By morning the rain had cleared. Mostly. The ground was still more mud than solid earth, and the air was thick with clouds of mist cold enough to make her forget it was still only the beginning of autumn in Kirkwall, but water no longer fell from the sky, and Amelle had to count that a victory. A small one, yes, but better than nothing.

The feeling of triumph didn't last long.

Fenris barely met her gaze. Only briefly, when she handed him a cup of tea, and not at all when she—somewhat reluctantly—returned the clothing he'd loaned her. Not even when he asked to see their map. He scowled over the piece of parchment—miraculously still intact after its close encounter with the rain—for several long minutes before rolling it up tightly and handing it to her, all without once looking her in the eye.

"It is an inadequate representation," he said. He gazed past her, toward Cullen. One eyebrow lowered a minute fraction, causing a faint line. She couldn't quite decipher it. "Missing a number of landmarks. Still, the path appears to be the same I traveled."

"So you… remember where to find shelter?" Amelle asked.

"I should think last night made that evident."

Cullen, at least, looked at her. But his expression was as confused as she felt. She raised one shoulder in a shrug, and Cullen gave his head a slight shake.

"Fenris," he began.

Fenris cut Cullen off, a strange, strained timbre in his voice. "We should delay no longer. Let us go."

The fresh air was a relief after the dank, distinctly horse-scented confines of the cave. The tense, uncomfortable interactions where once they'd been so at ease with each other made Amelle's cheeks burn mercilessly, alleviated only slightly by the cooler morning air. But every time she glanced toward Fenris, the blush started again. Even faced with only his back, she could tell he was uneasy; his shoulders too stiff and his neck unyielding. Without checking to see they followed, he set his mount northward.

If she hadn't thought it possible for things to be more awkward than they'd been the night before, she found herself proven terribly wrong.

Focus on Kiara, she told herself. She needs you. Think about the journey and what you need to do to help your sister. At least you know you and Fenris share that objective, even if you share nothing else anymore.

She drew in a breath and let it out again, hoping to ease the way her heart was twisting, to say nothing of the way her stomach burned and clenched itself into knots. She hated this, hated the way this felt, and hated knowing nothing she could do would make it stop. No amount of healing magic could ease this wretched, wrung-out feeling. She'd simply have to cease thinking about it until it all hurt a little less. Otherwise it was going to be a very long trip.

They'd only traveled a few miles when Fenris reined his horse to a stop. Amelle, yanked from her thoughts, pulled a hair too firmly on her own reins, and the horse gave a mighty shake of its head and stepped sharply to the side. She patted its long, chestnut neck and murmured an apology even as her eyes went to the horizon. Cullen came to a much smoother stop and frowned.

"Fenris? What's wrong?"

The elf only pointed at the sky; a thin ribbon of smoke curled and twisted upward. Before either of them could wager a guess on the source, Fenris gave a light snap of the reins and nudged at the horse's sides again, leaving Amelle and Cullen to follow, exchanging curious looks as they did.

Whatever Amelle thought might have been the source of the smoke, she found herself entirely unprepared for the reality.

It was an inn. If the sign above the door was anything to go by, it had vacant rooms available.

And if the smells issuing forth from that inn were anything to go by, they were still serving breakfast.

"This definitely wasn't on the map," Cullen muttered.

"Nor was it here the last time I made this journey," Fenris replied, staring at the little building.

Amelle heard a swell of laughter from within. Flowerbeds flanked a white stone walkway. It looked warm and dry and welcoming, and when the scent of bacon reached her nose, her stomach gave a loud growl.

"You're bloody kidding me," Amelle grumbled, even as she nudged her horse nearer the heavenly building with its even more heavenly scents. "This was here? The whole time? We could have slept in beds?"

Fenris turned his face enough to glower, but not enough to meet her gaze. Again she felt the wretched pang of loss, and again she pushed it down. She blinked the sting from her eyes, remembering how Fenris had looked at her after… after the memories. Wounded. "Surely you do not mean to call a halt so soon," he said, incredulous. "There is no saying how long the weather will hold, and Starkhaven—"

"—Will wait until we've had a decent breakfast," Cullen interjected firmly, just as Amelle was beginning to let herself doubt the necessity of a stop at all, bacon be damned.

Maker's breath, bacon. And toast. With honey. And tea.

"Maybe Fenris is—"

Cullen shook his head. "Who knows when we'll have another opportunity for a proper meal, and neither of us has eaten enough since we left Kirkwall. An hour is an hour."

Amelle blinked, startled by the authority in his tone. Cullen spoke as though he expected to be obeyed, instantly and without argument. Even Fenris' posture shifted. It was a slight change, but she couldn't help noticing it. For half a heartbeat Amelle amused herself imagining a full-fledged confrontation between her sister and Cullen, both in complete authoritarian mode. She honestly couldn't say whom she'd lay her money on.

Then she remembered her sister might never be the same sister she remembered, bossy or otherwise, and suddenly Fenris' unwillingness to look at her was not the most painful thing the morning had brought.

After a moment the white head inclined, Fenris dismounted, and the decision was made.

Though the ride had been short, Amelle was already—or still, rather—sore when she slid down the side of her own patient mount. If not for healing magic, she imagined the pain would have been unbearable. She glanced toward Cullen just in time to see him wince. She gave him a sympathetic smile and wiggled her fingers at him.

"Horses," he muttered, before submitting to the healing magic she sent his way.

If Fenris felt any discomfort related to his long ride on his unfamiliar mount, he did not show it. She felt his gaze skim over them, but as she turned, ready to offer him healing, she remembered, and with a jerk, she clumsily yanked her hands in close, pressing her palms against her stomach as if to hide them. Fenris did meet her gaze then, but for only a moment before turning and leading his horse to the small stable adjoining the inn. With a sigh, Amelle followed. The horses, at least, seemed pleased at the stop—even more so once they were settled, with far better fodder than they'd been able to forage at the muddy campsite.

The smell of breakfast urged Amelle on. She could hardly blame the horses for their enthusiasm when she felt very nearly as excited by the prospect of a plate piled high with hot, fresh food herself.

With Cullen and Fenris at her back, Amelle pushed open the door, already half-certain she could taste the bacon, and there, holding court at the end of one of the long communal tables, regaling the few patrons with some tale that—if she heard correctly—involved both an avalanche and rogue darkspawn, was none other than Varric Tethras.

"There we were, trapped, snow to the left of us, snow to the right, and a whole passel of darkspawn right ahead of us, when—"

Amelle burst into tears.

Varric glanced over at the interruption, and his tale ended abruptly as his eyes widened with shock. His hands, which had been raised in a sweeping gesture, fell to the table with an impossibly loud thud.

"Firefly?"

A dark head swiveled and Amelle spied Isabela sitting in a chair to Varric's right, her booted feet propped up on the table as she leaned back in the chair, precariously balanced on its two rear legs. When she caught sight of them, she swung her legs down and the chair hit the floor with a sharp thunk. Varric, already on his feet, bustled around the crowded table, waving a bit at his bemused audience.

"Uh, intermission time, guys. Take five. I've got this." And then he was in front of Amelle, staring, a million and one questions sketching rapidly over his expressive face before he decided on, "What in all the Void are you doing out here?"

"And why," Isabela asked, sauntering up to join them, "are you encrusted in mud and reeking of horse?" The look Varric sent her was slightly reproving, but Isabela only shrugged. "What? They do."

Amelle swiped her tears away with both hands, and when she tried to speak, tried to explain, she was able to manage little more than a hoarse hiccup of a sob. Frustrated, she shook her head and crouched down, hugging the dwarf fiercely about the neck. Varric, being Varric, appeared utterly unsurprised, and returned the hug warmly, patting her back.

"Hey, kiddo — Firefly, it's okay. You just tell us what—"

"It's Hawke," Cullen interjected quietly.

Varric's arms tensed and froze around her, and Amelle knew precisely which utterly wrong conclusion the dwarf had reached. At least, Amelle desperately hoped it was the wrong conclusion.

"Is she—"

"Evidently, she was poisoned," Fenris supplied.

"That bloody arrow," hissed Isabela. "I knew it."

Before Varric could reply, Cullen went on to explain, "Amelle received a letter from the healer who tended Hawke. She's woken from the poison, but the healer fears there may be… lasting damage."

Amelle pulled away, wiping at her face and sniffling miserably. You've got to pull yourself together, she told herself sternly, and stood up a little straighter, trying to inject a degree of steel into her spine. "I need to get to Starkhaven," she said, cringing a little at the nasal quality of her voice. "The healer said—she said Kiara woke up wrong. I have to—"

"Whoa, wait a minute," Varric said, stopping Amelle as he steered her gently into a nearby chair and pointed to it. "Sit." She did. "Now, start over. Starkhaven? Are you nuts?"

Setting her jaw and tilting her chin stubbornly, Amelle said, "I have to go to my sister, Varric."

"What he means, kitten, is you are going to be even less welcome than we were," Isabela drawled as she dropped into a vacant chair next to Amelle. "And that's saying something." At Amelle's querying look, she sighed and looked to Varric to explain. His expression darkened a moment, then he blew out a sigh and shook his head.

"They burn mages there, Firefly."

Amelle's eyes widened, the tears startled completely away. "And Sebastian never thought to mention that?"

Isabela snorted. "Oh, it's a recent development. One our sweet Princess was none too pleased with. We were busy playing noble liberators when… well. When the wind was taken from our sails."

"You mean they were captured," Amelle said.

Behind her, Fenris snapped, "And you did nothing to aid them?"

"Hold it, Broody. We did exactly what Choir Boy told us to do. We ran."

But Fenris was accepting none of it. "I'd expect Isabela to run, but I thought better of you, Varric."

"Ouch," Isabela murmured. "What's got your knickers in a twist, sweetheart?"

Fenris' voice lowered suddenly, bordering on a growl. "I am not your—"

Isabela raised her hands in mock surrender. "Noted."

Varric frowned, leaning hard on one elbow and propping his chin on his fist. "We weren't—" at Isabela's snort, he amended, "—okay, I wasn't actually keen on leaving, but things were… look, Choir Boy told us to go and we went. Thought maybe we'd come back for you, Broody, and Aveline, and try a planned assault, but…" Varric's brow furrowed as he met Amelle's gaze. "You have to know Hawke wouldn't want you within fifty miles of Starkhaven, Firefly. Poison or no poison."

"And you have to know that's not going to stop me."

Varric sighed. Loudly. "Hawkes."

Isabela groaned. "You're not serious."

The dwarf arched an eyebrow. "You're going to let them walk in there blind, Rivaini?" On her scowl, his lips twitched briefly. "Yeah, thought so."

Amelle closed her eyes, momentarily overcome by a flood of relief.

Isabela rolled her eyes and blew a wayward curl of hair out of her eyes. Then those eyes slipped past Amelle and narrowed. In a theatrical whisper, she said, "Amelle. I don't know if you've noticed, but there seems to be a templar behind you."

Varric's expression wasn't nearly as amused. "Have to say I noticed the same thing, kid. There some reason you're traveling with the enemy?"

"I'm not the enemy," Cullen protested, at the same time Amelle exclaimed, "He's not the enemy!"

They exchanged a look and a quick smile. Fenris, she could help noticing, was most definitely not smiling. "Cullen's not the enemy," she repeated. "He didn't want me to travel alone."

With a curt gesture, Fenris said, "Hawke asked him to look in on her sister."

"But I'm here because of Amelle," said Cullen firmly.

Varric's eyes narrowed and traveled from Amelle, to Cullen, and then over to Fenris, before settling once more on Amelle. "Well, Firefly, it would appear your persuasive skills have untold depths."

"Now that mystery's solved," Isabela said, looking hard at Amelle, "I want to know why you're smeared with mud and smell like horse."

"It was… a difficult night," Amelle admitted, and began covering the high points — or, rather, low points — of the trip so far. Isabela did a poor job of hiding her amusement, but Varric only listened and offered the occasional encouraging nod.

"Well," he said, leaning back in his chair after she'd finished, "lucky thing Broody here caught up with you, huh?"

Amelle glanced at Fenris, whose expression remained impassive. She felt her cheeks heat and she looked away quickly. "…Yes," she answered, clearing her throat. "We'd… certainly be a lot soggier if he hadn't come along."

The dwarf leaned back in his chair, gesturing grandly. "Hey, the good news is this place has the best food from here to Starkhaven. A chance to get a good meal, maybe a hot bath, and regroup."

"Definitely a hot bath," Isabela added pointedly.

Fenris made an annoyed, impatient sound in the back of his throat and stood. "The storm has already impeded our progress. Now you would have us—"

"People have to eat, Broody," Varric said, cutting him off. His tone was genial enough, but something in the way he looked at Fenris, maybe in the arch of his eyebrow, made the elf subside.

"Very well," he muttered, turning for the door. "I will tend the horses."

Varric called out to his retreating back, "Want us to order something for—"

"I am not hungry." The door shut, and Varric and Isabela exchanged an inscrutable look that lasted several seconds. Finally, the pirate shrugged and pushed herself out of the chair.

"Why don't I see about those baths?" she asked, her chipper tone sounding somewhat forced. "Should be ready by the time you've eaten something."

Amelle sighed. "You're unusually insistent upon the matter of hygiene, Isabela."

"And you're unusually redolent of horse," Isabela tossed back as she flounced out of the room. Once she was gone, Varric shook his head, chuckling.

"Don't mind her. It's been one Maker-forsaken thing after another since we left Starkhaven."

"Yes," Cullen replied, pulling up a chair for himself. "I think we heard something about an avalanche and rogue darkspawn?"

"And that's just for starters," muttered Varric, rolling his eyes. "Listen, don't let me bring you down. You both look like shit, and the grub here is—"

Amelle resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. "If you say it's every bit as good as The Hanged Man, Varric…"

"No way, Firefly. The bacon alone—" At Amelle's hungry groan, Varric let out a laugh and stood, mussing her hair. "I've got a tab running and it was a good night for cards last night. Order as much as you want. Then we'll figure out the rest. I'm all for heading back to Starkhaven as long as it doesn't involve a bloody, sodding boat." He paused thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "I wouldn't mind avoiding the avalanches, either."

"What about the darkspawn?" Amelle asked, grinning up at him.

Varric let out a derisive snort. "Them we can handle. For now, though, I've got to see a man about a horse."

#

Horse gave Fenris a baleful look when he interrupted its eating. He thought it had another name, but he couldn't be bothered remembering it, so Horse it was. Fenris needlessly checked again for burrs or stones or anything that might make it imperative for him to remain out in the stable, but to no avail. The animal had been brushed and groomed to within an inch of its life. The stableboy shot him a look almost as baleful as Horse's, as if Fenris' presence cast some doubt on his own abilities.

Still, it felt good to do something, to give himself some occupation. The moment he was left to his own thoughts, Fenris couldn't help remembering the evening before. He had no doubt Amelle and the Knight-Commander had thought him sleeping, but he was a light sleeper. He'd woken when he heard them speaking. Woken, and then, to his shame, pretended to sleep, listening to their easy camaraderie and jesting, until the conversation turned to Hawke. And just when he'd been about to rise and join them, their voices had dropped and he'd seen… whatever he'd seen. Amelle's hand on the Knight-Commander's arm. The way he'd taken her chin between his fingers. Their… embrace.

Amelle had assured him nothing but friendship existed between them, but… still, he found himself jealous. Jealous it was the Knight-Commander who had her trust now, who had her confidence. It was his own fault, of course, but that did not lessen the sting. You're the one who ran away. Who hurt her. You have no right to—Fenris swore under his breath, frightening a squeak of dismay from the stableboy, before turning back to Horse and his unnecessary tasks.

Fenris was checking his saddle for wear—of course there wasn't any—for a third time when he heard the unsubtle cough behind him. When he turned, the stableboy was nowhere to be seen, and Varric leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"Seems to me we need to have a talk," Varric said, as calmly as he might discuss the weather. Only Fenris doubted very much the likelihood of rain was foremost in Varric's thoughts.

So he arched an eyebrow and said nothing at all.

Varric was undeterred. "You want to tell me what in the name of Andraste's saggy tits that was in there, Fenris?"

The use of his name startled him enough to bring him around, fully facing the dwarf. In all the time he'd known Varric if it wasn't elf it was Broody, but it was never simply Fenris. "It is none of your concern."

Varric huffed a breath drenched with skepticism. "Give me a break. I haven't seen you wound this tight since just before we knocked off that son-of-a-bitch Danarius. Rivaini had it right. What exactly is it that's got your knickers in a twist? Because we've got to get them untwisted and quick. There are bigger things at stake here, whether you know it or not."

"I am not—" Fenris closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. Behind him, Horse snorted in a way that sounded concerned. Or frightened. Fenris was not fluent in horse. He repeated, "It is none of your concern."

"Maybe that's true and maybe it isn't, but since when have you known me to butt out simply because something wasn't my business?"

Fenris had to admit Varric had a point. "It is… nothing I am inclined to discuss."

"Now that I believe. My question to you is whether you think I'm actually going to back off because whatever's got you rankled is something you don't want to talk about that isn't any of my business anyway."

Scowling, he turned back to the horse, but the animal's head was deep in a feed bucket and it was chewing rhythmically. Nothing else remained to occupy him.

Nothing else, it seemed, but a conversation with Varric.

"As forthcoming as usual, then," the dwarf sighed. "Listen, if the attitude is because Amelle took off without you, I get that. But you're going to have to get over it. It's a long way to Starkhaven, and you'd better believe I'm not blowing smoke when I tell you things are going to get worse once we get there." Without waiting for a reply, he heaved a sigh and pushed himself away from the wall, taking a step closer, his expression grave. "Look, Fenris, you and I both know she's not going to be dissuaded. She's going to Starkhaven no matter what I say, no matter how cranky you are, and no matter how dangerous it is. Trust me, no matter what the situation with Hawke? Starkhaven's going to be no picnic for any of us. But especially not for her. The ugliness there made me wish for the good old days of templars versus mages in Kirkwall. You got that?"

Perhaps Varric was inclined toward exaggeration, but Fenris understood at once the dwarf now spoke nothing but the plainest truth. The set of his mouth was too firm, the look in his eyes too hard. After a moment, Fenris drew in a breath and let it out again. "I… understand."

"Yeah, I'm not sure you do. They're not only burning mages in Starkhaven, they're burning people they think are mages. Last thing I want to do is let an actual mage within spitting distance of the place, so we're going to have to come up with a plan to keep that from happening. We're gonna get Hawke and Choir Boy out of there with as little muss and fuss as possible."

Varric's words washed over Fenris, and then their meaning sank in. "They are burning… innocents, then?"

Too late he realized what he'd said, and he was glad Amelle was nowhere in the vicinity to have overheard it.

Varric's eyebrow rose sharply. "You think it'd be better if they were burning actual mages?"

Fenris shook his head, as much to disagree with Varric as to rid his imagination of the images it conjured of Amelle amid choking smoke and blistering flame. "No, I… no. Of course not. Amelle… knows how to be discreet with her magic," he said, keeping his voice low. "She will… be careful."

"Funny how I really don't want to take that risk, and I'm pretty sure Hawke wouldn't want to, either. And unless I miss my guess, it's not a risk you'd be too keen on taking, either." Before Fenris could reply — or deny — Varric added, "You know, jealousy really doesn't suit you."

"I am not—"

But Varric only waved a dismissive hand at him. "Oh, pull the other one, would you? And try to remember who you're talking to here. Seven years, Fenris. Give me a little credit, would you? Seven years, and there's not a damn thing wrong with my eyesight."

"That is neither here nor there," Fenris insisted, checking the rest of the tack, but the leather was clean and supple, still smelling strongly of oil and once again he was robbed of a distraction and he swore under his breath. Of all the times for the dwarf to be perceptive.

"Oh, it's here and there. The only thing you're missing's a big sign above your head."

Again Fenris' hands curled into fists, the muscles in his forearms tensing and bunching a long moment before he replied, "Very well. If you must know, the… matter is no longer in my hands." He checked the horse's tack one more time before admitting, finally, "I do not wish to make things more difficult for Amelle." Perhaps Varric did not know the details—did not need to know the details, in Fenris' opinion—but the truth remained as it was. He'd hurt her enough. He would do his best not to add to that pain now.

"Good to know." Varric inclined his head and dropped his hands, clasping them loosely behind his back. His expression, however, remained uneasy. Fenris shifted slightly, waiting for the inevitable question. When it came, however, it was not the one he'd expected.

"Look, Broody—" Fenris had never been quite so glad to hear the nickname, because somehow it meant the world was settling back into the patterns he understood, "—all your repressed feelings aside, can we trust him?"

Fenris blinked, shoulders stiffening. "Trust… the templar?"

"Well, I'm not actually concerned about the horse, so yeah. Can we trust the templar?"

Fenris inhaled slowly, deliberately. "Hawke did. Enough to seek his aid."

"Hawke's not here. I'm asking you. You've got to admit, our history with the Order doesn't exactly favor the interaction. He could go lyrium-mad on us. Or just… preachy. Or we could get to Starkhaven and he might start thinking they've got the right idea. I need to know."

Swallowing, he realized Varric would go so far as to speak against the Knight-Commander's presence if Fenris recommended it. With Varric and Isabela added to the party, Amelle could hardly be concerned; she would not have to be alone with him, after all. The Knight-Commander could return to his duties. Varric would ensure it, or do his best. All based on a word from him.

Fenris remembered the look on the templar's face after the healing at the spring, his desperate sadness when he'd thought Amelle broken beyond saving. He remembered how many risks the Knight-Commander had taken for them—for her. In spite of everything, it was no small thing—indeed, it was a vast thing—the templar had undertaken by giving everything up to keep Amelle from going to Starkhaven on her own. Fenris might be jealous, might be wounded, but he wasn't petty, and he wasn't going to lie. Not about something as important as this, even if it would make some aspects of his life… easier to bear.

"He's trustworthy," Fenris said.

"You're sure?"

"A great deal happened in Kirkwall during your absence. I am satisfied the Knight-Commander is trustworthy."

Much as it pained him to admit it.

Varric looked at him for a long moment before he shrugged, once again affable. "And if you're satisfied, I'm satisfied, Broody."

#

In Amelle's estimation, absolutely nothing in the world could possibly be better than a hot bath. Especially after a long night spent sleeping poorly (or not at all) upon a damp bedroll. The hot water sank into Amelle's bones and she sighed happily as she moved the soapy cloth across her skin, wiping away the mud and grime from the night before. The tunic and breeches she'd been wearing were beyond filthy (and indeed stank of horse; she could hardly blame Isabela for her disgust) and now a fresh change of clothes hung before the fire in the room, the last lingering bit of moisture drying out.

Then the door clicked, opening with a creak, and Amelle ducked down into the bathwater with a splash and an outraged squeal.

"It's only me," Isabela said with a chuckle as she closed the door again. "Maker, but you're jumpy."

Amelle kept herself — as much as she could, anyway — beneath the surface of the bathwater. The suds, which had seemed positively luxurious only five minutes before now felt too thin and too transparent by half.

Evidently sensing her discomfiture, and not caring very much either way, Isabela dragged a chair to the Amelle's side and dropped into it. Amelle continued to watch the pirate warily over the edge of the tub until Isabela leaned back in the chair, stretching her long legs out and crossing them at the ankle, then chuckled, waving a hand at Amelle.

"Well, aren't you just too adorable and demure? Please, Amelle, you haven't got anything I haven't seen before in my own mirror. No need to be shy."

Amelle furrowed her brows at this and then peered down at her own body's blurry outline beneath the soapy water. Objects reflected in Isabela's mirror were probably larger, too. After a moment, when it became clear the pirate wasn't going anywhere, Amelle huffed and slouched back down until her knees poked above the surface, keeping what remained of her modesty more or less intact.

"Something I can help you with, Isabela?" Amelle asked, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

"I just thought I'd pay you a little visit. Give us a little opportunity to… catch up."

Amelle arched a skeptical eyebrow at the pirate queen. "In the bath?"

"What better place to catch up and not be interrupted?"

"Lucky me."

"So." An unholy light gleamed in Isabela's eyes, rivaled only by the unholiness of the grin she wore. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out. I'll know if you do."

"I'm… sorry?"

"You, alone in a cave with the ruggedly handsome templar and one lean, lanky, muscularly taut elf?"

Amelle found she could do little more than blink owlishly at Isabela as she processed what the other woman was implying. Actually, implying seemed a bit too subtle for what Isabela was doing. Entirely too subtle. "I… wait. What?"

Isabela sighed happily and folded her hands casually across her stomach, gazing up at the ceiling. Amelle took the moment of distraction to shift, pulling as many of the bubbles up toward her torso as possible. If Isabela noticed, she didn't draw attention to it. Rather, her voice took on a strange, okay downright terrifying, dreamy quality as she continued, "I couldn't have imagined a more perfect setup, even if I tried. It was probably freezing in the cave, wasn't it? And everyone's clothes were drenched. Can't sit around in wet clothes, can you? That's a good way to catch a cold. So—"

Here, Amelle interrupted, reminding Isabela pointedly, "Healer. It's been a long time since a mere cold could defeat me."

Wrinkling her nose as though Amelle had said something distasteful, Isabela continued, "Handsome seems like a bit of a shy one, but I bet once the gloves come off—"

"Isabela!"

Isabela blinked, an annoyed frown line appearing between her dark brows. "Well, kitten? If you're not going to tell me all about it, I'll be forced to fill in the blanks myself." She chuckled. Amelle blushed. Even Isabela's chuckle was salacious. "Mmm. Fill in the blanks."

"You're disgusting, you know. There's nothing to tell. We slept."

"All curled up together? For warmth, of course?"

"Separately. In damp bedrolls."

Isabela's eyebrow twitched. "I'll just bet they were damp."

Amelle's eyes widened, but she couldn't help the tickle of laughter that escaped her. "I have no idea what kinds of stories you're concocting in that head of yours, but I assure you—"

"Oh, by all means, sweetheart, let me enlighten you. They're divine."

"That's quite all right, thank you." The bubbles in her bath were dissipating at an alarming rate, and Amelle pulled her knees up close, wrapping her arms around them. Isabela only laughed.

Then, on a wildly exaggerated pout, the pirate said, "Do you have any idea how much people love a good mage and templar tale?"

Amelle glowered. And then found it was no simple thing to come up with a convincing glower when one was naked and wet and hiding under a rapidly disappearing blanket of bubbles. "I do have some idea, yes, but I'm afraid you're only going to be disappointed. Cullen's my friend. Just my friend."

Isabela's scowl was much more convincing than Amelle's pathetic attempt at a glower. "You're a spoilsport, Amelle Hawke. In my head—"

"Yes, yes," Amelle said. "It was an epic orgy in the world's least comfortable cave, with the horses looking on."

"Ew," Isabela declared, her nose wrinkling more genuinely. "No one has to mention the horses."

Amelle sighed. "Nothing happened, Isabela. Cullen and I were having a miserable time putting the tent together in the rain, and then Fenris showed up and knew of a cave we could take shelter in, so we did. End of story."

Then Amelle remembered the feel of Fenris' tunic against her skin, the maddening way it kept sliding down her shoulder, the way she breathed in the scent on the fabric like some lovesick schoolgirl.

"I don't think it's the end of the story at all, kitten," Isabela replied, smirking as she waggled her eyebrows at Amelle. "Not if that blush is anything to go by."

She sighed and accidentally blew away a particularly strategic cluster of bubbles. Amelle gathered them back to herself and glared. "Fenris loaned me some dry clothes. Satisfied?"

"Only if he helped you change into them."

"Isabela." But the pirate was not to be deterred, now that she'd been given a scrap of information her imagination could contort and twist into something sordid.

"I bet he did. I bet he acted all put upon while he helped peel all that wet clothing off—"

It didn't help at all that Amelle rather wished the pirate hadn't been making up the details. She shook her head and sank farther beneath the water. "Nope, sorry. It was quite boring, really."

"So you're telling me that nothing at all happened while you were on your own, sweetheart?" Isabela cocked an eyebrow at her, and Amelle couldn't tell if it was done in disbelief or disappointment. "Two utterly desirable bodyguards, and you behaved yourself the whole while? Andraste's tits, you're a better woman than I. Or a worse one. I think it depends on one's definition."

That was enough to make Amelle squirm. She swallowed hard, remembering Fenris' hands on her as he pressed her against her bedchamber door, the heat of his mouth against hers, the low growl of his voice murmuring in her ear. She gritted her teeth hard and scrubbed the cloth against her knee, scouring away an invisible speck of dirt.

"Something happened," Isabela murmured quietly in a sing-song tone, sounding every bit as pleased as if she'd stumbled across treasure buried in the most mundane place. Which, of course, she had.

Amelle swallowed hard. "It's nothing."

"Oh, come now. Tell me something delicious. Was it Handsome or Broody?"

She covered her face, hiding the burning at her cheeks. She'll combust if I say "both."

Too late. Whatever Isabela saw—or thought she saw, or imagined she saw—made her crow her delight and actually clap her hands together in excitement. "By the Maker's blessed ball-sac! Amelle Hawke! To think I always thought you a bit of an innocent. All of a sudden I'm beginning to understand why the tension down there was thick enough to cut with a knife! Go on. Tell Auntie Bela everything."

Amelle peeked through her fingers. "That's disturbing, Isabela. You're disturbing."

"You love it. Plus it'll feel better to get it all off your chest." Once again Isabela waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Amelle groaned.

"It's not what you think."

Isabela laughed. "Too bad. For both of us. And them."

"I mean it. One very brief, very chaste kiss was all it took for Cullen and I to realize we were happier with a friendship."

Isabela looked disappointed. So disappointed Amelle almost felt sorry she didn't have a better story to tell. "But… but mages. And templars."

"Perhaps overrated, sorry."

Isabela's face fell further. "But he has such nice shoulders. And those forearms. Amelle, please tell me you've noted the forearms." Isabela looked off dreamily again. "Mmm, and his hands. Rogues may have nimble fingers, but a warrior's hands? And Handsome? Yes, please. I bet he's got all sorts of interesting calluses."

Amelle completely ignored all discussion of Cullen's various and sundry body parts. Completely. She didn't want to think about shoulders or forearms or hands — intricately tattooed hands winding through her hair—so instead she said lightly, "He'll hate it if you call him that."

Isabela grinned. "Of course he will. He'll probably blush. I love it when they blush. You know him better than I do. What do you think? Is he the type to lower his eyes and get all flustered?"

"He might just glower at you," Amelle remarked, knowing very well Cullen was precisely the type to lower his eyes and get all flustered. Poor Cullen. He might never survive Isabela in full-flirtation mode.

Isabela snorted, clearly amused. "Now you're getting them mixed up, kitten. You and I both know Broody's cornered the market on glowering." Leaning forward, suddenly all attention, Isabela focused entirely too closely on Amelle. "Speaking of Broody cornering things…?"

"We weren't speaking of that."

"We are now."

"We are not."

"That bad, then?" Isabela tilted her head. "Ooh, or that good?"

But Amelle only shook her head stubbornly and glared into the middle distance. "I told you—"

"If you don't tell me, I'll just make the details up myself, kitten. You know I will." She leaned back in the chair and propped her feet up on the tub's rim. "Let's see. Something obviously happened, else Fenris wouldn't have been so irritated."

Amelle snorted and groped for the soap. "Right, because he's never irritated," she replied, trying to sound disinterested and not half as wretched as she felt.

"Oh, he can be, I'll grant you. But there was something else afoot downstairs. So, you and the broody elf, hmm?" In an instant, her boots disappeared and Isabela was resting her forearms against the rim of the tub, grinning wickedly into Amelle's face. "Did you bed him?"

Amelle's head came up with a jerk. "Absolutely not!"

Surprisingly, Isabela didn't look annoyed or disappointed. She looked irritatingly thoughtful. "Well, that would make anyone grumpy," she replied reasonably. Amelle slunk down beneath the water and avoided the pirate's gaze, but Isabela took no notice. "So something happened between you and Fenris, but not sex — and that, Amelle, is utterly criminal — but however it went you don't want to talk about it. So you left Kirkwall with Handsome and without Broody, but he caught up anyway—"

"Cullen left him a note," Amelle supplied, wishing Isabela would lean back again. "Now would you please—"

"And he found you and Handsome cold and wet and cuddling for warmth—"

"Ugh. I wish you'd stop with the nicknames. Cullen and I were not—"

"Well." And now Isabela did lean back, crossing her arms over her chest. "That makes perfect sense."

"Good. Great. Excellent," Amelle grumbled, sending a flash of magic into the water, which had started to grow tepid. "Now that your curiosity is sated, I hope you won't mind closing the door behind you when you leave."

"He's jealous."

"Oh, for the Maker's sake, Isabela." And now Amelle sat up, barely remembering to cover her breasts with her forearm. "Fenris ended… it. Whatever it was. Whatever it was… going to be. I don't know."

The pirate's shoulders slumped and her brow furrowed. "But that doesn't make any sense at all," she opined. "You've got to be wrong."

"Do I?" Amelle retorted, words laced with acid, momentarily angry enough she almost forgot to keep herself covered. Sinking back into the warmed water with an irritated sigh, she wished she knew a spell to conjure bubbles. The last of her camouflage was popping even now. "I was there, Isabela. I'm pretty sure I know what happened."

"Was it because you didn't bed him?"

"No."

"Because you—"

"Isabela, I love you. I do. But I swear I will drop a fireball on your head if you keep pushing about this. There's no story. It's not… it's not your friend-fiction. It was what it was, and then it ended badly, mostly because of something stupid I did, and that's all. Cullen's here as a friend. Fenris is here because he thinks he owes it to Kiara. Trust me, if he had his way—if he were any less loyal—he would be in Kirkwall, drinking wine and glad to be well shot of me. Okay? Now can we stop talking about this? Please?"

The only thing worse than Isabela's lasciviousness was Isabela's pity, Amelle realized as the pirate turned the latter her way. Amelle closed her eyes, telling herself if she didn't have to see it, it couldn't hurt her. Her eyes felt hot, and she blamed the newly-heated water. Too much. After a too-long, too-silent moment, Isabela's fingertips brushed the top of Amelle's head. "Sorry, kitten." She didn't expound on the nature of her apology. "You want me to do your back?"

Amelle felt a weak smile pull at her lips. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Sure?"

Amelle nodded. Eyes still tightly shut, she heard Isabela get to her feet and head toward the door. "Take all the time you need," the pirate said lightly. "I'll hold the wolves at bay."

Before Amelle could remark on Isabela's word choice, the door closed with a firm snick. Scrubbing at her face, Amelle allowed herself to linger until a knock at the door—knocking, how novel—drove her from the bath. It was a serving girl with a steaming pot of tea and yet another plate of eggs and bacon and perfectly crisp toast. "Um, downstairs? She said you might like this, messere," the girl said, bobbing into a slight curtsey. "Shall I leave it?"

Amelle gestured toward the table, already determined to think of something kind she could do for Isabela in return.

#

A hot bath and a hot meal had done far more to improve Amelle's outlook than a rotten night's sleep on a damp bedroll. She'd not quite reached "optimistic" yet, but neither did she feel as if she were on the verge of dissolving into tears, which was a definite step up. And now she had dry clothes and a dry pack, which she was strapping to her horse's saddle while Isabela and Varric arranged their own travel.

"Amelle."

Though the sound of Fenris' voice did not quite cause her calm to vanish, it still twisted into something unpleasant, but not unbearable. Steeling herself, she turned to face him, hating the way her hands went cold, heart skipping and breath catching at the sight of him standing close, but not as close as he'd once stood. "Yes?"

It was… strangely gratifying to see that he seemed to be struggling with what to say as well; at least she wasn't alone in that regard. She wasn't sure what to say to him, either.

I'm sorry. Maker's breath, I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for that to happen. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Anything. If you can only forgive me.

But those words seemed… inadequate, and so she didn't speak them.

"I do not wish to make this journey more difficult than it must be," he told her, meeting her eyes, but intermittently and with effort. "We are all concerned for Hawke's well-being. It is for the best if our focus remains on her safe return."

Amelle felt herself nodding slowly. "I've…" she fiddled with the end of one billet strap, tucking it firmly against the girth. "Yes," she said finally. I agree. I… I've been worried about her."

"I know." Lifting a hand to her horse's bridle, Fenris checked the bit. "Perhaps we ought to have left when you first broached the subject." From the bit, which needed no adjusting, he checked the noseband. "It appears now that would have been the wiser course."

"There's nothing to be done for that now."

"Indeed, there is not." No part of her tack required adjustment, and Fenris took one step backward, hands laced behind his back. "In any event, you have my blade, Amelle. I will do my utmost to assist in recovering your sister." He hesitated, but briefly. "As to the rest…"

"We needn't… dip our toes in anymore." But just saying the words made her remember the bench under the yew tree, speckles of heat and shade as the sun filtered through the leaves above, casting patterns in his hair and down his arms. Fenris' fingers carding through her hair, touching her face, her shoulder, her hand, his mouth against hers, tasting of tea and cinnamon and himself. But more important things required their attention now, and if Fenris was willing to put aside what had happened in order to offer her his help, Amelle was grateful for it.

Fenris opened his mouth, then closed it again and nodded once. "Very well. I… yes. That is… probably for the best."

Amelle inclined her head, and when she lifted again, Fenris was gone, already hoisting himself into his saddle. "Probably for the best," she whispered under her breath, not believing the words at all.