
"I told you I'm…" Trailing off, he narrowed his eyes at her. "What is it?"
She shook her head slowly. "You haven't got this illness."
His frown deepened. "Perhaps not. But there is something."
There was no point in deception — and she didn't want to deceive him. "It's an old injury, I suspect," she told him with a shrug. "Something that went untreated, perhaps?"
Fenris' smile was mirthless as he let out a short bark of laughter and turned aside, facing the hearth. "I would not be surprised if it was."
"Would you like me to…?"
"No," he answered with a decisive shake of his head. "You've been overextending yourself too much as of late, and I have been well enough despite whatever the injury may have been. Save your mana, Amelle." And then, more quietly, he added, "You do not need to give yourself a nosebleed every day."
"Point taken. But the fact remains you're also quite well. Or at least not mad."
"So it would appear."
"I take it this means you're fit to accompany me to Sundermount?"
"You haven't a great many options available to you," he remarked, giving her a long, level look.
Amelle looked at Fenris a moment, tilting her head. "Is that why you think I'm asking?" she asked, cocking an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Because I haven't anyone else to ask?"
"It wasn't so very long ago you assumed I gave you my help only because I'd promised your sister I would watch over you."
"And now you're assuming I'm asking your help because I'm out of options. An odd switch, you must admit. In any case, I am asking you to come with me because I want you to come with me."
He hesitated only briefly, as though searching for a point on which to argue, but finding none. "Then my blade is yours. When do you wish to depart?"
"I'd prefer to leave as soon as possible. Merrill can handle the mild cases, basic injuries and the like; she knows how to tie a splint and she's learned where I keep my potions. But if another fever comes into the clinic, she won't have any idea what to do. I… hate that I need to be away even for a day, but if it means finding a cure for this… whatever it is, then… I have little choice in the matter."
"And you cannot send me to Sundermount in your stead?"
"You said yourself you know little about plants, Fenris."
His frown teetered on the edge of a scowl. "I am aware of the importance of this errand."
"This is going to have to be the exception. Besides, four eyes are better than two. We'll have a better chance of finding it if we go together. With luck we'll be home before tea."
"If we had luck on our side, Amelle," came the dry reply, "we wouldn't be on our way to Sundermount."
#
The road to Sundermount was a long and winding — to say nothing of rocky — path. They both knew it well, having made numerous trips this way over the better part of a decade. It was hard to believe so much time had passed. Even harder to believe was how very many things had changed in that span — things and people, for that matter, she thought.
"Do you find something amiss?" Fenris asked, looking askance.
"Nothing in particular," replied Amelle. "Just… thinking." She sent him a sidelong look of her own, saying, "I thought you preferred peace and quiet, anyway."
A beat of silence passed and Fenris gave her an inscrutable look. "Is that why you've barely spoken on this trip?"
She met Fenris' expression with one of her own. "…Isn't that why you've barely spoken?"
Fenris opened his mouth to say something, but seemed not to know what and he closed his mouth again, shaking his head. "I do not consider your conversation to be… annoying prattle, Amelle."
Her words came out somewhat sharper than she intended, "Oh, well thank the Maker for that."
It took less than a second for the glower to settle on his face. "You misunderstand me. Willfully, I suspect. I merely—"
Sudden irritation flashed in Amelle's breast, and both its presence and force took her by surprise. "You've merely been avoiding me, and when you haven't been avoiding me, you've been short-tempered with me," she snapped. She hadn't planned on broaching this subject with him — after all, they'd never had what anyone would call a smooth relationship. But after being so solicitous once Kiara left, the change — so recent and so sudden — in his demeanor had been enough to make her worry he'd been infected by this bloody whatever-it-was that was currently making her life a sleepless wreck of nosebleeds and foul-tasting potions. And the possibility had scared her — Amelle was only realizing now just how much. "And," she went on, "if you don't think I deserve to know why you've been acting like a bronto's arse, then just tell me so. But don't say things like 'I'm here because I want to be,' and then act as though you'd like nothing better than to shove a hand through my chest. If you're pissed that Kiara left you behind, I understand that, but for the Maker's sake, don't take it out on me."
The silence that followed her outburst was startling, and Fenris stared at her as if he hadn't the first idea how to reply.
Finally, with a frown he looked away, briefly, then focused intently on the path in front of them. "I… did not realize you—"
"What, didn't realize I noticed the fact you've been bloody pissy?" Amelle didn't give him an opportunity to answer, her voice rising as she went on. "I can see where you'd think it might escape my notice, in between all the nosebleeds and Kirkwall going sodding crazy all around us. Maybe you thought your lousy attitude might go unnoticed in light of Aveline whipping one of her guardsmen, or otherwise sane and rational people acting like they'd completely lost every ounce of sense the Maker ever saw fit to give them. Guess again, Fenris: I have noticed."
Still, he did not reply; instead, Fenris flexed his jaw, his brows lowering and drawing together in a frown. "I…" he stopped, frowning more deeply, looking down and away from her before trying again. "You… have a point." The words sounded as if they were being pulled from him, slowly. Painfully. He paused again, but it was a shorter lapse this time, and after what looked like an internal struggle, Fenris lifted his gaze again and met hers, steadily. "I had no reason to vent my ire on you, and for that I apologize."
Amelle let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Well, at least it wasn't her he was angry with. She hadn't thought that the case, but still she allowed herself a small measure of relief. "Honestly, if something's bothering you, you can tell me. But for Andraste's sake, don't—" she rubbed hard at her forehead. "I'm tired, Fenris. And I'm worried. And, Maker, scared. I've never… had quite so much counting on… on me before. And this potion — I…what if it doesn't even work?"
The silence filling the space between them was vast, broken only by the occasional breeze rustling the trees, or the far-away calls of birds. Fenris appeared to be giving the question heavy thought; several times he parted his lips and drawing in a swift breath as if to speak, but at the last moment appeared to think better of the attempt. Finally, he found the words he was searching for: "I have said before you are proficient at your craft. I stand by that assessment."
"And I do appreciate the vote of confidence, but we must be realistic. We aren't any nearer to finding out what's causing this, and even if the potion does work and cures everyone who's sick and returns their wits to them, unless we find the cause, it could all just happen again." She rubbed hard at the back of her neck; every muscle in her back was stiff, and she simply didn't have the wherewithal to heal herself. "Again, just curing the symptoms, not the larger problem."
"And you're still—"
"So help me, Fenris, if the next thing out of your mouth includes the word 'overextend'…"
Whatever Fenris was going to say, he kept it to himself, and for several moments the grit and grind of their feet along the rocky path was the only sound between them. "You don't deny it, then."
"I'd be an idiot if I tried to," she replied, kicking a stone down the path. It rolled and bounced along before finally knocking against a larger rock and rocking to a stop. "What else can I do?"
"Is it truly worth sacrificing your wellbeing for them all?"
"Well, that's why we're looking for the potion ingredients, and hoping and praying to the Maker, Andraste, and all the good Fade spirits that it works." A wide yawn cracked her jaw and she shook her head. "I swear once this is done with, I'm going to sleep. Possibly for a week." Of course, the truth of the matter was that she'd be packing up and heading to Starkhaven — there was no doubt in her mind that this infection had wormed its way into her sister. Yet another reason to apply herself to the task at hand. There was too much to do before she could even think about rest. Besides, Amelle could always sleep later — that's what she kept telling herself. And when later finally came along, Amelle was going to soak up every spare moment of slumber she could.
Several moments passed without a reply from Fenris — not terribly unusual, given the elf's propensity toward silence, but when that silence grew too vast and too deep even considering it was a conversation with Fenris, Amelle looked over at him. "You're scowling," she said mildly. "Might I ask why?"
"What are your plans should this potion prove not to be a cure?"
The very mention of such a scenario made the tension between Amelle's shoulder blades grow impossibly, painfully tight. "I try again," she said with a lightness she did not feel as she rolled her shoulders trying to ease some of the tension. "And again. And again, until something reveals itself."
"In the meantime straining your own resources."
She sighed. They'd just turned the corner into the open space where the Dalish camp used to be. The earth was still scuffed with faded signs that people had once lived here, but no signs of life remained now. Planting her hands on her hips, Amelle turned to face Fenris.
"Is that what this is about?" she asked, her voice every bit as tense and tight as her shoulder blades. "You're concerned if I push my magic beyond its limits, I'll end up a blood mage or abomination or some other horrible monster that you're going to have to put down like a rabid dog?"
"No," Fenris answered sharply, and the suddenness and intensity of his answer startled her away from her rising anger. "No, that is not my concern." Suddenly he was in front of her, eyes flashing, his jaw set rigidly. "My concern is for your own health. You said it not five minutes ago," he said with a swift, decisive gesture, "you are exhausting yourself. I know a mage's best chance for restoring their levels of mana is by resting. What you are doing is not only unwise, it is dangerous. You cannot continue this, Amelle. Your goal is a noble one, but even the noblest intentions won't matter a whit if Hawke returns to find—"
Some distant part of her mind noted Fenris was probably right; she very likely was pushing herself too far, draining her mana too frequently, and not allowing herself ample time to recover. She was depending too heavily on spells and potions to keep her energy up, but such measures were not intended for the long term, and Amelle knew it.
But she, quite simply, didn't give a damn.
"Kiara is the one I'm doing this for!" Volume and emotion worked together to render her hoarse. She clapped both hands over her mouth suddenly; she hadn't meant to say the words and certainly hadn't meant to yell them.
"Hawke is…" Fenris trailed off, processing this information, digesting it. After a moment, his eyes widened a fraction. "You think this… illness infected her." It wasn't a question, and Amelle could tell by his tone that Fenris also believed such a scenario entirely possible. He frowned and looked down, as if rifling through his own memories. "She was… erratic before departing Kirkwall, this is true."
"And you remain a master of understatement."
His brows drew together and he nodded at the abandoned Dalish camp. "Tell me again what it is we are looking for."
Amelle rifled through the satchel slung across her chest and withdrew a sketch of the vine and its blossom, showing it to Fenris. "It's called Ozmidiannum, and should be… well, it's said to grow like a weed, and this is one of the few places we've come across where things actually grow."
"Where have you already looked?"
"The Wounded Coast and the viscount's private gardens." Amelle shrugged. "Not many places in Kirkwall where green things thrive, unfortunately." She eyed the rocky landscape. "And we may find nothing here — in which case, I'll have no choice but to find another potion to work on. I can't waste time hunting ingredients that might not be findable."
Fenris took the sketch and frowned at the picture, studying it. "Then we should be doubly careful not to fail. Can you tell me anything else?"
"I…" But Amelle only trailed off, fidgeting lightly with the strap of her bag.
"…Yes?" Fenris narrowed his eyes the longer Amelle didn't answer. "You mentioned another reason why you did not want to bring Merrill along. Might this have something to do with your reasoning?"
Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose. "A master of understatement and too perceptive by half."
"Amelle."
The benefit of keeping her fingers where they were, massaging the bridge of her nose, was that she didn't have to see the look Fenris was giving her. And she didn't want to see it. She hesitated a moment, then peered at him through her fingers. The look she'd expected to see was firmly in place; Fenris was nothing if not dependable, particularly when it came to his glowers.
"It's only a factor if we find the blighted vine," she told him.
The glower darkened. She let her hand fall with a sigh.
"The Ozmidiannum vine has rather… particular habits. The pollen must be collected while the bloom is still on the vine, otherwise the flower dies immediately and the pollen is rendered useless. The flower itself remains closed, which… as you can probably imagine, makes collecting the pollen difficult. In any event," she went on, "the blossom requires a… some sort of catalyst to open. The botanist who wrote the book I've been using in my research relates that the Ozmidiannum bud will only open after one pricks a finger on its thorns. On its many, many thorns."
"So what you're saying is this… flower may require… blood to open."
"I don't know if it does," she answered. "It might. But even the botanist who did the research admits that it could have been another factor that actually made it bloom."
"Like…?"
"Handling the vine at all — it's incredibly thorny, as I said. Drawing blood may just have been coincidental. And I don't want to make any snap judgments before I find out for myself."
"And if… if you discover that the blossom does in fact require blood to bloom?"
"I don't know. Does that make this blood magic? The potion recipe requires no mana-use, no lyrium. It is entirely straightforward in its directions — any herbalist can make the potion, even a non-mage." She shrugged and looked again at the sketch. "I guess we'll only know when we find the blighted thing, right?"
"Then I suggest we begin our search."
Something Amelle had noticed right away was how very different Sundermount felt without the Dalish presence. Indeed, she didn't think it was possible, but the place felt even creepier now than it ever had before. "This place ranks high on the list of places I'd hoped I'd never have to return to," she said, shuddering a little as they walked along one promising path, the rocky slopes on either side of the trail covered with climbing vines and clinging weeds.
"I would recommend we steer entirely clear of the Varterral hunting grounds as well, just in case," muttered Fenris, frowning at one vibrant green length of vine, but finding it unencumbered by thorns, he let it fall from his fingers.
Amelle craned her neck back, scanning the curling, twining lengths of green for thorns or buds. "You don't think killing it twice would've stuck?" she asked, taking a step back and peering higher.
"I don't want to find out."
"You know, if we do find another of those things, I'm fairly certain no one would blame us if we just ran away."
A rapid succession of expressions flickered rapidly over Fenris' face: surprise, disbelief, and affront, before settling into something thoughtful without quite crossing the line into pensive. "You may have a point," was what he finally said. "We needn't fight everything we discover."
"Especially things that nearly killed us twice already."
#
The midday sun was blazing mercilessly upon Sundermount, and Amelle's hair was sticking to her forehead, neck and temples. Few places — caves aside — allowed respite from the sun, and Amelle began to realize how much of the Varterral's hunting strategy depended on its food source getting away from that bloody blazing ball of heat up in the sky.
All the same, they steered very clear of that particular predator's cave, exploring what felt like every other known inch of Mount Sundermount — and a few of the unknown inches as well. Every step they took along every rocky path was soft — the barest scuffing of leather over stone — and yet Amelle kept herself braced, an ear always trained for the faint rumble that always preceded the moment when undead things came clawing and lurching up out of the ground. But nothing happened. Even when their steps took them across the ancient elven burial ground, the earth remained silent. They paused, staring warily at the ancient stone altar that stood at the end of the graveyard. Everything was still and quiet, save the rustling of the trees and the occasional twittering of birdsong.
"Strange," murmured Amelle, half to herself.
"That hadn't escaped my notice," agreed Fenris. "Do you think the Dalish presence itself was what created such… unrest here?"
A low chuckle carried itself on the wind and down Amelle's spine before she could answer. She realized suddenly the gentle breeze she'd been enjoying only moments before had gone still. Even the birds were quiet.
"Or maybe they're all simply afraid of… me," came the horrible, familiar voice.
Amelle and Fenris both spun around, drawing their weapons with smoothness and ease born of practice. Fenris moved in front of Amelle as she took another step back; without thinking, they'd both settled into the strategic positions they both knew best.
But the visitor only smiled. "Such a welcome for one who has already done so much for you? My, my…"
Amelle blinked hard and stared. "…Flemeth?" at the very instant Fenris growled out, "What is it you want, witch?"
But the Witch of the Wild's smile only broadened. Amelle had to admit, however privately, she wasn't sure that was a good sign.
A beat of silence passed as Flemeth arched an eyebrow, inclining her head. "A warm welcome indeed."
"I will ask only once more," Fenris said, standing utterly still, but for the tension radiating through him. "What do you—"
"Want. Yes. I heard you the first time, young man." Her gaze slid from Fenris over to Amelle. The scrutiny was unnerving, and she found herself standing up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders with confidence she didn't quite feel. Inclining her head slightly and lifting her chin, Amelle met the witch's gaze with a hopefully-level one of her own.
"So defiant," chuckled Flemeth, amused. "So this is what happens when a fruit is left untouched upon the bough: it ripens."
"Still talking in riddles, I see," remarked Amelle, smiling cheerfully.
"Is there any other way to talk?"
Fenris gave a derisive snort. "You could forego the riddles entirely and speak plainly."
"I could indeed speak plainly. As could you, elf," Flemeth tossed back.
Amelle wouldn't have thought it possible, but Fenris went even stiller. She let out an indelicate snort. "Fenris has never had difficulty speaking his mind."
But Flemeth's answering smile was maddeningly enigmatic, as was her reply. "Hasn't he?"
Amelle ignored this. "And he's right, besides. I'm in no mood for puzzles and riddles, I'm afraid, and we are on something of a schedule. So unless you've decided you're going to teach me how to change into a dragon after all…"
At this, Flemeth threw back her head and laughed. With the sound the mountain rumbled beneath and the trees shook and trembled all around her — and through her, down to her very bones — and though sweat beaded on her forehead and sprang across her brow at the noise, and though she very dearly wanted to, Amelle did not cover her ears. Finally, the horrible, painful laughter dwindled down to chuckles and something unnamable glinted in Flemeth's eyes. "Oh, you are a lively one. Spirited. I like that. You want to change, do you?" Flemeth continued. There were so many — too many — insinuations dancing beneath the words that it was hard for Amelle not to give in to the urge to shiver. "I daresay you are in the midst of such a change, dear girl. What you will change into, however, still remains anyone's guess."
Amelle wasn't particularly comforted by the sound of that, but she kept her spine straight and her shoulders squared, hoping no one could hear the way her heart thundered beneath her breast. She felt she'd had enough experience — limited, thought it was — with Flemeth to have a modicum of faith the witch would do them no harm unless they gave her reason. And Amelle had no intention whatsoever of giving such a woman any reason to be displeased with her.
As Kiara was fond of saying, Mother didn't raise any stupid children.
A wave of emotion clutched at Amelle and she suddenly missed her sister, intensely. How would Kiara would have handled this particular situation? Likely she would have grinned and made a quip that would've made the witch compliment Kiara on her clever tongue. But Kiara wasn't here, and Amelle was slowly coming to realize she wasn't going to get anywhere standing behind Fenris, or anyone else — even the shadow of Kiara that lurked in every corner of her mind. With that sigh, Amelle stepped forward until she was shoulder to shoulder with Fenris.
To Amelle's surprise, Flemeth's grin widened.
"And you continue to change right before my eyes," she murmured, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Tell me, child — it can be a long trek, out of another's shadow. Do you feel the sun yet?"
Amelle arched an eyebrow, her expression suddenly wry as she glanced quickly — and pointedly — up at the sun burning above them. "Well, at least you've moved away from riddles and into metaphor."
Flemeth's grin softened and she let out a soft, melodic chuckle. "You are not so different from the elder Hawke, after all."
Amelle was left with the oddest feeling the witch wasn't talking about her sister. "With respect, we are… on an important errand. The lives of many depend upon what we find here."
"Kirkwall's fate seems always to depend upon a Hawke, one way or another. Indeed, this is not the first time, is it?"
Amelle shook her head. "I'm rather hoping it will be the last."
Flemeth's amber eyes settled on her, leaving Amelle with the impression the witch was somehow looking through her. The scrutiny left her feeling even more unsettled. "I know the vine for which you search," she finally said.
"Ozmidiannum."
The witch's lips curled in an enigmatic smile. "Some call it that. Some call it Bloodvine."
"A much more colorful name," Fenris muttered in an undertone. "Let us hope it is not accurate."
"It is a noble pursuit you undertake, elf," Flemeth drawled, a lilting, mocking thread twining through her words. "The path out of shadow can be traveled alone, but should it?"
Fenris' brows furrowed in puzzlement, but he said nothing. Amelle took another small step forward and cleared her throat. "Is there… is there any way you might tell us if this potion will work? You seem to know enough of what's going on."
"I could tell you, it is true. But I will not."
"Why not?" snarled Fenris. Amelle laid a hand on his arm; he tensed beneath her touch, but went silent.
Flemeth's eyes went over Amelle before flickering to where her hand rested upon Fenris' arm. When her gaze returned to Amelle, she met the witch's look with her own unflinching one. It took absolutely no time whatsoever for Amelle to realize a staring contest with the Witch of the Wilds was something she never wanted to try again, again.
"There is bravery in you," she said, musingly. "And there is fire, as we know. And as we also know, the only way out of darkness is with light to guide you. Light can be horrible, blinding, painful. But it is the only thing that can guide you out of shadow. Light can heal or destroy." Flemeth looked pointedly at Fenris, who was even then glowing softly. "You've known this to be true for years, and it will continue to be true, long after you are both dust. What you seek, child, is easily found if you know where to look. But then, that is true of anything, is it not?" With a lazy gesture, Flemeth extended her arm and pointed one long finger, and when Amelle looked, she saw a twining, rocky path she was absolutely certain hadn't been there a second before.
"Find the waterfall," Flemeth told them, "and not far from there you will find the Bloodvine."
"Thank you," Amelle said, clasping her hands. "Thank you so much."
"It is refreshing to find such manners in one so young. But you will not be so young forever, and with maturity comes choices. Trust yourself, choose well and wisely, but remember that all trust requires a leap," said Flemeth. "And with every leap comes a landing."
Without waiting for any sort of reply — or as if to punctuate her own cryptic remark — the witch's magic charged the air a bare moment before her body twisted and shifted with a flash of light and power, transforming her form once again into that of a dragon. Amelle watched the change in wonder — it was the sort of sight one never truly grew tired of — unable to ponder over what sort of magic that was (very old, was her guess), and if such a transformation hurt. It had to, she decided, watching the way Flemeth's joints stretched and moved, as huge, leathery wings sprouted, stretched, and unfurled from her back. With a mighty wind that sent them both staggering back, those very wings lifted Flemeth's dragon-self into the air, propelling her farther and farther away, until she was little more than a speck on the horizon.
Amelle and Fenris watched in silence. Finally, when they could no longer hear the beating of mighty wings, Amelle turned to him, gesturing at the new path. "Shall we?"
His expression darkened — hardly any sort of a surprise at that juncture. "It does appear to be the last of our options."
Amelle shrugged. "The Varterral's cave aside."
"I had not realized we were considering that."
"Who knows?" she replied airily, picking her way carefully across the rocky terrain. "Whatever's waiting for us over this rise might be worse than a Varterral. Might even be the sort of thing you have to kill more than twice."
He scowled once more at the sky. "We've already dealt with a dragon."
This made Amelle chuckle as she stopped and turned to shoot Fenris a grin. "And didn't come out of the altercation singed or bleeding. I'd call that a silver lining, wouldn't you?"
#
Flemeth's path was every bit as twisting and twining as any other on Sundermount. After some time spent in companionable silence — such a welcome change from Fenris' demeanor over the past few days, and Amelle was both grateful and relieved for it — Fenris cleared his throat. Curious, Amelle glanced over.
"Yes?"
"I owe you… an apology." He paused. "Another."
Amelle blew out a deep breath and shook her head. "We've all been on edge lately, Fenris. Unpleasant things are bound to be said. I can't argue with you that I'm pushing myself, but… I have to. I must push myself. It… I can't— I don't think I'll be able to coast through this. It's… different, without Kiara being here. Normally she'd be taking the reins on this, coming up with ideas, sneaking into libraries. And now…"
"Now you feel as if you… are alone."
She nodded. "Well, we haven't got a Champion, after all. And normally we'd have two healers at our disposal. We're horrendously short-handed for any feats of daring-do, you've got to admit. Thankfully we've not come across any locks that need to be picked." Amelle's brow furrowed in thought a moment. "Which reminds me — how did you get that cabinet in the Circle library open? I thought you'd said it was locked. Did you find a key?"
Fenris looked away, somewhat sheepishly. "I… broke the handle."
Amelle's laugh escaped before she could stop it. "Well, that is one way of getting around things."
He smiled a little. It was an expression Amelle hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and it was so welcome, and such a relief to see, that some of the tension between her shoulders began to relax.
They descended again into silence. But it wasn't to last.
"You… you needn't do penance for Anders' deeds." Fenris' words, so quietly spoken, were nearly lost under the rustle of leaves and the sound of their footfalls across rocky ground, but Amelle heard them, and they were enough to make her stumble suddenly. In that instant, Fenris' hand was on her elbow, steadying her.
"You are tired," he muttered. "We should rest soon."
When she was again steady, he pulled his hand away without comment. Several more moments passed, but they were somewhat tenser than before — and in a way that was wholly unlike the trip to Sundermount had been. This was tension filled with ghosts of the dead and memories of the living. "You might not be wrong," she finally murmured, quietly. "Not about the being exhausted — about… about the other thing."
"I… can see that. But for all your efforts, you must not… take on that responsibility. Anders' deeds were his own."
"And what he did doesn't reflect on mages even a bit?" she asked dryly. "I think the Divine might be inclined to disagree with you."
Fenris' frown turned into a scowl, but there seemed to be something more warring across his features — something troubled. But before Amelle could ask, they reached the final twist in their path, and finally saw precisely where Flemeth's path had led.
A meadow spread out before them, greener than anything any of them had seen in Kirkwall since arriving. The grass was lush and fragrant; the sight of it possessed Amelle with the sudden urge to take off her boots and walk barefoot, letting the cool grass tickle between her toes. The rush and roar of a waterfall crashed and foamed into a rippling pool. Flowers dotted the meadow, and along one rocky wall not far from that waterfall, Amelle finally spied what they were looking for. Her heart leapt, and all of the other beauties in the meadow were forgotten.
"Maker's breath," Amelle whispered. "It's… it's beautiful."
"And yet I cannot help but wonder if it truly has existed here the whole while."
"Look!" she gasped, running forward, pointing. Ozmidiannum buds slept soundly along a twining net of prickly vines — the entire wall was covered with the dark green plant, studded with thorns, and glossy, waxy leaves swaying gently in the breeze. But her relief and amazement were short-lived when Amelle remembered what Flemeth had called this plant: Bloodvine.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the name," she murmured, peering this way and that at the plant. "It looks like the sort of thing that could prick you if you just looked at it wrong." She lifted a hand, preparatory to touching the vine, but at the last, she bit down hard upon her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth. Her hand remained in mid-air, fingertips hovering above the thorns.
Flemeth had told her — warned her? — she would change, but no word of what she might become. If this plant was somehow an instrument of blood-magic, then using it at all could well become the first step down a path she had no desire to walk. But what if it wasn't? What if it was nothing more than just a… a peculiar plant?
She'd never know unless she discovered for herself — or at least tried to discover it.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, Amelle reached out and let the thorn prick her thumb. She'd been prepared for the pain, but the sharp pinch still made her gasp, and she placed the injured digit in her mouth, grimacing at the coppery taste of her own blood upon her tongue before healing the tiny wound with a tiny breath of mana. There was no flare or flash of magic, but the vine did seem to shudder gently.
Amelle watched and waited, Fenris' presence behind her; his dark armor, sun-soaked after spending so much time outside, radiated heat at her back. It was strangely reassuring. Finally, after what felt like an eternity — though it couldn't have been much longer than seconds — the bud nearest Amelle unfurled, opening as if with a sigh. The petals were vibrant orange, with a singular streak of darkest violet traveling up along the center of each petal, like a starburst; the peachy-pink stamen was heavy with thick yellow pollen.
"Well," Amelle murmured around her thumb, "that seems to work as advertised." She tilted her head in thought. "Didn't seem particularly magical. Definitely painful, though." She leaned closer, squinting at both flower and thorn. The tiniest hint of red glistened upon the thorn's point. From the corner of her eye she spied Fenris watching the plant just as intently. Nothing else happened.
"It appears the vine is not carnivorous, either," the elf observed. Indeed, the vine seemed not to be absorbing the drop of blood — or otherwise doing anything with or about it.
Amelle turned her attention to the newly-blossomed flower. It was perfectly beautiful, and smelled faintly sweet. "What do you think?" she asked Fenris, never pulling her eyes from the plant.
There was a jostle of armor beside her and Amelle glanced up to find Fenris moving to another section of vine where flowers still slept, tightly curled into buds.
"Fenris?"
"Something has me… curious, Amelle."
"Do tell."
"You had said there were… other possibilities as to why this plant might open. Possibilities unrelated to blood magic."
"What did you have in mind?" she asked.
Fenris lifted one gauntleted hand and touched the vine. So protected, several of the thorns actually bent despite his gentle touch. But only moments after he bruised the deceptively fragile vine, three more blossoms unfurled.
Amelle stared at the vine, as if demanding an explanation from the plant, but the petals just swayed gently in the breeze.
"It must be a… a defense mechanism of some sort."
"The flower blooms to… protect the vine?"
"Definitely a possibility." She wondered suddenly at the plant's "mysterious properties" and its use in healing potions. Even the best medicinal herbs could be poisonous in too great a dose, or in their rawest forms. Amelle pressed her lips together into a thin line, then withdrew a phial and a small blade from the satchel she carried. "Best not to breathe it too much of this in, just in case," she muttered, carefully scraping the pollen from the flower, watching it drift gently into the glass container.
"Perhaps you ought to have taken that into consideration before getting so close," he observed, a frown darkening his brow.
"Spirit healer," she said, wiggling her fingers at him before pressing a cork in over the mouth of the phial, stoppering it. She held it up, letting the sunlight catch the butter-colored clumps of pollen, and a triumphant grin spreading slowly across her lips. "Another ingredient down." She turned that grin to Fenris. "And if you'd not been there, I'd still be dithering over whether or not I was taking an unwitting turn down Blood Magic Boulevard. Thank you, Fenris."
Her gratitude seemed to leave him discomfited, and Fenris brushed off her thanks with a brusque, "You would have figured it out."
As Amelle looked around the clearing with a speculative eye, she wasn't so sure Fenris was right. "We should look around a bit more." She chewed on the inside of her cheek, her eyes scanning the green grass. "I still haven't found any Andraste's Grace."
He met her eyes levelly. "Then we will look."
#
Amelle sank to her knees at the edge of the pool and leaned forward, cupping the cold water in her hands. First she drank, then she splashed the remaining water across her face, running wet fingers up through her sweat-damp hair. Her back and shoulders and neck all ached, and she knew a sunburn was working its way across the bridge of her nose — something she wasn't quite vain enough to heal, particularly if it meant wasting mana that was all too precious. She sank back on her hip and settled against the soft earth, casting an eye around for Fenris. Though the meadow wasn't terribly large, she still couldn't see him, but could only hope he was having better luck than she at that point.
There was not a single sprout of Andraste's Grace anywhere to be had in the meadow.
She sank back and stretched her legs out, flinging one arm over her eyes — partially to block the sun, and partially to hide any tears that might have the audacity to form — and tried to think. Cullen still had men out combing Kirkwall for the plant, and there was every possibility they might find it.
But what if they don't?
"Okay," she muttered to herself, sitting up and rubbing at her temples, "here's what you're going to do. You're going to pull out that book and see what Ines Arancia has to say about the medicinal properties of Andraste's Grace. There might be a reasonable, local substitute. If there isn't one, then you're going to craft your own blighted potion and hope for the best. You haven't the luxury of time for another midnight visit to the libr—"
A voice interrupted her diatribe. "Amelle." Fenris. He stood across the clearing just away from the waterfall's cool, misty shadows. "There is something I think you need to see."
Her curiosity pricked, she pushed to her feet and joined him by the water's edge. As they moved closer, the mist thickened, but before Amelle could ask what in the Maker's name they were doing, she saw where Fenris had gone. There, behind the cascade of water, was a narrow passageway. Brows lifting in surprise, she turned back to Fenris.
"A cavern," he said, jerking his chin at the dark entrance.
She didn't have to ask if it was safe; if it hadn't been before, it very likely was now. With a silent nod, Amelle ducked into the darkness. Immediately she summoned a softly glowing ball of blue light; a few small… things skittered into the remaining shadows, but they were left alone for the most part. All around them the pounding water roared, echoing deafeningly through the cavern as Fenris took up the lead, guiding her farther back.
"It's just… here," he said over the noise, rounding a corner.
Before Amelle could ask, she saw it: in a small niche, bathed in a pool of incidental sunlight — there was a sizable crack in the rock above them — was, not one or two, but a small patch of white flowers with blood-red markings.
Andraste's Grace.
"That is… what you are looking for, is it not?" he asked. "It seems to match the description, but I confess I've never seen this particular flower before."
"It is," she breathed. Her surprise was enough that the light she'd conjured flickered out. Amelle appeared not to notice; she stared at the flowers, then dropped to her knees, running gentle fingertips over the distinctive petals. "It is." Letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh, she looked up at the elf. "Maker's blood, Fenris, I could kiss you." She began digging in her bag for the small hand-shovel she kept.
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. His brows lowered into something that wasn't quite a frown — or if it was a frown, it was of a different sort than Fenris usually wore. "I… doubt the Knight-Captain would thank you for such a gesture."
Amelle looked up, taking no pains to hide her confusion. "What's Cullen got to do with any of this?"
Fenris looked discomfited again, and Amelle almost felt embarrassment on his behalf. "I… had been under the impression you were…" He trailed off, but it made little difference; Amelle understood all he wasn't saying. Color suddenly flooded her cheeks — had Fenris somehow seen her with Cullen in the garden? If he had, he hadn't stayed for the whole show, evidently. Her blush flared hotter at her cheeks.
"We aren't, um…" she said, forcing her attention back to the tool in her hand and the plant in the ground. "He's a friend — or could be, I think — but we… ah. There's — there's nothing…" She dug into the earth with a bit more zeal than absolutely necessary. "We aren't… um. We aren't. Like that."
Now it appeared to be Fenris' turn to grow embarrassed. "My… apologies. I should not have assumed."
"No harm done," replied Amelle mildly, carefully digging around the roots of one of the Andraste's Grace blooms. When Fenris said no more on the matter, she felt a cool rush of relief. Working carefully, it wasn't long before Amelle pulled one flower free, roots and all. The smile she directed up at Fenris was brilliant, reflecting every iota of relief and hope swelling in her chest. "And with that, I think we have a potion to craft."
"…We?"
"Oh, come now — you were here for the boring parts." She tenderly wrapped the plant in a small square of linen she'd brought along, then tucked it carefully into her pack. "Crafting a potion is far more interesting than hunting down the ingredients."
Fenris offered Amelle a hand up, saying, "So says the potion-crafter," as he pulled her easily to her feet.
"Things will bubble. There might even be fire." She waggled her eyebrows. "Very exciting."
Fenris shook his head at her, but Amelle saw — or at least she guessed — that he was holding back a laugh, or at the very least, a chuckle. "If you wish for company, you have only to ask, Amelle."
There was no arguing with that. She made a slightly sheepish face. "Keep me company so I don't fall asleep?"
"As I said, you have only to ask."
