Given the amount of time Fenris had been spending in the clinic, he'd had more than ample opportunity to witness Amelle mix any number of potions. A quiet sort of intensity came over her when she worked, every ounce of her focus poured into whatever she was making. Some recipes — like elfroot potion — were reasonably simple for her; she had no need of books or notes when crafting them. Others were slightly more complicated, if only because limited and hard-to-find ingredients meant she had less opportunity to commit the process to memory.

As he watched her now, hunched over the massive tome he'd liberated from the Circle Library, checking the recipe instructions yet again, Fenris had a new appreciation — a new respect — for the careful, painstaking work that went into such an effort.

They had cleared off Hawke's desk in the library, turning it into a worktable that was currently covered with various vials and flasks — and, of course, the book. The pollen they'd collected from Sundermount was still carefully stoppered, but the rest of the ingredients were spread across the table, each in various stages of preparation. Amelle had at that moment just finished putting the final touches on a batch of elfroot potion, which, she'd already explained to him, was the base for Dragon's Sight, upon which so much already depended.

Despite how warm the day had been, the evening was unseasonably cool, but the fire burning in the hearth was offering more than just light and ambiance. Evidently the embers were going to play a larger part in the process later — until then, the fire kept the chill off the stone floor. Turning away from the book with a nod, Amelle pushed a cork in the flask of finished elfroot potion, and leaned back in the chair, twisting herself around until a series of cracks and pops came from her spine. She looked tired.

No, she looked exhausted.

"Are you certain I can do nothing to assist you?" he asked, shifting in the chair, grimacing a little as it creaked.

Amelle's head lolled to the side as she looked at him, and the way the firelight played across her features made the shadows beneath her eyes even deeper and darker. Frustration surged in his chest and he gritted his teeth at the sight, hating how little there was he could do about any of this. This was not his area of expertise — he was a warrior. A fighter. He was no herbalist, no rogue equipped for late-night sneaking through shadows — he preferred to fight his enemies head-on, without subterfuge or deception. He was far out of his depth, and all Amelle had asked of him was to keep her company and help her remain awake. It didn't feel like enough.

Amelle rubbed at her face, pressing her fingertips against her eyes as she tipped her head back. "What time is it?"

"…Late."

Amelle grimaced, her hands falling. "Orana's surely gone to bed already." With that, she pushed her chair back. "How do you feel about a pot of tea?"

He must have taken too long to answer, because Amelle sent him a tired grin and stood, taking hold of his wrist as she did, tugging until Fenris stood. "I think you need some as badly as I do. Come on."

"Would you not rather I stayed here and…" he cast a wary eye over the ingredients.

"You'd rather pulverize the root of Andraste's Grace than come with me to the kitchen for ten minutes to make tea? Maker, I didn't realize I was such horrible company." Amelle's teasing tone and the warmth of her fingers at his wrist brought a warm flush to his cheeks, but Fenris was reasonably confident the light cast from the hearth hid — or at least did not do much to reveal — the color rising to his face. Lowering his brows, Fenris sent her a level look.

"I said nothing of the sort. But if you require it, I offer my assistance."

"I do require it," she replied archly. "Someone's got to make sure I don't get lost coming back from the kitchen."

His eyebrow crept upward. "Your house is hardly a labyrinth, Amelle."

"Then someone has to make sure I don't fall asleep while the tea's steeping," she countered. "Did you know a person can drown in less than three inches of water?"

"You are not going to drown in the tea while it's steeping, either."

He stood, and the dimple at her cheek appeared as the grin widened. "Of course I won't. Because you'll be sitting with me, helping me stay awake." Then, after a moment, her eyes softened slightly and she looked almost sheepish, relinquishing her hold on his wrist. Though her fingers were gone, Fenris still felt Amelle's touch against his skin. "I realize it's hardly thrilling work," she said, with an apologetic shrug, "and I'm sure you'd rather be helping Kiara do… something exciting, but I do appreciate that you're here."

"I only feel as if I'm not being terribly useful," he told her as they made their way to the kitchen together.

This time it was Amelle who arched an eyebrow. "Says the man who located the missing ingredient that all the guards and all the templars in Kirkwall couldn't find."

"I found it entirely by accident, Amelle," he reminded her, but she only shook her head and chuckled.

"You still found it, and for that I am inordinately grateful." They crossed the threshold into the kitchen and Amelle went straight for the teapot, measuring out tea leaves before filling the kettle with water from a nearby pitcher, and holding it in her hands until steam issued forth from the spout, curling upward. An odd look came over her, both rueful and discomfited. "And now I'm remembering what I said to convey that gratitude."

Fenris remembered too, all too well, but kept his expression neutral as he said, "I took your words in the spirit in which they were intended, Amelle."

She cleared her throat, watching the steam curl and dance as it wafted upward. "…Of course." Without another word, Amelle tipped the kettle, filling the teapot with steaming water. "Well, we've a little wait ahead of us," she said, busying herself with pulling down teacups and sugar. "Unfortunately we still haven't any milk or cream — it's been too hard to come by in the market."

"I prefer my tea black."

"I thought that might be the case."

A ghost of a smile curled at his lips. "Provided you haven't any brandy, of course."

At that, Amelle let out a laugh and shook her head. "That would hardly be conducive to staying awake. We do have some if you'd really like it, though."

It was tempting — perhaps too tempting, but Fenris shook his head. "Another time, perhaps."

Setting the teapot aside, Amelle sank into a chair and yawned, resting one elbow on the table as she propped her chin in her hand. "Another time when this whole mess is resolved? I think some sort of celebration will be in order."

"If you like."

"I think I would. Maker knows I need something else to focus on so I don't get swept up in the many, many ways this could all fall down around my ears."

"Have I not told you—"

"I'm proficient at my craft. Yes, you've said. It's just…" she leaned back in the chair and looked down at her hands. "I'm still… worried."

He took a step forward and sat in the chair opposite Amelle. The words had formed and were hovering upon his tongue. Words he'd tried to say a number of times before, but it had never seemed so very important before now that he find the voice to say them. "I… I have faith in you."

She hadn't been expecting that, if her slight jerk was any indication. She blinked, looking at him as if she didn't quite believe he'd said such a thing at all. "You… do?"

"You are… determined. Whatever the cure to this illness, I do not believe you'll give up before you've found it."

She sent him a faint, crooked smile. "Hawkes are nothing if not determined."

"As I have seen evidence daily. Sometimes to your own detriment."

Amelle looked down at the teapot, running her fingers lightly along the handle, trailing gently around the lid, and following the curve of the spout. "We come by it honestly." A small, sad smile formed at her lips as if she was remembering a distant memory. "Sometimes determination is the only weapon in your arsenal."

He was jolted by a sudden, sharp flash of recognition — countless nights when he'd gone without food or sleep, nights he hadn't been able to steal enough coin and had no choice but to push onward to the next city or town just to keep ahead of Danarius' hunters, and occasionally Danarius himself.

"You know what I mean," she said quietly.

"I do."

Amelle nodded slowly and looked down at the teapot. "I can't say I'm terribly surprised." She lifted the lid of the teapot and peered inside, letting it fall back into place with a soft clink. "My brother Carver nearly revealed me to the templars when I was eleven."

"Your… brother."

She sighed. "It wasn't— he was being foolish. And he was being foolish with group of other boys from the village, and as we all know, true stupidity is very frequently a group effort. They were only trying to stir up trouble with the templars, but Carver was a part of it and…"

"Clearly it ended… well?"

Amelle pressed her lips together and Fenris noted the way her fingers plucked at each other. "It didn't end badly, if that's what you mean. Kiara and I hid in a ravine for… Maker, I don't know how long we hid. It felt like hours. I was terrified — I hadn't full control over my abilities yet — and in my fear, I'd burned her." She swallowed. "Badly. Once it was dark enough I ran all the way home and fetched our father. I— I didn't realize then how… how much damage I'd done. Father healed her, but it wasn't easy work, and of course I didn't understand at the time how much mana…" She trailed off. Obviously she understood now the effort their father had undertaken; Fenris suspected Amelle understood it better than she liked. "Then again, what some call determination, others call rampant stubbornness."

"Which you also come by honestly."

Amelle set the teapot on a tray. "I'd say I was offended, but you have met my sister." She plucked up the tray and whisked it all back to the library, pouring two cups before she settled back into her chair and began crushing the roots of Andraste's Grace with her stone mortar and pestle.

"Thank you, Fenris," said Amelle, a few minutes later. She lifted the pestle and frowned at the consistency of the pulverized root before going back to work.

"For?"

Amelle stopped again and smiled at him, and for a moment her fatigue melted away. "I think… I think I needed to hear that. Now I just need to make sure your faith isn't misplaced."

#

Morning light began turning the horizon a pale bluish-grey, and that light crept through the sky — and soon the library windows — slowly easing the dimness from the room. The fire burning in the hearth was now little more than a pile of softly glowing embers. Fenris stood and stretched, glancing over his shoulder at the divan, where Amelle slept soundly upon her side. One hand dangled off the edge of the couch, fingertips barely brushing the slumbering mabari next to her. She'd curled up just over an hour ago, encouraging Fenris to do so as well; he'd refused, opting instead to remain awake and keep watch. The potion was in its final stages — it had to rest buried beneath the warmth of the embers until the liquid within the flask turned darkest red.

Fenris eyed the bottle, its tip peeking out from a pile of ash — Amelle had made a single batch, probably enough for six or eight doses, she estimated. It would be enough to determine at least whether she'd need to make a larger one for the rest of the people of Kirkwall. Of course, if the potion worked, that created an entirely different sort of dilemma. Fenris wondered how they'd be able to make enough Dragon's Sight for all the sick — or even most of them — given how very limited the ingredients were to begin with. Granted, they'd found everything, even the items hardest to find, but those items were still in limited supply.

All of this assuming they'd be able to find the witch's meadow again. Fenris had his doubts.

Moving silently, taking care not to awaken Amelle, Fenris crouched by what remained of the fire. Frowning, he reached out one careful hand and brushed away the ash covering the neck of the flask to find the liquid within was deepest, darkest blood-red, glinting slickly amid the soft glow in the hearth. He let out a breath: the potion was ready.

Amelle hadn't agreed to get any rest until Fenris had assured her he would let her know the very moment the wait was over, but as he glanced at her, still asleep, he wished he'd made no such concession. Her face was relaxed and unguarded in repose, and he could see so clearly the toll this was taking on her — her skin was pale but for the sunburn across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and the swollen, dark smudges beneath her eyes stood no chance of being erased by any short nap. She needed rest. Proper rest. But sleep was not a luxury Amelle Hawke had been indulging in as of late.

Fenris also knew — or had some idea, at least — of the harm she was doing herself through such deprivation. For a moment he considered simply letting her sleep, leaving her in Orana's care while he delivered the potion.

Tempting though it was, such an action wasn't any sort of viable option — such an action would succeed only in leaving Amelle feeling angry and betrayed. She'd wanted to be woken, and had made him promise to wake her — and he'd given her his word. For all that he did not like the strains Amelle was placing on herself, Fenris also knew with this potion, there was an end in sight. Or so they hoped.

Pushing to his feet, he quietly approached the divan. Amelle didn't stir; her breathing came deep and slow, and her eyes twitched beneath their lids as she dreamed.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Fenris lightly shook Amelle's shoulder, but she only frowned and shifted beneath her quilt.

"Mmmm. Go 'way, Kiri. Tired."

Fenris' fingers lingered at Amelle's shoulder a few scant seconds before he reached up to brush aside a short lock of hair lying haphazardly across her forehead. His fingertips only barely grazed her skin — and Amelle's forehead seemed bordering on overly warm — when her eyes flew open. She awoke with a start, blinking hard.

"Fenris?" Amelle's voice was hoarse with exhaustion and too little sleep.

He dropped his hand. "The potion is ready. You… were proving difficult to rouse. Forgive me if I startled you."

"Potion. Right." Amelle sat up, hunching forward and rubbing her hands hard across her face, pressing fingertips to her eyelids. Fenris had his doubts as to whether such a measure would actually make anyone feel more alert after a mere hour of sleep, but he held his tongue. She took a deep breath in and out again, then lifted her head from her hands. "Potion's ready. Okay. Let's take a look."

She pushed back the quilt covering her and went to the hearth, dropping to her knees. Amelle pulled her sleeve down over her hand and fished the flask out from the embers. She blew the ash from the glass and held it up, frowning at the liquid within for a few seconds. She tipped the bottle this way and that, watching the way the liquid clung to the inside of the flask.

"Well, this is a good sign," she murmured, a tiny, pleased smile erasing a small measure of the fatigue weighing upon her features. "Let's hope you're worth all this trouble, hmm?"

"You frequently speak to your potions?"

"Only the important ones." Standing, Amelle set the potion aside on the desk she'd appropriated. "I'm going to wash up a bit, see if I can clear the cobwebs a little." Here, she smiled at him. "You— you don't have to stay, Fenris. It's been a long night, and I daresay your errand has come to an end. If you'd rather go back to the mansion and get some sleep—"

He silenced her with a look. After a moment Amelle looked down, laughing softly and shaking her head. "All right, all right. Forget I said anything. Orana's probably got tea going already, if you want to help yourself. I'll be down in a minute." Between her light step and slippered feet, Amelle's footfalls were nearly silent as she left the library and went upstairs. Killer lifted his head and watched her leave, exhaling a soft snort and settling back down to sleep. Fenris felt a twinge of envy as he watched the animal; the dog had the right idea, at least.

Once alone, Fenris lingered a short while in the library, his gaze settling on the potion a moment before he shook out his hand — the fingers that had grazed Amelle Hawke's forehead — and made his way to the kitchen where the promise of a cup of strong, black tea awaited him.

#

Since time was of the essence — and Amelle wasn't terribly inclined to push her luck by venturing into the Gallows again — they sent a message to the Knight-Captain via an eager recruit standing post at the gates, instructing him to meet them in the guard barracks at his earliest convenience.

They'd barely reached the bottom step of the Keep's massive stone stairs when the sound of jangling armor reached Fenris' ears. After exchanging an incredulous look with Amelle, they both turned in time to see the Knight-Captain striding up behind them. He didn't appear to be out of breath, but there was most certainly the flush of exertion upon his skin. Amelle blinked hard, both eyebrows disappearing behind her dark bangs.

"Maker's blood, Cullen, don't tell me you ran just to catch up with us."

"Perhaps I didn't run, but I did hurry." He looked up at Viscount's Keep, a worried frown furrowing between his brows. "I want to see an end to this mess as badly as anyone."

Fenris followed the templar's gaze, his own frown settling upon his brow. It was indeed a mess, and it galled Fenris that Aveline had to remain imprisoned because of it. It was for the best, he knew — Aveline was a seasoned, talented warrior, and as long as she remained under the influence of this strange illness she was a danger. All the same, the sooner Aveline was cured and fighting alongside them, the better.

The climate inside the Keep was quiet and tense; a motley mix of both templars and city guardsmen held various posts throughout, but there seemed very little to guard — there were startlingly few people within the Keep, and Fenris wondered just how many of Kirkwall's citizens had succumbed to this mystery illness.

"It's not been easy to reassure people we aren't interested in taking over Kirkwall," murmured the Knight-Captain, his voice low. "Not exactly surprising, I suppose, considering they've been burned before."

Fenris considered a moment, then replied, just as quietly, "Has there been any sort of… struggle for power?"

The templar shook his head. "My men have been made entirely aware that this is an emergency measure only. But the city guard are wary — and for that I can hardly blame them."

The long walk through the Keep finally led to the barracks, where they were greeted by the sight of Donnic in Aveline's office, sitting at her massive desk, his posture radiating exhausted defeat. He looked up at the sound as they crossed the threshold into the room and his expression teetered between relief and wariness at their appearance.

"More than half the guard are unfit for duty, and more succumb every day," he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Please tell me you have a plan — or, at the very least, tell me you haven't come bearing more bad news."

Fenris snuck a quick glance at the Knight-Captain, but the templar's expression betrayed nothing — he'd lost no men to this illness. Fenris could appreciate it was a precarious path the templar had to tread — offering support and assistance from the templars without applying pressure, as Meredith had. There was no question in this instance templar aid was a temporary measure, but old wounds would not heal so easily, and in many cases, left scars.

With a flourish, Amelle set the flask on the corner of the desk. "Good news — or, rather, I hope it is. The first batch of Dragon's Sight — I figured Aveline would get the first dose, and… well, there's enough here for about… ten people, assuming no one needs more than one."

"Ten?" Donnic echoed. "So few? Serah Hawke, surely you realize in the guard alone we've dozens of men and women sick."

"And if it works, I'll be more than happy to brew more," explained Amelle. "I know nothing for certain. It should work, but given we haven't the slightest idea what's even causing this bloody plague, I'm somewhat limited in my ability to find a potion to treat it."

Donnic's shoulders slumped slightly and he bowed his head. "Of… of course." It was more than obvious where his worries lay — Fenris could hardly fault him that; they were all worried about Aveline. For all that she was to them, she was still far more than that to Donnic, and no one in the room was ignorant of that fact. "Then I suppose we'd better get started."

The dungeon below Viscount's Keep served as Kirkwall's city-prison, several dozen cells set along winding torchlit tunnels. But the stone-lined cells that had once held petty thieves and drunkards in need of a spot to dry out now held most of Kirkwall's own citizens — those individuals too dangerous or too erratic to be left to their own devices and were a danger to themselves and others. Not a few of them were members of the city guard.

"Aveline is lucid, sometimes," Donnic explained as they descended a long, stone stairwell. "But it seems those moments get shorter and less frequent every day."

From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Amelle wince. "I should have come by to see her — things have only got worse since hunting down those bloody ingredients—" Donnic cut her off with a shake of his head.

"It can be difficult to prioritize when things are in such a state, but make no mistake, when she could, she understood entirely why you were absent and what you were doing."

"Did she tell you anything… useful?" asked Amelle carefully. "Any other symptoms? How was she feeling?"

"She complained frequently of headache — it seemed never to truly leave her, despite anything I tried."

"And what did you try?" asked Amelle.

Donnic answered with a shrug. "Potions, mainly. Even a few poultices. Aveline had a store of them in her office, but nothing made very much of a dent."

Amelle sent him a reassuring smile. "Aveline's lucky to have you watching after her."

"I only wish I'd managed to do more good," Donnic replied quietly, regret and worry sitting heavily upon his shoulders. He made an attempt to shake it off, saying, "All of the guard are taking shifts." But Fenris had no doubt Donnic was spending every spare moment in these tunnels, tending to Aveline. He certainly looked tired and wan enough. Odd he hadn't succumbed, though; clearly some were entirely immune, but what common thread provided them with such protection? Fenris couldn't begin to guess.

As it happened, Aveline appeared to be experiencing a brief period of lucidity when they reached her cell. As Donnic had explained, this had been the case from the start, but these moments had been growing shorter and less common over time. Whatever this ailment was, it progressed rapidly. Less than a week had passed since they'd found Aveline wielding a whip over one of her guardsmen, red-faced with fury. If the look on her face when she saw them was any indication, she remembered that day, too.

Amelle appeared immensely relieved that Aveline did seem well, for all that it would make it more difficult to tell whether the potion was working or not. She quickened her step and hurried to the cell's bars. "Aveline."

At the sight of them, Aveline stood, wrapping her hands around the bars. She'd been stripped of her armor and left in plain-clothes, presumably for her own protection as well as that of any who encountered her. Her skin was pale, making her freckles stand out starkly against the bridge of her nose.

"Hello, Amelle. Fenris," she said, somewhat hesitantly. She gave them both a pained look, her eyes darting down to the spot where she'd wounded him, then up again. "I… Fenris," she began, hoarsely, "I'm—"

He lifted a hand, cutting her off. "I do not blame you, Aveline. You were not yourself."

"Noticed that, did you?" She rubbed hard at her forehead, fingers moving to her temples, pressing against the skin and rubbing circles as if her head pounded beneath her fingertips. "All the same, I'm— I'm glad you recovered."

"As am I," he replied. She smiled, and for a moment Aveline looked… normal. Normal but for the bars separating her from the rest of them.

"How are you feeling, all things considered?" asked Amelle. Aveline let out a short bark of laughter.

"Rotten," she answered simply. "Of all the times for your sister to bugger off. Look at all the fun she's missing."

"Or she'd have ended up in the cell next to yours," Amelle quipped, but her lightheartedness was strained. Such a joke was too close to the reality, he suspected, reminding her too vividly of Hawke's own precarious mental state during the days before she left.

Donnic coughed. "They bring news, my love. Good news, we hope."

"Could do with a bit of that," replied Aveline, trying at a smile.

"I've been working on a potion," Amelle replied, withdrawing the flask from her satchel and holding it up for inspection. "We're hoping it will cure whatever's… affecting you." She dug again in the bag and pulled free a small earthenware cup, then pulled the cork loose and tilted the bottle. The liquid within moved sluggishly, but soon she'd poured a dose into the cup and passed it through the bars to Aveline, who looked down skeptically at the liquid.

"It's very… red."

"The heat had that effect on it — lengthy exposure to heat turns anything with even a touch of Spindleweed red," explained Amelle. She looked down at the bottle as she pushed the cork back into place and Fenris saw a flash of uncertainty flicker across her face before she shut it away. "It's supposed to be potent stuff."

"And what's it called again?" asked Aveline as she lifted the cup to her lips and downed the potion in a single gulp. She promptly began coughing.

"Dragon's Sight," Amelle answered over the coughing spasm.

Aveline got control of herself enough to croak, "Probably ought to have called it Dragon's Piss — Maker, but that's got a kick."

"It is potent," Amelle said again with an apologetic shrug. "That's why the dose is so small."

"And given the taste," said Aveline around her grimace, "I'm glad for it."

"Any idea how long it should take to work?" Donnic asked with a nervous glance into the cell.

"I'm afraid not. The book this came from gave no indication of how long it's going to take — and given the fact Aveline seems to be—"

But Aveline was sinking down hard upon the small cot, gripping her head. They all watched, and none were willing to breathe. The silence grew and thickened, broken only by the ever-quickening rasps of Aveline's breath. Before long, each heaving pant became edged with a whimper.

"Aveline?" Donnic began. "Love?" He stepped closer to the bars, grasping them.

Even Amelle had drifted closer, watching Aveline, clenching her hands into fists and then releasing them. It was a gesture Fenris had seen often enough to recognize Amelle's own anxiety — her own fear that the potion might not work — or worse, might serve only to exacerbate the illness. Fenris took a small step closer to Amelle, rewarded as she flashed a brief but grateful smile his way. It vanished again under a fresh tide of worry, but not before Amelle took a smaller step closer to Fenris.

"Aveline, are you—"

"Are you trying to poison me? Is that it?" Aveline leapt up and flung the cup to the stone floor, where it shattered with the hollow peal of breaking crockery.

With a soft curse, Amelle grabbed the bars. "It didn't work?" she breathed, shaking her head as if she wished to deny what she saw. Her fingers curled more tightly around the bars until her knuckles had gone white. "It didn't bloody work."

"You haven't killed me yet, if that's what you're getting at. Is that what you were trying for, Amelle? Was it? Well, let's see how you bloody like it!" And before anyone could react, Aveline's hand swept down and snatched up the largest piece of broken pottery, curved like a tiny dagger. Then, moving more quickly than any of them would have expected, she took sharp hold of Amelle's wrist, yanking her arm further into the cell.

Amelle was jerked forward as Aveline pulled, her shoulder slamming hard against the bars, rattling them. Her gasp of surprise, however, turned into a yelp of pain as Aveline sliced the broken, sharp edge down along the length of Amelle's forearm, ripping her sleeve and cutting into her skin.

The tiny niche of space exploded into noise and action as the Knight-Captain and Fenris both tried to pull Amelle away from the bars, but that only served to drive the jagged piece of pottery deeper into her flesh until the thick, dark blood welled up even faster, dripping down and splashing onto the stones. In the commotion was the scrape of a key and the creaking groan of hinges as Donnic unlocked and flung open the cell door, rushing in and trying to pull Aveline away and back to the corner of her cell. Her grip on Amelle's wrist, however, was far too tight, and with every attempt to pull the two apart, Aveline's fingers tightened and she twisted Amelle's arm until Fenris was certain he heard something pop as Amelle cried out sharply.

With that sick, wrong sound, anger rushed forth, the familiar prickling along Fenris' skin as the lyrium branded into his flesh glowed brightly.

"Enough," he snarled, and turned to join Donnic in subduing Aveline — whatever this madness was, either it made Aveline stronger or simply more desperate and determined to do harm, for she was having no difficulty fending off Donnic, ramming her elbow into his face hard enough to send him staggering, blood streaming from his nose. He reached for the pommel of his sword, certain only that Aveline would not respond to mere threats, and hating that there were no other options before him.

But before Fenris could do anything, a flash of blue-white light and a flare of green filled the cell, the sudden flood of power in such a small area enough to making his ears pop. Working without a staff in hand, it had taken Amelle a moment — very likely several moments — to conjure a paralysis glyph, which she'd done either immediately before or after summoning a rush of healing energy — it was hard to tell. The torn, bleeding skin slowly mended itself before Fenris' eyes — something that never ceased to amaze him, even at his most jaded — and the blood dripping down stopped, leaving only Amelle's torn and stained sleeve behind. The light, though, did not subside even after Amelle was healed. The Knight-Captain and Fenris exchanged a quick look before the templar relinquished his hold on Amelle and took a cautious step back.

Not only had Amelle healed her own wound, but the blood flowing from Donnic's nose slowed as well, coming to a stop even before Amelle herself walked around the open cell door and into the tiny room where Aveline was still in the glyph's hold.

"Amelle," Fenris said — the light and energy caused his head to buzz, and he heard himself speaking a little louder as if to compensate for the noise that wasn't there, "what are you—?" He stopped short upon seeing Amelle's expression. At first he thought her furious, but then the memory of her words came back to him.

Sometimes determination is the only weapon in your arsenal.

The light went brighter and turned more white than blue-white, and when she reached both hands up to rest upon Aveline's temples, Fenris knew. The light of healing magic blotted out even the green paralysis glyph as Amelle — just as she had with the ill children — poured wave after wave after wave of magic into Aveline, who first went rigid at the contact, but gradually began slacken and relax.

Fenris knew Amelle could not maintain such a level of spellcasting, particularly given how drained she was, how little she'd been sleeping lately. She might have managed it if she'd been properly rested, if she hadn't drained the entirety of her mana down to the dregs repeatedly lately. He shot the Knight-Captain a look, and after a second the other man nodded as a beat of silent understanding passed between the two of them.

The light of Amelle's spirit-healing magic grew brighter and brighter still before it seemed to shudder, like a candle caught in a draft. Her brows drew together and the light surged again, but it was no longer as steady as it had been. Her mana was running out, and she was scraping the bottom of her stores, fueled by little more than stubbornness and raw, desperate determination. A cold shot of worry knifed through Fenris as he watched Amelle push herself just a little farther, just a little harder. He remembered the day he'd come into the clinic to find her collapsed and unresponsive on the floor, and the worry only grew colder.

A slow trickle of blood slid from Amelle's nose.

"I think that's about enough of that," breathed the Knight-Captain before another, brighter wave of cleansing light and pressure flooded the room. Though it hadn't been a smite, Amelle's healing energy guttered out a mere second before her eyes rolled back and her knees buckled. Automatically, Fenris moved forward, reaching for Amelle, but Donnic was closer and caught her in his arms, her body an awkward heap as Aveline sat heavily upon her cot, her hands clutching at her head.

The cell was eerily silent for the span of several heartbeats. Still holding Amelle, Donnic went to his knees and checked her pulse. He let out a breath and closed his eyes — she was fine, only unconscious. The ice that had settled in Fenris gut did not evaporate, only subsided a little.

"What in blazes just happened?"

It was Aveline asking, and she was looking about the cell as if she had no idea how she'd got there to begin with. Her gaze settled upon Amelle, pale and still — but clearly breathing — and with no small measure of alarm she shot to her feet, though unsteadily, and looked at both the Knight-Captain and Fenris, asking her question again.

"Do you not remember falling ill?" Fenris asked, watching Aveline's reaction carefully. She furrowed her brows together and looked down at her hands.

"I don't remember… falling ill," Aveline began. She shook her head slowly. "Strange… things that don't — it doesn't… none of it fits together. Things that seemed horribly… important at the time." She saw the blood pooled on the floor and blanched. "Did I… do that?" She noticed Amelle's ripped and bloodied sleeve, then the blood on her own hands, and went an alarming shade of grey.

Inclining his head, the Knight-Captain stepped forward and pulled the cell door more fully open. "It appears we have quite a bit to discuss, Guard-Captain. I imagine most of it can wait until after you've had some time to… recover somewhat and get your bearings." Turning his head, he looked over to Fenris. "I don't imagine you'd have any objection taking Amelle home — and seeing to it she stays there," he said, jerking his chin quickly at Amelle before adding grimly, "It's been an issue for a while, but now the truth is inescapable: she needs to sleep."

Without a word, Fenris stepped into the cell and hefted Amelle's still form into his arms, marginally surprised at how light she was, how pliant her limbs. Heat radiated through her clothes, and he could still feel the faint hotcold tingle of magic off her skin. His mind catalogued every one of these details and held on to them; Amelle would rest, she would recover, and she would be fine.

"She will sleep," Fenris answered simply. Whether she wants to or not.

He would make certain of it.