Amelle was so light.

This thought circled and chased itself round and round Fenris' head as he carried her from the Keep back to the Hawke Estate, and he was thankful it was such a short distance, for he found he had scarce little patience for the looks sent his way during the trip. They varied from the concerned to the outright hostile, as if he'd been the one to inflict whatever had befallen the unfortunate young woman in his arms.

There was, of course, the voice in his head condemning him, reminding him that Hawke had asked him to watch over Amelle, to make sure nothing happened to her. That said, Hawke had probably been thinking more along the lines of templars or any lingering individuals who'd supported Meredith's beliefs and actions. He severely doubted that Hawke would have guessed a plague would have descended upon Kirkwall in her absence, leaving Amelle the lone healer in the city.

Oh, there were other healers, he knew — non-mage healers were common enough and competent enough. Fenris had known a fair few during his life — when injuries were serious enough to warrant a healer, and when he had the coin to afford one, he always sought out those lacking any connection whatsoever to the Fade. They mixed potions and applied poultices and cared for the ill and injured, and they knew their craft.

Just as Amelle Hawke knew her craft.

He'd asked her once, one night at the Hanged Man, when he'd grown tired of losing but hadn't quite wanted to return to the mansion's quiet solitude just yet, and when Amelle had decided the ale she'd drunk had influenced her ability to remember any of the rules of Diamondback — he'd asked her, how, precisely, she considered herself different from Anders.

You're lucky I'm drunk, she'd said, arching an eyebrow at him, or I might have taken offense to that.

He remembered not caring very much if he'd offended her or not. Does that mean there is no difference? You are both mages. You both call yourself healers. What, then, is the difference?

She'd knocked back the dregs of her ale then and grimaced, taking a moment to formulate her answer. A different application of skill. Whatever he was… before, I can't say. He might've even been a spirit healer, once, before he lost his bloody mind and invited a spirit in full-time. He might've even been a bloody good one. It's… Amelle had trailed off then, her brows drawing together in thought, as if she were weighing just how much to reveal. Spirit healers… have to be even more careful than other mages; our connection to the Fade is… different. And as much as I'll be the first to say Anders is an ass, the man does know how to heal. But whatever he once was, whatever he is now, Anders is not a spirit healer. There is a difference.

She had tried to explain the difference to Fenris, but too much drink had muddied her explanation as much as it had muddied his comprehension, and he was left with only the vaguest impression that there was a difference, but it was too slight for him to care very much about.

He'd seen enough since then to make him wish he'd paid closer attention that night.

As he walked on, Fenris stole a glance down at Amelle's face, still too pale, the streak of blood from one nostril a garish line against unnaturally white skin. He recalled for an instant the utter terror that had clutched him when he entered the clinic to find her pallid and unresponsive on the floor. Anger eclipsed fear for a time — he'd told her, he'd told her she was overtaxing herself, and he'd warned her to be more careful, and this was the result.

He'd also known she was upset — no, angry. Amelle had been angry. And Fenris had known the second he saw the look on her face when she realized the potion hadn't worked and Aveline's condition had not improved — he'd somehow known she was going to do something drastic. Reckless.

Something befitting a Hawke.

At least, he thought grimly, she will sleep now. Not that she has very much choice in the matter.

That all said, for all of Amelle's recklessness, she appeared to have influenced Aveline's condition for the better. It also appeared that attempting to heal anyone else in the same manner was a task Amelle likely would not survive.

Fenris reached the huge, heavy door to the Hawke Estate and shifted Amelle's weight in his arms to knock. Orana appeared bare seconds later, and though she paled violently when she saw Amelle, she managed to recover herself enough to stand aside and close the door behind him. For such a flighty woman, she was holding herself together particularly well. Then again, it did not do to be of a nervous temperament in the Hawke household; it was possible Orana was finally figuring this out.

"I've just changed the linens on Mistress Amelle's bed," she said, sadness creeping into her eyes and the line of her mouth as she looked down at Amelle's pale face. "Is…" she began hesitantly, "is there anything else you need for her?"

Fenris shook his head. "It is more important she sleeps. Perhaps food when she awakens, but…"

"There's bread baking and I can have some soup ready in a few hours."

"That should suffice."

The maid hesitated again, though this time it seemed more out of deference to Fenris, which always managed to leave him feeling unnerved. "Will you be—I mean, shall I sit with her? So she isn't alone when she wakes up?"

The Knight-Captain's words — see to it she stays there — echoed through his memory and Fenris shook his head. "I will remain. If she wakes, you… I doubt you will be able to convince her to continue resting." In fact, he had no faith whatsoever that Orana could have prevented Amelle from rushing off again the moment she awoke.

"And is there anything you'll need?" she asked, almost timidly.

Fenris considered a second or two, then shook his head. "No, I… no. I will let you know if she wakes, but I don't think that will happen for some time."

"…Of course, messere," Orana said, sketching a brief curtsey before heading back to the kitchen. Letting out a shallow sigh, Fenris turned and began the ascent to Amelle's room. The trip up the stairs was enough for his own body to feel the effects of the past few days. It had been years since he'd deprived himself of sleep for such a stretch — at one time he'd been more accustomed to these sorts of demands upon his body; while on the run from Danarius, Fenris had often gone long periods without sleep at all. But he was not at all used to these habits now.

Shouldering the door open, Fenris carried Amelle into her bedchamber and set her gently upon the bed. She exhaled softly as her body settled against the mattress, but other than that, she gave no reaction. Something about that chilled Fenris a little.

He straightened, looking down at his charge. The dark line of blood still marred the skin below her nose, and though she had healed the cuts upon her arm, blood still remained. There was a pitcher and basin on the bedside table, a small cloth folded beside it. Fenris dampened the cloth and very gingerly wiped away the blood from her face. Cleaning the blood from her hands was likewise careful work, but Amelle's sleep was deep; there wasn't even the faintest stirring in her fingertips.

After pulling her shoes free, Fenris tugged the blankets over Amelle's still form and stepped back, watching her, wishing her slumber looked a little more natural for all that her expression was… content. Peaceful.

Peaceful until she woke, at least. Fenris had no illusions on that score.

Exhaling softly, he turned away from the bed; there was an overstuffed armchair by the fire that looked particularly inviting at that moment, and a small cushioned footstool pushed against one wall laden with books. Fenris smiled a little at the makeshift stepstool as he dragged it away from the bookshelf and settled it in front of the chair. Before long he'd removed his sword, placing it in the same weapons rack that held a small few of Amelle's staves. His armor came next, and before long Fenris settled into the armchair, allowing himself to relax a moment.

He was asleep almost instantly.

#

Back in Lothering, just halfway between the Hawke farm and the village proper, there had been a pond. It was large and deep, and shaded by trees at one end. At the other end was a wide, flat rock, just large enough for three troublesome children to sprawl upon to dry off on bright summer days after they'd swum to the point their hands and feet became wrinkled and waterlogged.

Amelle loved to swim. Those rogue sparks she'd always worried so much about never showed themselves underwater, and while sometimes she managed to make the water somewhat colder than it might have otherwise been, on particularly sweltering summer days, no one complained.

Under the surface of that water lurked an entirely different world from the one above: sounds were muted and everything moved so much slower than reality. Under the water, Amelle was weightless.

She remembered being angry, but that memory felt too far away — it was muted and slowed down as if she were underwater. She'd been angry the potion hadn't worked, angry at Flemeth, angry at herself. Then she'd placed her hands upon Aveline's head — again, so slowly — and took a breath of mana. Then a deeper breath — again and again and again until her lungs ached and her head buzzed, and even after all that, she took another breath, calling upon reserves she wasn't sure she had. She was running out, pushing herself, behaving stupidly — she knew all this and yet ignored every warning she could have possibly imagined her father giving her.

Be careful, rabbit.

A mage's reserves are not infinite, rabbit.

You'll hurt yourself, rabbit.

Rabbit, stop. Stop now. Please, rabbit.

But Amelle couldn't find room to care. She wanted to beat this illness, this madness, as if it could be made manifest, crafted into a single opponent one could fight.

But amidst the buzzings of mana that hummed along her veins and through her head, a strange sort of emptiness began to come over her, to the point where Amelle's bones felt as if they might rattle and crack if she moved too quickly. She was out — or frightfully soon to be out — of mana. Despite this knowledge, she took another breath, focusing and feeling the place inside where her magic danced and swam, weightless but never muted, and Amelle tried coaxing and cajoling another drop from an already empty well. There wasn't anything left.

For a moment she thought the white light flooding around her was hers, and she thought Isn't that odd? before her knees slipped away from under her. She was vaguely aware of voices, aware she hadn't hit the floor, but she was tired — so tired the floor would have been a welcome place to rest one's weary head.

Then she was floating — like she had in the pond so many years ago, but different. Floating but not; something solid held her, as warm and solid as that sun-baked rock. She hadn't hit the floor, hadn't fallen, and if she was floating, that meant she was safe and could rest.

And with these final thoughts and recollections of warmth and safety, Amelle gave in and slept.

#

It was dark when Amelle opened her eyes — no, not dark, exactly. Dusk. But even opening her eyes to see that much was a struggle; they felt gummy and gritty and swollen and any effort to pry them open was met with the urge to let them slide shut again and drift back to blessed slumber. She fought that urge, reaching up — though her hand felt impossibly heavy — and rubbing away the grit and sleep as she tried to piece together what in all the Void had happened to make her feel as if a bronto was raging on the inside of her skull. With boots. Big ones. Dwarven-made.

A fire crackled off to one side, illuminating enough of the room for Amelle to see that it was her room. She was in her bed, in her room, dressed in that day's clothes, tucked beneath her covers. And she had less than no idea how she got there. Then slowly, bit by bit, memories came back to her, flickering like the pictures on a deck of cards in Varric's hands as he shuffled them. The potion — the blighted potion that hadn't worked. And then Aveline—

Amelle looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly. Her right sleeve was torn and bloody, but someone had taken the time to wipe the blood from her skin. She touched the skin above her upper lip, but her fingertips came back clean. It was almost like waking up from a dream, only without the knowledge — and security — that what had happened had only been a dream.

A sharp bolt of hunger gnawed through her stomach and Amelle realized that it was hunger that had woken her to begin with. Moving carefully, she slid out of bed, discovering too late that her knees were like jelly beneath her and just as she straightened, Amelle stumbled with a gasp, reaching out and catching herself on the bedpost. She clung to it, breathing hard.

All right, so maybe standing was too ambitious just yet.

"What in the Void do you think you're doing?" an irritated voice asked, startling a yelp out of Amelle as she twisted clumsily to find Fenris levering himself out of the chair by the fire. He looked rumpled and sleepy and annoyed, but he still caught her before she'd even realized spinning had not been the wisest course. She gripped his shoulders and let him take her weight, squeezing her eyes shut as she willed her sense of balance to make an appearance.

"I'm…" she began, but his hands were on her and they were warm through the thin material of her dress as he turned her about, steering her back to her bed. She went pliantly, if only because it was still too much work to string together thoughts into words and walk at the same time.

"Do not attempt to tell me you are fine. You have overtaxed—"

She shook her head stubbornly then winced as she sat heavily on the bed. Fine? No, she was leagues away from fine. "I'm… Maker, I'm just hungry, Fenris."

That was enough to surprise him into silence. "I… see."

Amelle nodded, carefully turning and lying against the pillows. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and she closed her eyes, lifting her hands to her temples and rubbing them slowly. She opened her eyes and peered up at him, feeling suddenly sheepish. "And I… didn't realize you were here with me."

"It… seemed unwise to leave you. The Knight-Captain agreed."

"That sounds… grim."

"You were… unresponsive. It was disconcerting." Though his tone revealed nothing, Amelle could feel the understatement in the words. "I am… I suspect Orana will be pleased you've awoken." There was a twitch at his lips before he added, "She has been spending much of the day in the kitchen. That you've awoken with your appetite intact will only please her further."

"Perfect," she said fervently as that gnawing in her stomach came back with a vengeance. "I could eat a bronto." Preferably the one dancing around inside her skull, if only to make it stop.

Annoyance dissipated enough for Fenris to look almost amused as he replied, "We haven't any bronto, but there is, as I said, soup." Amelle tried to stand again, but found herself pushed back down as Fenris glared down at her and said, "I will ask Orana to bring some up for you."

"I can walk, you know," Amelle grumbled up at him.

"You can barely stand, as you've demonstrated to great effect. Stay there. I will return shortly."

Amelle nodded once and sunk back against the pillows, resisting the ever more tempting urge to close her eyes. After a few minutes, she heard Fenris' light step on the stairs just before he came back into her room. He paused by the armchair he'd been napping in, then shifted awkwardly and turned the chair around, sitting down and resting his hands against his knees.

"What happened?" she asked, for all she was afraid to hear the answer.

Several moments of silence followed, filled only with the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Fenris then cleared his throat as his fingers tightened minutely on his knees. "You overtaxed yourself."

To his credit, he did not say "again." But the word lingered in spirit, unsaid, but definitely still implied.

"You said as much. What… happened?" she asked, wincing at how hoarse, how strained her voice sounded.

Hesitating momentarily, Fenris' eyes darted to the fire for a moment, watching the flames as if searching them for inspiration before he looked back at her. "The potion… did not work. In your anger, I suspect you attempted to heal Aveline in the same manner you healed the children in the clinic."

Oh, Maker, she thought. But as Fenris spoke, the memories slid back to her, flickering reminders of how quickly everything had gone so thoroughly wrong. "Through the application of brute force."

Fenris' glare more than adequately conveyed his displeasure. "Yes. Unwisely applied."

She winced. "It… didn't work, then." Fenris didn't reply right away, his scowl deepening. "Fenris?" she asked, looking more closely at him. "Did it work?"

Here he sighed and pushed to his feet. "Aveline… returned to herself, yes," he answered shortly.

"So it did work—" began Amelle, but Fenris cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"It worked, yes, but you cannot possibly be considering a repeat of such measures."

She shook her head, but could not quell the rising excitement, the hope that lifted beneath her breast. "Not those measures exactly, no, but now we know—"

A soft knock sounded at the door and Amelle snapped her mouth shut just in time for Orana to step in, carrying a tray heavy with not only soup, but what looked like all the contents of the kitchen as well: a towering selection of fruit, cheese, and thick hunks of fresh bread, which she set gently upon Amelle's bedside table.

"Thank you, Orana," Amelle said gratefully, pushing herself up and smiling for the young woman. Orana returned the smile, however tremulously, clasping her hands in front of her.

"It is good to see you recovering, mistress. You've been pushing yourself so hard lately."

Amelle saw the worry in Orana's eyes and felt a swift kick of guilt for making the young woman fret. "Thank you, Orana," Amelle said again, this time meekly. The maid gave her a beaming smile, which alleviated Amelle's guilt not in the least bit, and left, closing the door quietly behind her. Once she was gone, Amelle looked at the tray and sighed, then turned to Fenris. "I hope you're hungry."

Fenris perused his own meal. He looked a little surprised, as if he hadn't expected Orana to bring enough for both of them. At some point after arriving at the Hawke household, the maid discovered she found a great deal of satisfaction in feeding people. Amelle supposed it wasn't entirely surprising — given events, means people had of comforting one another had grown in perilously short supply. "She… has been worried," he said, quietly.

Nodding, Amelle felt a faint twinge when she spied several gloriously red, plump strawberries in the collection and thought of Kiara and her love for the things, which truly bordered on the obscene. "Worried?" she echoed softly.

"She mentioned you hadn't been eating."

Amelle set the berries aside and picked up her bowl of soup with a sigh. "That's not… entirely accurate. I ate when I was hungry. There were just… more important things to tend to than sleep. And… the less sleep I got, the less appetite I had."

"It should be no surprise this befell you," Fenris said, taking no pains to mask his disapproval. "What is a surprise is that it didn't happen sooner."

"No," Amelle countered, gesturing with her spoon, "what's surprising is that what I did to Aveline worked."Cassia from the alienage sprang to mind and Amelle straightened slightly. "That's two adults now who've responded positively to the healing magic."

"Fenris looked up from his meal with a start. "Two?"

"Cassia, who runs the fruit stall?"

"When did this happen?"

"The night Cullen and I went out to speak with her." Amelle frowned. "I thought it was an anomaly." Her frown deepened and she tapped the curve of the spoon thoughtfully against her lips. "I didn't faint, though."

"Because you've not been giving your reserves ample time to replenish themselves," came Fenris' heated retort, but Amelle gave him a look.

"What's my alternative?" she asked. "It's not as if I can hand this off to another mage healer — the only one of those I know is long gone and I wouldn't accept his help now even if he did show up to offer it." She took a spoonful of soup, followed by a bite of the bread and had to stop herself from inhaling every last bite right then. It was delicious and she was starving. But while she chewed, Fenris took full advantage of the silence.

"How is it better to run yourself past the point of good sense, past the point of all endurance, until you are exhausted? If you had just slept—"

"And when was I supposed to do that?" she asked between mouthfuls. "There have been things to do, Fenris, and I have to do them, because no one else can." With a frustrated sigh, she set the bowl down on her bedside table and levered herself to her feet, ignoring Fenris' glower. "I cannot be in three places at once." She ticked points off on her fingers. "I cannot research potions, hunt for ingredients, and man the clinic and still expect to get something resembling a good night's rest!"

"You are the only one who expects you to be able to do all three of those things."

"Who else is there?"

Setting his own bowl aside with enough force to make the liquid within slosh dangerously close to the rim, Fenris stood and raked a hand through his hair. Sleep had mussed it, and his fingers served only to send it further into disarray. "You could have sent Merrill to look for the plants," he said, pushing to his feet. "I would have assisted you in any way I could — or do you not trust me enough to send me on a simple errand by myself?"

"I—" Amelle's mouth snapped shut and her cheeks felt suddenly, uncomfortably warm. He was right, of course. Merrill wasn't a healer, but she did know plants — even if Amelle hadn't already been aware ofd this, Merrill was who she'd brought along to hunt for the Harlot's Blush. "I've asked her to watch the clinic," she said instead, but it sounded too much like the excuse it was. "Listen to me — I'm doing what I must, because if something goes wrong, I don't want it falling on someone else's head. And all of this is immaterial — there's still no time to rest. Even when all I was doing was manning the clinic, I still remained until all hours of the night. I need to be there."

He turned and stalked the length of the room, shaking his head in evident disgust. "And you are going to continue to push yourself over and over again in this manner?"

Didn't he understand? Didn't he understand that people were going to continue sickening if she didn't do something? "What's the alternative?" she asked, plaintively. "The potion was our only hope and it didn't work! Until we find out what in the Maker's name is causing all of this, I can't—"

Fenris turned on his heel, eyes and markings blazing with fury and light, startling Amelle into utter silence. "What is the alternative?" he asked, his voice growing louder and more ragged with every syllable. "Do you truly know nothing of the consequences of actions such as these? Or do you simply not care?"

Amelle blinked once, then twice, trying to shove down her rising indignation. Of course she knew the consequences. Her father had had many serious talks with her about the consequences of a mage's power, the fact that said power was not infinite, and what could happen to said mage if he — or she — attempted to push past the limits of that power. It was a point upon which Father had lectured her upon many times, until he was satisfied she truly understood. And she did understand. But she also understood — feared — people were going to continue dying if she obeyed those limits. She would not be lectured to by Fenris, not about this. Not now.

"Oh, I see," Amelle said coldly, standing her ground as her eyes narrowed to slits. She was angry and hurt and more afraid of failure than anything else, and there Fenris was, reminding her of things like bloody consequences when failure and death and madness felt streaked across her hands. Betrayal welled up and mingled with the other ugly emotions, her stomach twisting with them. "Still—after everything, you're still expecting me to cut corners to get a little extra power, aren't you? Maybe I'll find a way to rationalize and justify it, like Merrill and her blood magic, or Anders and—"

Fenris' markings flared again and Fenris took several steps closer; from this distance she saw the way anger made the tendons on his neck stand out in relief, the way the muscles flexed in his arms as he clenched and unclenched his hands. "That is what you think of me then," he growled. "You still believe it is I who do not trust you."

Amelle clenched her own hands into fists, but continued to stand her ground as good sense whispered No, that's not what I think at all, but was drowned out by defensiveness and the crushing failure of that blighted potion. "For all I know that's why you agreed to stay behind when Kiara left for Starkhaven in the first place! Who better to keep an eye on the mage, right?" A sharp pain lanced through Amelle's breast as she said the words, and traitorous tears burned sudden and hot at her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let them fall, not to let Fenris see her distress, lest he take it for weakness. She would not let him see her weak.

But her words had hit their mark and Fenris stiffened. For the thinnest instant, something other than anger flashed across his face, but as Fenris shook his head the shadow of expression vanished. She'd gotten a glimpse, though, and what Amelle had spied bore a startling resemblance to pain. "Whatever else you may think of me," he said, "I will not stand by and watch while you call upon depleted reserves, Amelle Hawke. I will not applaud when you ignore your limits. I will not encourage you to abuse yourself so."

As Fenris spoke, his markings glowed, slowly growing brighter, and then he moved.

She'd always known he was fast; he'd just never been so fast at her. Suddenly, Amelle's back was pressed hard against the wall. Fenris' hands, she realized, were gripping her upper arms with almost bruising force.

"I will not," he went on, his voice low and ragged, "remain idle while you cause harm to yourself." He was breathing harder now, struggling to regain his composure, and it was then she saw something else in his eyes — something other than anger, something other than frustration — and the rawness of it made her suck in a breath. Fenris looked… he looked wounded. His voice had grown husky and uncertain, and the fingers tight on her arms loosened slightly — though Fenris did not grip, he still held. "I am… not certain I could bear to witness that. Do not force it upon me. Command me to go, and I shall. But I will not—cannot—remain if it means watching you do damage to yourself and being powerless to stop you."

If Fenris was struggling with composure, Amelle was struggling too — struggling to process what was happening, to reconcile Fenris' words with the pressure of the wall against her back, the warmth his fingers around her arms, and the look in his eyes. Their bodies weren't touching, but Amelle could feel the heat rolling off him, felt the indescribable something tingle across her skin whenever his markings flared to life. Then the world seemed to sway and tilt and the moment shifted. Suddenly the space between them felt even smaller.

Amelle swallowed hard, quietly shocked at the way her heart was pounding. "And i-if you… if you stay…" she managed, marveling at how very dry her mouth had become. Amelle swallowed again. "If you stay, what d-do you expect to… do?"

His thumb stroked a small circle along the inside of her upper arm and she fought not to shiver as he replied, "If it is within my power to stop you from coming to harm, I will."

"Oh," Amelle breathed, the word no more than a shadow of a whisper. "Then I, um… I suppose I…" Her voice trailed off and the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. "I guess…" But every last word save one had fled from her mind. "Stay," she whispered. Please.

Then the scant space between them vanished and Fenris was pressing against her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other at her hip and his mouth over hers, not shy or hesitant, but moving with all the heat — passion, her mind whispered — of their argument but different and before she was fully aware of it, she had already closed her eyes and was pressing back, fingers clutching blindly at him as her mind raced to catch up.

This was nothing like the tentative, experimental kiss she'd shared with Cullen in the garden. Fenris' kiss was full of palpable want, and the ferocity of it made her gasp. When she did, Fenris' tongue slid past her lips and Amelle exhaled in a long, shuddering groan. She hooked an arm around Fenris' neck, moving her mouth against him, kissing him back, wanting with every beat of her pounding heart to match the force of the kiss she felt. His teeth caught her lip and she sucked in another ragged gasp before pressing close and losing herself again in the kiss.

Then Fenris' mouth was gone, but his body wasn't — he was still pressed against her, though now it seemed as if he were leaning rather than pressing. He rested his forehead against hers — he was warm, and his breath came out in humid little bursts against her lips.

"You… make a persuasive argument," whispered Amelle, her voice far too breathy to her own ears as she brushed her lips over Fenris' in a kiss that was both gentle and uncertain. He stroked his thumb against her cheek and she shivered. The soft, involuntary sound that came from the recesses of her throat might have been called a whimper.

His voice came out rough and ragged and she wanted to hear nothing else but that for as long as she lived. "I am… relieved you can be made to see sense."

"Yes. Well. Like I said. Persuasive." Amelle swallowed hard and realized that they were leaning against each other, holding each other up. It was almost comical — the two of them so weak-kneed after a single kiss — and Amelle found herself stifling, badly, a soft huff of nervous, disbelieving laughter. Fenris only drew back and arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her.

"It's nothing," she said, shaking her head quickly. "But I… I have to ask. How long have you…"

"How long have I been more concerned with your own wellbeing than your chances of falling to a demon's lures?" At her shaky nod, he looked down, appearing almost… sheepish. "I do not recall the precise moment — the change came too gradually. I only know there came a day when things had… changed."

At that, Amelle drew in a deep breath and let it out, slowly as her heart kicked up, beating faster all over again. "Oh." She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing for a while, but even that was difficult with Fenris pressed against her. Slowly she wrapped her arms around him, exhaling in a soft sigh when he returned the gesture in kind and marveling at the perfect warmth, the perfect fit of her head against his shoulder, of his arms holding her. Yes.

But beyond the warmth and the solid feel of him, Amelle also found herself reflecting on the strangeness of Fenris' behavior, his willingness to join her at the clinic no matter the hour, and then, later, his… marked displeasure. She sucked in a soft breath, arms tightening around his neck reflexively. "Maker's balls," she breathed.

"What is wrong?" Fenris asked, pulling away just far enough to look at her.

"All this time I was worried you were ill," whispered Amelle, shaking her head, then leaning in to brush a kiss across his cheek. "You were jealous."

Scowling, though there was no heat in it, Fenris reluctantly pulled away and laid gentle fingers upon her elbow — such a difference from the bruising grip earlier — then guided her back to the bed. "I was… foolish," he admitted. "I am not… proud of it." And then, sending her a pointed look, he added, "But moments of foolishness need not extend to include foregoing food and rest."

Amelle sat on the bed and heaved a sigh. "All right. All right. You win. I will eat and I will… attempt to sleep." In truth, she was simply too tired to argue anymore — a sure sign she needed to rest a little longer. "But you and I have… a great deal to discuss tomorrow."

Fenris placed the still-warm bowl of soup in her hands and pressed a kiss to her hair before retrieving his own dish and reclaiming his seat. "Then we will discuss it. Tomorrow."

#

It hardly surprised Fenris when Amelle started to nod off before she'd even finished her dinner. Covering her wide yawn with one hand, she set the bowl aside and slid back beneath her covers. They spoke remarkably little during the meal, distracted by equal parts hunger and exhaustion, he imagined.

In truth he was somewhat grateful for the silence; it allowed him to put his thoughts in some sort of order. He hadn't anticipated… revealing himself to Amelle in… such a manner. He hadn't anticipated revealing himself to her at all, in fact, but there was little to be done about that now.

Amelle was sound asleep and Fenris was tending the fire in the hearth when Orana slipped in again, quiet as any ghost. She collected the dishes and glided back to the door, pausing a moment to smile at Fenris.

"I'm glad you were able to convince her to stay and rest, messere."

"As am I," he replied, setting aside the poker.

As Orana closed the door with a gentle click, Fenris' eyes slid to the flames dancing in the hearth and then to the still, sleeping form on the bed. He'd convinced Amelle to stay and rest, certainly, but he couldn't help but wonder and worry that he hadn't made an enormous mistake in choosing his method. He reclaimed his seat and settled in front of the fire, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. He'd been depriving himself of sleep nearly as much as Amelle lately, and his own fatigue was fast catching up on him. As slumber settled over him, making his eyes and limbs heavy, he cast one last glance at his sleeping charge.

We will discuss it. Tomorrow.