Amelle prepared herself for bed—for sleep, really, since one didn't generally think of bedtime happening in the middle of the day—the way a soldier prepared to go to war. She debated a bath, because hot, fragrant water had always been part of her ritual, but even if the water in the Hawke estate well wasn't tainted, she couldn't bring herself to waste so much of it. It didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair. So she settled for scrubbing her face with a damp cloth. She brushed her hair and her teeth and then her hair again, just for good measure.
She dressed in a dress that wasn't a nightgown, but had nightgown-like tendencies, in that it was soft and loose and she would probably never have worn it anywhere but at home. When Orana brought her warm, honeyed milk, she drank it dutifully, but without the pleasure it would normally have afforded. She was far, far too nervous for pleasure. The milk didn't make her sleepy in the slightest.
For all her washing and cleaning and brushing and dressing, Amelle didn't feel prepared at all. Even the fifteen minutes she spent alone with Fenris after all her ablutions were done but before Cullen had returned could not soothe her, not entirely.
It did feel nice to have Fenris' hand stroking circles on her back as she rested her head against his shoulder and tried not to think about demons.
She didn't want to be thinking about demons before she entered the Fade. Who knew what thoughts might drift toward them, waiting only for her to cross the Veil? Better to think of… of pleasant things. Home. Safety. The hand on her back.
She hoped she wasn't making a terrible mistake, but she knew it was a risk she had to take because by the time he returned to the estate, Cullen had been gone almost three hours, and Amelle's mana hadn't replenished at all. Psychic fingers still scraped the bottom of their barrel. For the first time in recent memory, she lit all the candles in her room by hand. Fenris helped.
When Cullen found them, she was relieved to see him out of his heavy plate. He still wore templar garb, but the lack of full armor was reassuring. His expression, however, was not.
"You were not able to obtain it?" Fenris asked, giving voice to the question Amelle had been thinking but unable to speak.
"Oh, I obtained it," he replied wearily. "Maker knows what the paperwork is going to be like later, but I obtained it." Cullen pressed his fingertips to his temples as though fending off a headache, and then he sighed. "I read the First Enchanter's notes. As far as I can tell, you have only to take the lyrium, and sleep—dream sleep, Fade sleep—should follow almost at once."
"But then I'm on my own," Amelle said softly.
Cullen nodded, expression still tense and pinched and troubled. "You'll have to bring yourself out of it. I-I don't know how. In a Harrowing… in a Harrowing the apprentice wakes when they've fought off the demon the enchanters summoned. Or… or when they've allowed the demon—"
"You're afraid the Harrowing lyrium is somehow… tuned to the defeat of a demon?"
Cullen grimaced, pacing from one end of her room to the other. He paused at the window but didn't throw back the dark curtains. Without turning to face them, he said, "I saw no mention of such a thing. But I am afraid it is not mentioned because it's simply known."
"Were you not aware of this before?" Fenris asked, voice low and displeased.
Cullen laughed a mirthless laugh. "I rather thought there would be better instructions. One thing about the blighted Order—they love paperwork. But in this case, the Order's duty is to guard and to—well. And I'm afraid the First Enchanter's notes were not as clear."
"And it's not like there's anyone to ask." Amelle sighed. "Still, we'd better try. I'm… I'm not exactly getting better on my own. And it's not my first visit to the Fade. I will find a way to return."
Amelle took the potion, which at least tasted like regular lyrium potion. Despite its pleasant blue sheen, the flavor of lyrium was almost like bitter almonds, its aftertaste strangely smoky-sweet. It was a taste that always reminded her of something else, a memory always slipping away before it could fully form.
She lay back on the bed, still trying to place the subtle flavors lingering and playing upon her palate. Fenris stood facing the fire, limbs twitching with a restlessness he did not indulge by pacing. Cullen returned to the darkened window. With another sigh, Amelle closed her eyes and that smoky-sweetness drifted upward. As she breathed in, the air coming into her lungs tasted cool and sweet, nothing like lyrium, and it stirred memories of early chores, of the earthy smell of a barn, of morning mist swirling atop the grass, and the air mingling with the scent of a welcoming fire blazing away in a modest hearth, and the pleasant smell of bread baking.
Hearth and home, smoky and sweet.
Amelle rolled over and blinked her eyes open with a grimace as she pulled one hand from the warmth of her covers to shield against the bright rays of sunshine pouring unapologetically through the window — Kiri had left the curtains open again. She squinted and sat up, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, realizing suddenly the bed was far narrower than it ought to have been. Narrow, but soft and warm — warm, despite the early spring chill clinging stubbornly to the air. An identical bed was pushed up against the wall on the opposite side of the room, covers mussed and pillows dented.
Kiri never made her bed.
Amelle breathed in and out again, rubbing her face and trying to remember. She was in the Fade — that much she knew. It was imperative she be here, in this land of dreams. Imperative she dream. Important.
Well, I've got that covered, at least, she thought, rubbing a hand over her sleep-tousled head. The lingering memory of something wrong hovered on the edge of her mind, and she recalled the sensation of her chest tightening with worry, the sting of tears, but then it slipped out of her grasp. She was here, and she was safe. She was in Lothering.
Well, not really. She knew that too.
Amelle swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, linking her hands and stretching them high above her head, breathing in the crisp air and looking around her.
Sunlight filled the room, catching an array of potion bottles and amulets glinting happily from a nearby table. Upon the wall, over Kiara's bed, hung a number of different bows, from the oldest and more careworn to the grandest, of carved and polished wood. A quiver hung from the bedpost, its leather gleaming warmly in the light. And there, perched upon one pillow, was the stuffed red fox given her for her twelfth birthday. Amelle knew without looking there was a grey and white rabbit on her bed, snuggled up next to Lizzie, her doll — her favorite doll, with dark hair and a blue linen dress and bright blue glass eyes framed with thick lashes. Amelle turned, seeing them propped lovingly against her own pillows. Smiling, she reached out and ran her fingers along a long, floppy, dappled ear.
She straightened and went to the window, looking out over the farm. The softest bleating of goats and sheep came from the direction of the barn, and somewhere out of sight she heard the clucking of the chickens in their coop.
But there was something else — something that did not quite belong here. At the end of the path leading to the main road, Amelle spied two wolves. One of them, with fur of richest auburn, sat stoically, eyes closed, head tipped up into the sunlight bathing it, catching the deep red-gold tones in its coat. The other was as agitated as the first was calm, pacing back and forth, lip curled, showing sharp fangs as pristine as its snow-white coat. Every so often it would throw a glance over its shoulder and look at her — directly at her — before shaking its head with a jerk and resuming its restless pacing.
Wolves at the gate, she thought. It seemed like it should bode ill, but Amelle felt no malice from them. The white wolf looked again, and for the barest sliver of time it seemed as if its eyes were deep and cool, the color of moss…
"Rabbit!" a deep voice boomed, yanking Amelle's attention away from the world beyond her window. The resonance of it struck Amelle suddenly, filling her as she whirled around, staring at the doorway. "Rabbit!" the voice called again, amused and affectionate and gently chiding. "No sleeping the day away, sweetling — the garden isn't going to weed itself!"
"Coming, Papa!" she called back.
On her way down the hall, Amelle paused to peek into Carver's room. Carver never let her into his room, so of course she couldn't help wanting to peek. It was smaller even than the room she shared with Kiara. The narrow bed was made with military precision—to prove his superiority over Kiara, Amelle thought, not that Kiri cared. Peering closely, she saw the big, brown eyes of Carver's stuffed bear glaring mournfully out from beneath the pillow.
Even with the familiar stuffed animal, something about Carver's room sat ill with her. It seemed somehow barren, and whereas the rest of the house smelled of life and warmth and the whiff of something baking, Carver's room smelled… empty. Where there ought to have been scents of leather and oil and boy, there was nothing. Amelle swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself as she leaned against the doorframe, unwilling to enter. The knot in her chest felt tighter, squeezing like an angry fist.
Come tell me to get out of your room, Carver, she thought desperately. Come barreling around the corner. Tell me to mind my own business. Please.
But Carver didn't appear, and after another moment Amelle closed the door gently, pressing her forehead briefly to the worn wood.
"Rabbit?"
Keeping her eyes on the floorboards, she walked past the closed door to her parents' room. She didn't want to look in there. She didn't want to feel those feelings. Instead, she followed the aroma of baking into the kitchen, and found her papa sitting at the table, slathering fresh butter over a thick slice of bread, a mug of tea steaming at his elbow. He smiled at her when she entered, but the smile faded quickly. "Something the matter, sweetling?"
"Where's Carver?"
"Ahh," her father murmured knowingly. "He's with your mother."
"But where?"
"Sit down, rabbit."
"I don't want to."
Her father gave her a stern look and pushed a plate across the table toward her empty chair. The bread dripped with honey and butter, and Amelle's mouth began to water. "Is Kiri with Mama and Carver, too?"
He smiled again, gently, nudging the tempting plate closer. Amelle's fingers twitched with the desire to grab the slice of bread and devour it. Her stomach gave an approving, urgent growl.
"Sit, sweetling. Your sister's not with your Mama. She's not here, either, but she's not… she had to go on a journey, that's all. Eat. You've let yourself get too hungry, haven't you?"
Her legs moved without her permission, and she sat. The smell of the food was almost unbearable. "Why didn't they take me with them?"
"Because you needed to be here. Eat, Amelle. Please."
She resisted only a moment longer, and then as soon as the honeyed bread touched her tongue, she had no idea why she'd been denying herself. It melted, hot and sweet and perfect, better than any bread she'd ever tasted. The hard knot of… of whatever it was began to loosen in her breast, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. "Why aren't you with them, Papa?"
"My rabbit needed me."
She finished the first slice of bread, licking her lips to catch the last drops of honey. When she looked down at the plate, however, a second was already waiting for her. This one was slathered with blackberry jam, and her stomach growled again. "Papa, I thought we had to do the weeding. Otherwise all the bad plants will choke the good plants and we won't have any vegetables for the winter."
"There is a great deal of weeding to be done, yes. But every good farmer knows you can't work on an empty stomach. And your stomach is very, very empty, rabbit."
"I… I am so hungry, Papa."
"I know. I've been worrying about you. Everyone's been worrying about you."
She sighed, tears gathering on her lashes. "I was trying so hard."
He reached across the table, opening his hand. When she dropped her palm into his, his fingers curled around hers. They were warm, and calloused, and strong. Her papa always had such strong hands. Had.
"Oh," she said. "I remember now."
Her father—her father's face—nodded slowly, knowingly. Sadly. "Eat, rabbit. You have to eat."
She lifted the bread to her lips, but could not bring herself to bite from it. "Why him?"
"A… kindness. I thought it might bring you a measure of comfort. You are… direly in need of comfort."
She looked again at the bread, the dark jam spread thick across it. Her mouth watered.
"And you are in just as dire need of sustenance, Amelle. You need your strength."
She hesitated, then bit into the second piece, half expecting it to taste like ashes, but instead she tasted sweet bread and sweeter jam and she closed her eyes, savoring every bite, licking a smudge of purple from her thumb when she'd finished. A hot mug of tea was pressed into her hands and she drank from it, tasting the snap of ginger and the golden sweetness of yet more honey. When she looked up, she still saw her father's face, but his eyes were not his eyes — Kiara's eyes, steel grey and ever-watchful — but rather a too-bright jewel-green.
"It is you. I thought perhaps… yes."
Compassion nodded, still wearing the appearance of Malcolm Hawke. "You use the words spirit healer, Amelle, but what do you truly know of what you are?"
Another slice of bread appeared before her, this one sprinkled heavily with sugar and cinnamon. The tea had been refilled. She ate slowly as she considered the question. "Father taught me basic healing spells when I was young. As time passed, I… honed those skills. They always seemed to come easily to me."
The Fade spirit tilted his head, brows furrowing slightly. "You became what you are without planning it. Most curious."
Amelle shrugged a little, looking down into her cup. "Father taught me as much as he could in the time we had. He taught me the different schools of magic, never to consort with demons, never to use blood magic — he taught me how to hide from the templars, how to survive. We didn't have time to…" her voice broke a little, "to plan my future." Oh, but if they had. Amelle allowed herself a moment to imagine a lifetime of lessons with Papa, learning under his eye, growing and developing her powers with his help, rather than trying to figure out so many things on her own. She tore away a piece of the bread and gnawed slowly on it. "He told me a spirit healer has a unique connection with the Fade that allows them to… channel the power of the Fade into a more intense healing energy. He told me it takes years to become one and that most people never do — it takes years just to build up a rapport with a Fade spirit." She allowed herself a tiny smile. "Most Fade spirits don't really want a lot to do with humans."
"And yet you achieved what many have not. Do you remember when you realized this new… power?"
The memory was so sharp, so vividly violent, Amelle shivered as she nodded. "We'd been in Kirkwall a time. A few years." The Arishok, plunging his sword into Kiara, red blood splattering the marble floors. The horrible sucking sound nearly drowned out by her agonized screams as he hefted her up upon his sword and let her fall further and further down on it.
"Years spent assisting the mage Anders in his clinic." At Amelle's scowl, Compassion sighed. "There is no shame in that, Amelle."
"He was a traitor. A murderer," she said dully, picking away at another piece of bread and chewing on it.
"Whatever he was or was not, it was the work you cared about. You did not help him, you helped the people who sought him. There is a difference." Compassion sat back in the chair, folding both hands upon the table. "Such acts attract attention."
"Attention from the Fade spirits, you mean. So I was building a rapport the whole while?" At Compassion's nod, she leaned back in her chair and shook her head. "And here I figured I was just lucky to catch the eye of one with a little free time on its hands."
Malcolm Hawke's lips curved into a smile as he breathed a laugh. "Not quite. Tell me. When did you notice something was different?"
"When did I realize what I was and what it meant? My sister. At the end of that horrible—it wasn't even a battle. It was—he nearly massacred her. He would have. There was so much blood, and…" She closed her eyes, but all she saw was her sister, deathly pale and grimacing in pain as Amelle, with shaking, bloody hands, put parts back into her body. She'd nearly died — and Amelle had felt it, had felt Kiara's spirit weakening, its connection to her body fraying, and as she'd knelt there, blood slicking her hands and soaking into her dress, she'd reached and reached and reached, and then something… happened. "It was like I felt… hands over mine, and… and warmth and reassurance and… and a whisper in my ear not to worry, that I had nothing to fear. And then… then Kiara wasn't dying anymore."
"And so you forged your… rapport with a Fade spirit."
"I suppose I must have. Like you had with Anders… before."
"Over time it became evident there was another I could… assist in a similar capacity." The look the spirit sent her, still wearing her father's face, was so undeniably Papa Amelle found herself caught between laughter and tears.
"You're… the… spirit I— you're my healing spirit? You?"
When Compassion nodded, she sank back in her chair, surprised to discover her plate empty and her tea gone. "You never mentioned it."
"We seldom do. There is usually no need to… introduce ourselves. We do not interact with humans in that way. Do you understand this?"
"I… I do, I think." She canted her head at him. "I think it explains a lot, in fact." After a moment's thought, she looked up and narrowed her eyes at the spirit. "Wait. It was you, wasn't it? My mana was so low, I couldn't… feel anything when I tried to—you were… withholding your power from me, weren't you?" She wouldn't have thought a spirit could look sheepish, and it was an expression doubly odd upon Malcolm Hawke's face, but there it was, nonetheless. "I thought Fade spirits weren't supposed to interfere with spirit healers!" She scowled at him. "You broke the rules."
"Yes. You would have done yourself irreparable harm had I not. It was my hope you would eventually come to the conclusion you reached. You have a difficult task ahead of you, and it isn't only my help you'll need. Now, eat."
"But I finished my—" but when Amelle looked down again, she saw a wide bowl of stew, riddled with lamb and potatoes and carrots, fragrant with rosemary. Though it didn't seem possible, her stomach gave another growl and as she breathed in the scent her mouth watered.
Compassion fell silent then, and even when she attempted to ask questions of him, he only shook his head and gestured toward the ever-replenishing plates of food. After the stew came the better part of an entire roast chicken, complete with vegetables and potatoes fried in butter. Then a rich, thick pea soup with smoked ham. A platter of duck in a fruit glaze. A haunch of roasted mutton.
She ate. She ate and ate, and finally she began to feel full. It was an incomparably odd feeling, a little like she'd never properly eaten enough in her life, though she knew this wasn't true. When she cleaned off the plate containing the latest offering—a delicate trout in a creamy dill sauce—with a heel of crusty bread, an aroma even more familiar than all the rest overwhelmed her.
She looked down to see a plate of Orana's sticky buns, perfectly glazed and still hot from the oven. A new cup of tea accompanied them, and she recognized the color as belonging to Kiara's favorite blend, perfectly brewed. It had been presented in one of Mama's porcelain cups, gold leaf gleaming against the blue and white. This time Amelle did not blink away the tears, but now they were not tears of sorrow.
"This is cheating," she said lightly, pushing one of the pastries across the table. "I'd never had Orana's buns when we lived in Lothering."
"They live in your memory. Potently, at that."
She couldn't argue with that. If she had to pick a flavor—something pleasant to represent her life in Kirkwall—it might very well be exactly the current contents of the table.
Amelle managed one full bun before pushing herself back from the table. This time, Compassion did not protest. He smiled at her, rose, and the table was clear. Orana would love that trick.
"Is there still weeding to do?" she asked.
"You know there is." His smile echoed the one she remembered so often gracing her father's face, but Amelle thought she'd never seen her Papa quite so sad.
"Some things you've planted cannot be allowed to grow," Compassion continued as they left the warm kitchen behind, entering the garden. "They will only choke the good out."
The garden wasn't quite right. At first it looked like the garden she remembered from Lothering, with its lines of neatly planted vegetables, but it was also all the riotous herbs and flowers of the garden at the Hawke estate. It was even, somehow, the windowboxes of the clinic, though the windows floated in the air, without walls to hold them in place.
Thoughts of the clinic made her cringe, and that was followed by a flash of rage so bright and brilliant she was momentarily blinded.
At the end of the path, the ruddy-coated wolf raised his head and howled a long, mournful cry.
A hand brushed her shoulder, and when she turned to look, she found she could see through her father. Compassion's expression was troubled.
"You must be careful," he cautioned.
"Of the wolves?"
"No, Amelle. Of yourself. Of what you might invite. Of the weeds."
Glancing down, Amelle saw an entire line of delicate pea shoots smoking as they curled and blackened. The scent of ashes clung to her, choking the air. The scent was far stronger than the burning of the tiny plants ought to have produced.
"I'm sorry about the peas, Papa," she whispered under her breath.
Though she had not precisely meant the words for Compassion, he still answered. "It doesn't matter, Amelle. But you have to pull the weeds. They have no place here. Do you understand me?"
Rage still prickled beneath her skin, like an itch she couldn't scratch. It was the clinic. The clinic was hers. What right did a meddlesome templar have manipulating his way into her life, into her trust, and then destroying what she held dear? All the bloody templars were the same, interfering bastards who—
"Amelle," Compassion pleaded.
The darker wolf howled again. Amelle knew animals—she had cut her teeth healing animals—and she recognized the sound a wounded creature made.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He did not mean to cause you harm. He feels it keenly."
Amelle closed her eyes and fell to her knees, muddying her dress. Her hands reached out of their own accord, desperately plucking weeds from amongst the plants she wanted to save. Every weed she pulled made her feel calmer, quieter, more centered, less angry.
"What was he to do?" Compassion asked, resting upon his knees to her right. "Potions were gone and you were ill. They were growing angry, disillusioned. Was he to leave the doors open and encourage false hope amongst those who would have waited tirelessly for a healer too broken to heal?"
One weed stuck stubbornly in the ground and Amelle pulled, then pulled harder.Tears prickled behind her eyelids as her arms ached with the strain.
"He did what he knew how to do," said Compassion softly. "He knows how to protect. Whatever else you may think, you must know he was protecting you from yourself. The templar is your friend, and he is worried."
Another howl filled Amelle's head and heart until both ached. She gritted her teeth hard and pulled, and when the weed — knotted and gnarled so deep beneath the surface — finally came free, it was with a choking sob that made Amelle's throat burn. The weed fell from her hands and Amelle wrapped her arms around her body, hunching forward, head bowed. Her father's arms folded around her — so strange he should feel so solid when she could still see through him — and it was Compassion's voice that murmured soothingly to her.
"I said—I said horrible things t-to him," she said, her voice breaking.
"And he forgave you the moment you said them. Can you forgive him?"
As Amelle gave a silent nod, the weed she'd struggled so desperately with began to wither and dry, shrinking and shriveling until nothing but dust remained. As it blew away in the breeze, Amelle's head and heart ached less. Her body felt lighter. Stronger. She let out a deep breath.
"Good work, rabbit. But there is more to be done." Compassion gestured at a different portion of the garden where a knot of weeds strangled herbs and flowers.
Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, Amelle crawled to that thick patch of weeds and reached out to touch one twining, choking vine. But when her fingers brushed one rough leaf, Amelle yanked her hand back with a gasp, tears blinding her anew. Cold, leaden fingers squeezed her heart, her lungs, her throat, squeezing her, crushing her with an icy, heavy grip.
"No…" she breathed. "I can't."
"It hurts, doesn't it?" the Fade spirit asked gently. "Failure always does."
The child — that poor little girl, so miserable and hot with fever, trembling beneath her thin sheet and whimpering for her mother. A child — a child had been brought to her, and she had been powerless to help. Powerlessness made her desperate; desperation made her reckless. Had she even paid attention as she mixed the potions? How could she have thought she could give lyrium to a child—
"Pull the weeds, rabbit."
"I can't," she breathed, trembling. "I can't."
Compassion's voice grew stern. Uncompromising. "You must. You must try."
Swiping at her face with her sleeve, Amelle reached out and grasped the vine, whimpering as cold, heavy fear froze her insides. She pulled at the weed, but its surface was slippery — she had to hold it more tightly, inviting the cold even further inside, so cold it burned. She pulled until fear gripped her so tightly she could barely breathe.
And then the weed began to give. The soil buckled as she pulled it free, revealing a truly hideous, slithering length of vine that disappeared farther into the ground. But as the vine's grip on the earth released, so did the grip of fear on Amelle. The warmth of her fingers melted the burning cold, and still she pulled until the entire weed slid from the soil.
"You could not have saved her, rabbit. It is tragic, and it is unfair, and I know you feel that acutely. But you cannot take responsibility for her death any more than her mother can be held responsible for giving her tainted water to drink."
"But I am a healer," she insisted.
"You are but a mortal human with limits to her power."
Again rage threatened. Fire licked languidly at another patch of green leaves, turning what ought to have been squash to ashes and dust and disappointment. This time the Fade spirit earned her glower. He was even more transparent; she could clearly see the cottage through his form. "You could have helped. You could have loaned me the power to save her. But you held back. You let her die."
Compassion bowed his head, baring the back of his neck to her. It was an oddly submissive gesture, and a shiver ran down her spine. Without raising his face, he said softly, "I am not mortal, perhaps, but I am constrained by the vessel. We have both witnessed what becomes of a mortal whose… relationship with a spirit turns for the worse. I might have saved the child, had I lost myself in you. Had I forced you to lose yourself in me. But then you would no longer quite be Amelle Hawke, and I would no longer quite be Compassion."
"Oh," she whispered, hardly louder than an exhale of breath. "That's how it happens."
"Yes," he replied, still staring at his knees. The mud did not touch him, and the dampness that overspread her skirts did not seem to affect him. But he was still so terribly, terribly translucent. "That is how it happens. I wish to help, Amelle. I do not wish to become."
"I… understand."
"I believe you do."
She worked carefully, freeing roses from the clutches of choking tendrils, rescuing rosemary and sage and thyme and peppermint from spear thistle and dandelion. Her hands ached and her arms were weary; the work was harder than mere weeding ought to have been, but still she persevered.
When the sun began to set, Amelle glanced at the shadow of her father. Compassion watched her carefully, his green eyes gleaming in the gloaming. He hardly looked like Malcolm Hawke anymore, but she couldn't tell if it was only because of the light, or if he was actually changing.
She hoped he wouldn't take Anders' form again. She was weary enough that even the rogue thought of the mage didn't stir anger.
"Am I finished?"
Compassion shook his head. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange and hollow, and she had to strain to understand him. "You know you're not, rabbit."
"I am," she protested. She swept her hand around, encompassing the manicured garden.
"Hiding it doesn't make it go away."
"I'm not hiding anything."
Compassion doubled over entirely, placing his palms flat on the earth. They did not disturb the ground. His shoulders rounded and his breathing was harsh and audible in a way his voice no longer was. This time when Amelle reached out to touch him, her fingertips slipped through the space where his physical form out to have been. Her heart began to thud against her ribs. "What is it?" she begged. "Tell me. I don't know what it is. I promise I'll face it, but I don't know what it is."
She heard no sound. She couldn't have said why she looked up when she did. The cold finger of panic ghosted down her spine, and when she turned her head she saw the white wolf sitting in the middle of her garden, head cocked to one side, green eyes dark in the twilight.
Though he was silent, the wolf looked poised to spring. He was a creature of coiled energy and volatile temper, that much was more than evident. Raising her hands, she took a step backward. The wolf began to growl, deep and low in his chest, distant thunder heralding the coming storm.
"No," she said, and even she couldn't be certain if it was a statement or a question.
The wolf bared his teeth.
"Papa?" whispered Amelle, taking a quick, frantic look around her, but she found herself alone in the garden. The shade of her father was gone. Compassion was gone. She was alone with the wolf. Amelle took another slow step back, when the wolf curled his lip, baring those sharp white fangs at her.
No, she thought wildly. This isn't right. He wouldn't hurt me. He wouldn't.
But the icy fear twisting her insides and clouding her mind was alleviated not at all by these attempts to reassure herself.
The air shuddered and Amelle felt the presence behind her even before she heard the silky chuckle. "Oh, the poor little bunny is all alone with the big bad wolf."
That voice, that terrible voice with its velvet caress and razor edges that made the sweetest promises even while it cut deeper and deeper until secrets welled up and spilled out like the heart's lifeblood — Amelle knew that voice. And because she knew that voice, she felt dread rather than surprise when she saw the desire demon, all voluptuous curves and shimmering skin and nails like talons and teeth like knives smiling at her as it stood, one hip thrust out confidently. By the demon's side sat a wolf just as white, just as large as the one sitting opposite. But the eyes of the demon's wolf glowed violet.
Amelle shook her head and told the demon, "He won't hurt me." But her voice held a tremor of uncertainty, and the demon's smile widened. The wolf's growl grew deeper then, and Amelle could hear every one of its teeth in the sound. She swallowed hard against the fear and her heart hammered in her chest, but still Amelle stood and faced the demon, more afraid of turning her back on it than of the wolf behind her.
The demon cocked its head as if listening intently, and Amelle was suddenly and entirely sure it could hear Amelle's own heartbeat.
"Do you really think you can trust a wolf? A beast like that?" Desire purred at her, purple eyes with slitted pupils sliding over to where the first wolf still sat, still growled, snout wrinkled in a snarl, baring so many teeth. The demon gave a soft, tinkling laugh, like breaking glass. "Can you trust that? Can you trust he won't tear out your throat and dine upon your heart at the first provocation?"
Amelle's mouth was suddenly too dry to speak as she stood frozen to the spot. Something about this pleased the demon greatly.
"You want to," Desire murmured, resting one clawed hand upon the other wolf's head, slowly stroking. The animal remained by the demon's side and pressed its head into the caress, looking up in slavish adoration as its tongue lolled harmlessly out of its maw. Desire sent an indulgent smile down at the animal and the wolf whined softly before licking the demon's hand.
Bile rose in her throat and Amelle swallowed against the sensation.
"You want to trust him. I know how badly you want it." The demon leered at her as it said these words, shooting Amelle a sharp, terrible smile that hardly seemed like a smile at all. "But you're afraid."
"That's not true," protested Amelle weakly. "I trust Fenris."
"And you're so sure he'd never turn on you? He'd never accuse you of giving in to your true nature? You know he has no love for your kind. You know he does not trust you."
Behind her, the wolf's growl deepened, lowering into something even more menacing. Amelle shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself, but felt no warmth when she did. The demon exhaled a knowing chuckle and looked once again at the wolf sitting by its side.
"Show the little rabbit," Desire commanded the animal. "Show her what I can give her."
This animal, with its strange violet eyes, padded docilely forward and licked Amelle's hand once before it shoved its head beneath her hand, closing its eyes contently.
The demon gave a languid stretch, running one hand up its hip and across its bare stomach. "Come with me and I'll show you so much more."
With that word, the wolf suddenly wasn't a wolf anymore, but Fenris — or some versionof him, Amelle realized, for he was strangely translucent but for those dark, dark eyes — who stood before her, smiling such a smile as she'd never seen grace the elf's lips. A smile that wanted her, one that desired her.
"It's what you want," whispered Desire as this other Fenris ran gentle fingers along Amelle's cheekbone. When she looked up into his face she saw nothing of a glare or glower — no scowling censure or lips twisted into a frown. His cold fingers kept touching her face, gently, almost reverently, gliding down to her chin and grasping it, tilting her head back as his thumb ghosted along her bottom lip — and it was a ghost of a touch, for Amelle wasn't entirely sure he was really there.
For a moment, the beating of her own heart drowned out even the other wolf's growls.
She lifted her eyes to his, feeling her resolve weaken, but when she met that gaze, she found those violet eyes too dark, too wrong. Fenris' eyes were supposed to remind her of the deepest, quietest corners of the lushest forest.
His smile ought not to have been fanged.
Trust yourself, choose well and wisely, but remember that all trust requires a leap.
Her breath catching in her chest, Amelle jerked her head back, but the ghostly grip upon her chin tightened. Gritting her teeth she grabbed the shade's wrist and pulled, but its hand was creeping down around her throat, those cold, gentle fingers squeezing slowly, tighter and tighter.
There was barking behind her. Furious, enraged barking, edged in snarls and growls, and Amelle bared her own teeth then, raising her other hand and shoving the shade as hard as she could, drawing a struggling breath…
And then she felt it. Mana swirled and pulsed, alive and vibrant within her, and as she pushed against the shade's chest, lightning bolted from her palm, the raw force of it knocking the monster — for a monster it was — back and sending her stumbling backward, landing hard upon the ground, directly at the snarling wolf's feet.
Amelle tensed. She didn't want to, but she could feel the wolf's heat, and somehow the low growl was loud enough to reverberate in her bones. Tendrils of mana swept through her veins, begging to be put to use, and Amelle's hands began to tingle with the promise of fire. The desire demon laughed its silken, monstrous laugh. "Oh, yes. Do please use your magic. He does so love that, doesn't he?"
Clenching her teeth, Amelle pressed her hands to her stomach and curled around them as if the physical action might somehow stop the magic from leaping away from her. She wouldn't. Not even if he—not even—she hazarded a glance in the wolf's direction. He was still growling deep in his chest, but his eyes—his moss-green eyes—were fixed on the demon. The other wolf—the one Amelle's power had thrown back—was a wolf once more, curled in a pathetic heap at the demon's feet. Even as she watched, it staggered to its feet, white fur singed.
Her wolf looked down at her, just for an instant, and the rumble in his chest became a thin whine. Then he leapt, all his contained energy released, a blur of white in the encroaching darkness, and landed on the other beast.
They rolled, jaws snapping, claws raking. She couldn't tell one from the other, and she didn't dare watch them. The desire demon was no longer smiling, no longer laughing, and the hands that had been caressing curves only a few moments before were now extended toward Amelle, all talons.
"Do you think you're clever?" the demon hissed, eyes narrowed to glowing slits. "Wolves are wolves; he'll turn on you when he's done. You've already chased your own benefactor away, with your rage and your pride and your sweet, sweet fear. What have you to return to, pretty little mageling, save more death and more despair and more failure? Better to stay here, in the house you loved. We can fill it with everyone you've lost. Mama and Papa and twin brother. And they will love you."
"No," Amelle gasped. The desire demon's words were like stones, weighting her down, pulling her deep. Faintly, as though from a great distance, she heard the auburn wolf howl again. He no longer sounded wounded—he sounded frustrated and angry and above all urgent. The darkness made it hard to see, but she could sense his movement as he paced from one side of the path to the other. The white wolf still rolled and snapped with the demon's wolf; both were heaving and yipping and whining in pain, their white sides streaked with dark.
"If only you were stronger," the demon whispered. "If only you weren't alone. Let me help you, let me give you strength. With me you could do anything, you could be anything, you could heal anything. Everyone will worship you, desire you. You will be magnificent."
Amelle fought the crushing power of the words, dragging herself to her knees. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she half-turned her head to see what had caused it.
There, beneath the wide leaves of rhubarb she'd so painstakingly weeded around, sat a small grey and white rabbit. Its pink nose twitched. Its emerald-bright eyes blinked at her.
Amelle smiled, and felt the weight lift from her. The rabbit hopped to her side, and as she gathered it into her hands, holding it tight to her chest, the desire demon threw back its horned head and shrieked.
"No," Amelle repeated, her voice stronger, her hands gently stroking the little rabbit. "You have nothing I want, nothing I need."
"You're a fool," the demon spat, hovering over Amelle, eyes blazing. "They none of them want you. Even your dear sister couldn't wait to leave you. You have no idea what I offer you."
"The price is too high," she answered calmly. This is my dream. This corner of the Fade is mine. The house, the garden, Lothering itself — my memories.
Amelle closed her eyes and breathed in, not at all surprised when she felt the familiar weight of a staff resting against her back. Giving the rabbit one final scratch, she set it gently down and pulled the staff into her hands. It was a simple wooden stave, but felt worn and smooth and right in her hands. Somewhere off to the side the wolves still fought, still snapped and snarled and barked and yipped as they rolled. Then one wolf grabbed the other by the back of its neck and flung it to the ground before diving upon it, jaws locking upon the other animal's throat. There was an inhuman shriek of pain that ended abruptly and with a sickening crunch. The victor stood above the dead wolf, his muzzle stained with blood, and then threw back his head and howled, a rich, deep, triumphant call.
Then he looked at her and eyes as deep and green as the forest shone in the near darkness.
Amelle turned to the demon, raising the staff as a gout of flame poured forth, brighter and hotter than anything she would have imagined could come from such a plain weapon. The demon hissed as a miasma of magic gathered around her claws, shimmering into a shield that caught most of Amelle's fire. From behind that shield, Desire released another spell, and a swirl of ice and frost wrapped around Amelle, sending a chill straight to her bones, and for a moment she was too cold to move, too cold to breathe — but breathe she did, and mana rushed and buzzed through her veins, flickering into flame at her hands, melting frost and cold away. Breathing in, she summoned more flame through the staff as she sent a jagged, crackling bolt of lightning at the demon. Orange light warred with flickering white and the demon screamedas the foul stench of burning rot rose into the air.
On it went, until a swirl of magic slid past Amelle's defenses, and as it twined about her, sinking into her skin, she felt her knees begin to buckle, her arms too heavy to hold the staff aloft. She planted her hands on the ground and tried to push herself upright, but weakness made her limbs too heavy, her muscles too sluggish to obey. As she struggled under the force of the spell, the desire demon towered above her, lightning and ice — two spells mingled — dancing around its hands, gathering strength before being released in a rush of crackling cold.
Amelle saw the white wolf leap, his bloodied muzzle open in a snarl. It was not a graceful jump. It was fueled by desperation. He meant to take the blow, Amelle knew at once. He meant to throw himself between her and the desire demon's hideous power.
And he was too late. Everything was happening too quickly and not quickly enough, all at the same time. She couldn't move. She tried, she tried to bring her staff up, reaching urgently for her magic, and she couldn't. The demon was too fast and she was too slow. Even the white wolf was too slow.
The crackling shards of ice-lightning slammed into Amelle's chest, flinging her backward. She felt herself fly, momentarily airborne. She felt herself fall, head rebounding off the ground with a crack. The wolf landed, crouched over her inert body, and howled.
Amelle felt her heart stop.
She'd always thought it would hurt more. Instead she felt nothing at all. It was like a sigh, soft and sad and so final.
Spirit healer, whispered a voice in her mind. It was her father's voice, and her mother's, and even Carver's. It was Anders' voice. It was Kiara's.
No. This cannot be. It was Fenris'.
It was an impossibly horrific feeling, being able to look down at oneself, but still Amelle looked. Her poor body was small and pale and oddly broken. One hand still clutched the staff, but the fall had broken the wood into two pieces. Her eyes were open, staring, glassy. A lock of hair had fallen across her brow.
This can't be happening. This isn't possible.
Spirit healer, listen. You must listen.
"Oh, yes," whispered the desire demon, taloned hands already reaching down toward the unmoving Amelle's body. "Take her now."
The wolf took a step toward the demon, snapping, but Amelle could see his struggle—for all his desire, he could not actually attack. He was part of her construct, after all, and she was—
Amelle would have gasped, would have screamed, but she had no breath to do either.
And then she saw the rabbit, trembling beside her fallen form. Its white whiskers quivered. Spirit healer, she thought. But I'm—
You have done this before. Bring yourself back. Now, before it is too late. Now, before she takes hold.
Rules were not rules in the Fade. Rules were guidelines. And guidelines were not absolute. Perhaps even death did not have to be death. The rabbit hopped closer, nudging its small head against Amelle's shoulder. Both wolves were howling now, and the dark of night had fully fallen. She could no longer see the garden. She couldn't see the house. There was only the broken body upon the ground, the slinking demon with her claws, the whining, wounded wolf.
And her. She was… still something. Not quite the body. Not quite a ghost.
Spirit healer, you must not tarry.
What you seek, child, is easily found if you know where to look.
The silver-blue glow began faintly, hardly noticeable compared to the violet fire the desire demon surrounded itself with. Then brighter, brighter, until the spirit-Amelle was a silvery-blue sun, a swirling miasma of mana and energy and life and revival.
Wake up, she told herself. Wake up, now!
Her fingers clenched hard around the broken staff, and in a motion so swift she knew even Kiara would have been proud, Amelle inhaled deeply, desperately, and slammed the shattered end straight through the desire demon's nearly-naked breast. For an instant the expression on the demon's face was almost comical; it looked impossibly surprised.
"No," Amelle repeated. "You have this all wrong. You die. I don't."
The demon sank to its knees, head flung back in a silent scream as it clawed at the jagged piece of wood lodged in her chest. Black blood oozed slowly from the wound, nearly invisible in the dark, and as the violet fire guttered out and died with the demon, Amelle found herself alone and victorious in the dark with only the crescent moon above shining down.
No, not alone.
The white wolf, still wounded, still bloodied, sat in the dim moonlight. He watched her silently, turning his head toward the path where the red wolf still waited, still paced. From somewhere in the dark the red wolf howled, calling out to the pale one. When the white wolf answered, the two calls crossed over themselves, blending in the air as the sound arced over her, and for a moment it was one of the most beautiful sounds she'd ever heard. She wanted nothing more than to follow it.
The rabbit sat serenely upon the ground, its nose twitching. Amelle crouched down and hugged her arms around her knees. Compassion's bright green eyes were dimmed not at all by the darkness and for an instant Amelle could see forever in them. I'll be more careful now that I know.
The rabbit looked up at her, and in that familiar ghostly, echoing voice, simply said, Yes, I know you will.
"It's time to go," she said softly, running her hand over the wolf's head. The animal's expression did not change but for a single blink that seemed to say, And not a moment too soon.
The pale wolf padded alongside her all the way up the path were the ruddy wolf paced, impatience and frustration all too clear in the sweep of his tail, in the pricking of his ears. As she stepped out onto the main road — it led all the way up to Lothering and into the Bannorn, or would have, had this not been the Fade — the red wolf got behind Amelle and hurried her along, nipping at her heels.
"Pushy templar," she murmured as they three followed the road over the next hill.
Above them, the crescent moon glowed brighter and brighter, and seemed to stretch and grow until all around her there was more moonlight and darkness. Light — so much light. It filled her body and mind until she floated, like a cloud, or the moon itself, up and up, higher and higher, until the Fade grew smaller and quieter and farther away.
And then she wasn't floating anymore. There was a pillow beneath her head, the pillowcase cool against her cheek.
She wasn't alone. She could hear them moving around, trying to keep their voices down.
"—I'm not trying to alarm you, but if this were a true Harrowing, she would have been given up for lost three hours ago. It's taking too blighted long."
"It is not a simple task she is undertaking. Give her more time."
Cullen's frustration made his tone terse. "I'll give her all the bloody time she needs. Maker's breath, Fenris, I'm not threatening her, stop gripping the hilt of your sword like you want to use it to take my head off. I'm only saying the Order has limitations for a reason. There is a correlation between time spent within—especially under the influence of lyrium—and the likelihood of possession. I'm concerned, not murderous."
"Perhaps those of lesser ability cannot stay as long within the Fade, but Amelle was within twice as long when she went… for Sebastian."
Cullen's response was not words. It was a choked sputter. If she'd not been still half asleep, Amelle would have laughed at the expression her imagination supplied.
Fenris, however, continued with imperturbable calm, "And she emerged from that ordeal without succumbing to a demon. We do not yet have cause for concern."
This did make her laugh. It emerged a sleepy chuckle, and it still took a great deal of effort to pry her eyelids open, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Ssomething about Fenris being the unflappable one in this situation struck her as beyond amusing.
"Amelle?" Cullen's face appeared, pinched with concern. "You've been—"
Clearing her throat, she swallowed past the dryness and said, "Asleep for some time, evidently. Maker, Cullen. Your face is liable to stick that way."
He didn't smile. If anything, his expression darkened, and his brow knit even more.
"Do not alarm her, templar. Stand back."
Amelle turned her head, smiling wryly. Fenris might give the impression of being calm, relaxed, certain, but she could see readiness in the looseness of his limbs, and she didn't think she was imagining the faint glow of his markings. "Can you give me a minute before we play Exalted March again? For a dream that was bloody exhausting."
Not to her mana, though. She could feel her power within her, like a cup filled to the brim with pure, cool, refreshing water. Indeed, if she was a cup, the contents were sloshing over the rim ever so slightly, but out of joy instead of lack of control. She felt alive.
And her stomach felt full to bursting.
"Amelle," Cullen repeated, "are you—"
"I'm fine. Well, mostly fine. I did have to take out a very determined desire demon."
The growl in Fenris' voice suddenly put her very in mind of a stark white wolf. "You said there would be no demons, templar."
Cullen raised his hands. "There weren't meantto be."
Fenris' hand was white-knuckled around his sword's hilt. "Was this some… stratagem to force her into a Harrowing?"
"No!"
"Boys," Amelle said calmly, trying—and failing, she feared—to keep amusement from her tone. "Fighting each other helps no one. I might be an abomination, here." She sighed as she allowed a rejuvenation spell to sweep through her. Only when Cullen narrowed his eyes at her did she remember she probably ought to have warned the resident templar before she attempted anything magical. She turned her lips up in an apologetic smile, and pushed herself to her elbows and then to a sitting position against the headboard. "Sorry," she said. "Force of habit. Rejuvenation."
Before she—or Fenris—could do more than blink in surprise, Cullen dropped down beside her and tucked her tightly into his arms. She could just barely see over his shoulder—enough to catch Fenris' glower. She held his gaze long enough for the glower to subside minutely — long enough for Amelle to see that, yes, he too had been worried, he too was relieved. Amelle raised her eyebrows at Fenris, who closed his eyes and gave a brief shake of his head. After a moment she nodded and sent him a tired smile. Though Fenris didn't quite smile in return, the expression in his eyes warmed slightly. That was enough.
After a moment she patted Cullen's back reassuringly and mumbled, "Is this how you greet all mages after their Harrowings?"
Releasing her, he sat back and shook his head. "You were gone too long. If it had been a proper Harrowing—"
"I heard that part. I… would have come back sooner. But I had to eat, and then there was so much bloody weeding, and then the demon showed up…"
"This is no jest, Amelle," he replied sternly.
"Believe it or not, I'm really not joking."
Finally, a little of the concern melted from Cullen's face, revealing relief. "And you are… you are yourself."
"I should think so," she replied. "Though if one or the both of you needs to chase me about the house with weapons drawn…"
Fenris sighed and sank down into the chair beside the bed. "Perhaps our time might be better spent figuring out what to do next."
Amelle flipped her palms over and stared into her hands. "We heal the bloody spring under the Gallows. That's what we do next."
She wasn't entirely sure if it was reassuring or alarming that Fenris and Cullen only shared a glance between themselves before looking at her and nodding, not quite enthusiastically, but without protest.
