Everything took too long.

No matter how fast their steps, they were not fast enough. The shortest palace corridor stretched on for miles. The fastest horses were slow and stolid. Every mile churned up by thundering hooves felt like ten, and the longer everything took, the more tightly Fenris' insides twisted, the harder his heart hammered beneath his breast.

Neither movement nor sound greeted them when they finally came upon the clearing, and when the pounding of the horses' hooves finally slowed and quieted, nothing met Fenris' ears but silence. The campsite was too still by half, and his blood quickened as a renewed bolt of worry lanced through him. He dismounted fluidly, and without taking care to tether the horse, he strode hurriedly — Hawke matching him step for step — footfalls crunching too loudly across dead leaves and twigs littering the narrow, weaving path. The glow of firelight flickered through the trees and for a moment, for the barest sliver of time, Fenris could breathe again, for clearly if the fire was still burning, it was because Amelle was tending it.

But as they burst into the warm orange light bathing the clearing and casting shadows upon the tents, he saw no sign of Amelle.

"That thrice-blighted bitch double-crossed us," snarled Isabela without preamble, even as she dabbed a damp cloth against the back of Varric's head with surprising tenderness. Varric, for his part, looked miserable. His gaze was downcast and his jaw tight as he stared at his hands. Some of his position had to do with letting Isabela tend a viciously-colored bruise swollen to the size of a goose's egg, but only some.

The question snapped past Fenris' lips with all the force of a cracking whip: "What happened?"

Varric grimaced and pulled away from Isabela, looking to them — first to Hawke, then Fenris. He'd not thought his heart could pound any harder or faster, but something about the dwarf's expression made fear — hated fear and panic — clench around the very organ threatening to burst from his chest.

"Should've seen it coming—"

"How?" Isabela asked sharply. "She had us all fooled, Varric."

She started to say more, but Varric held up his hand wearily and Isabela subsided, looking murderous. "The healer — Jessamine — showed up." He looked up at Hawke, then away again. "She said you two were with Hawke, but that she'd taken a turn for the worse."

Fenris felt suddenly ill, but it was Cullen who spoke. "And of course Amelle wanted to help."

"That's putting it lightly," muttered Isabela, throwing the cloth into a nearby pot where it splashed loudly.

Varric gave a glum nod. "Firefly started asking questions about Hawke, about the poison — Jessamine said this… Maker's Light stuff can mess with someone's mind on a pretty permanent basis. Said she'd got the antidote to Hawke with all due haste—"

"Not precisely," murmured Sebastian, his brows lowering.

"But she woke up and seemed… strange." Varric shrugged. "Said she suggested Hawke send a letter to Kirkwall to let her sister know she was all right, but Hawke blew her off."

Hawke made an outraged, strangled sound.

Isabela looked Hawke and Sebastian over, arching an eyebrow at their appearance. "She told us you were putting bounties on mages' heads—"

Hawke snarled, "We've been trying to stop them from burning—"

"Then sending them off with the templars," Varric finished soberly.

Sebastian shook his head, confused. "Not a single one of these supposed mages turned in for a bounty have been mages. We haven't turned anyone over because there hasn't been anyone to turn over."

Isabela snorted her disgust, but Varric only looked more defeated. "Jessamine was also asking Firefly a lot of questions about you, Choir Boy. Seemed really interested in the healer that saved the true heir to the Vael legacy."

"What kinds of questions?" asked Hawke, her hands clenching tightly. "And how did she know?"

Varric only shrugged. "I don't know how she knew, but—"

"But she knew well enough that he'd been injured," added Isabela, looking at Sebastian. "She said all of Starkhaven owed Amelle their thanks; if not for her—"

"If not for Amelle, that bastard Morven would still be on the throne," Hawke hissed. "The healer. That bloody healer has been on the side of that sniveling son of a bitch—"

Hawke was suddenly, horribly pale and Fenris knew her thought as clearly as if she'd spoken it: it was the night Quentin had killed Leandra Hawke all over again. Once again, they were too late. Once again they'd been tricked.

No, he thought, setting his jaw. That will not happen again.

"Possibly from the start," murmured Captain Elias. "Then what happened?"

"I told Isabela to stay at the camp and make sure those blighted horses didn't run off—or someone didn't run off with them. I figured I'd tag along with Firefly, just to be safe. And this place isn't exactly mage-hospitality central—"

"…Mage?" murmured Ser Kinnon, arching an eyebrow. Sebastian shot a look to the knight, who straightened and nodded once, shutting up.

"We were only about halfway to the main road when…" Varric made a pained face. "An ambush. A sodding ambush. Last thing I saw was an arrow hit her—"

"Where?" Hawke asked. "Where was she hit?"

Varric tapped his shoulder. "Didn't hit anywhere vital, but she went down faster than I've ever seen. And Firefly…" he almost laughed, but it came out choked as he shook his head. "She was pissed. Pulled out the arrow and… tried to heal the wound, I guess. Only thing is it didn't work. Then she went down like a ton of bricks." He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. "We both did."

The words left Fenris' mouth even as he was processing the implications. "She… couldn't heal herself? What sort of poison…" He thought of Amelle struck by such a weapon, trying to call upon the talent that was so instinctive and being unable to do so, and fury simmered to the surface, blotting out his fear, if only temporarily.

"Magebane," Sebastian breathed.

"Varric," Cullen said, and there was no denying the urgency in his voice, "is there anything else you remember?"

"Is it not enough he remembers she was struck by a poisoned arrow?" Fenris growled.

Cullen frowned, then went on to explain, "Magebane will sap a mage's powers, true enough, but it doesn't incapacitate in the manner Varric described."

"Because templars don't need to knock them out," Hawke murmured distantly. "You use the smite for that." Cullen nodded and Varric frowned, clearly scouring his memory.

"There was one… weird thing. I remember she… she lost her voice. She'd been hit by the arrow and it hurt — she yelled out — but then she turned to me and… she couldn't speak. She tried to, but…" He shook his head. "I don't remember a whole lot after that."

Cullen swore with near shocking vehemence. Hawke's eyes widened as she looked at him, the last of what color she had draining entirely from her face. "What is it?" she demanded. "Cullen? What did that bitch do to my sister?"

"Unless I am mistaken — and I dearly hope I am — it's a poison called Andraste's Wrath," he explained grimly. "Falsely rumored to have been developed by Andraste herself during the Exalted March."

Sebastian's expression darkened. "Dare I ask its genuine origins?"

"Developed by one Knight-Commander Lamillia of Orlais, as I understand it, during the Exalted Age."

"Orlesians do love their poisons," muttered Isabela. "What's it do?" she asked, then narrowed her eyes at Cullen before adding, "And how do you know about it?"

"The benefits of an education in Ferelden's chantry," he replied with a shrug. "The Revered Mother wasn't shy about including Orlais'… transgressions in our history lessons. At any rate, the Divine Amara III eventually condemned its use, but only eventually. It's meant to fully incapacitate a mage, blocking their abilities entirely — muscle weakness and impaired mental focus inhibit their ability to call on their mana—"

"Mana already drained by the magebane?" asked Sebastian.

"Lamillia was nothing if not… thorough," Cullen replied with distaste. "Andraste's Wrath also causes throat paralysis — I wouldn't be surprised if that's why Amelle lost her voice. A mage poisoned by it can neither think nor speak nor move."

Kiara's lip curled and she spat out a curse. "And the Divine only eventually decided it was a bad idea?"

"In large enough doses, Andraste's Wrath is deadly. Evidently, certain… less scrupulous templars used it in lieu of other methods of subduing mages."

"Okay, I've got a question," said Varric, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping forward. "How in all the Void did Jessamine get her hands on it if the Divine herself decided it was off-limits hundreds of years ago?"

"That is something you would have to ask Jessamine herself, I am afraid," answered Cullen, his scowl deepening. "The recipe was said to have been destroyed, though rumors of it still existed — that it had never been destroyed at all, or that a secret cache was discovered in the catacombs beneath the chantry in Val Royeaux."

"How she discovered it matters little," said Fenris. "What of the antidote?"

Cullen looked at Fenris, taking far too much time to answer. "Andraste's Wrath will… gradually cycle out of the mage's system, but otherwise… there is no known antidote."

"There wouldn't be," said Hawke. "If it only affects mages, why would they bother crafting an antidote? It's not like she was going to be affected by it. I swear it — I swear to the Maker if she so much as touches a hair on—"

"Kiara," Sebastian said quietly, resting a hand on Hawke's shoulder. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to shrug it off and charge into battle, but with visible effort she restrained herself. "All may not yet be lost." When Hawke looked at him with wide, searching eyes, he nodded in Varric's direction. "I would wager Jessamine wants us to know what's happened, wants us to know she has the upper hand. Otherwise…"

"She would've had one of those archers put an arrow through my head," Varric supplied bluntly. "The First Rule of Villainy: Never kill the messenger if you've got a message you want them to deliver."

KIRKWALL: 9:37 DRAGON

The basket dangled from Amelle's elbow as she frowned at that day's produce. It was always better to go earlier for the best pick, and since their dinner guests were a rather late development and couldn't be helped, Amelle had to make the best of what there was. Which wasn't much. She finally found some hearty potatoes and some promising looking squash, and both were soon tucked away in the basket.

Stopping in the shade of a pillar, she peered at the list Orana had recited for her — and as Amelle had sat in the kitchen scribbling out the list, she'd made a mental note to suggest to Kiara that Orana learn to read as well. The elf worked miracles in the kitchen, but could neither write down nor read a recipe and, in Amelle's opinion, that was bloody criminal. Those morning buns of hers needed to be preserved for posterity. The happiness of future generations depended on it.

Amelle had found the milk and cream, better vegetables than she'd expected to find at this time of day, and had even managed to pick up a bouquet of flowers — at Orana's insistence, because they were having company for dinner.

She chuckled and shook her head. Maker, no one had better tell Varric he's company now. He'll start insisting we pull out the good china.

All that was left on her list was a stop at the butcher and then—

"Mistress Amelle?"

She looked up from her list to see a templar approaching. She tensed almost immediately and knew without looking the fastest route out of Hightown was behind her and to the right, down the stairs. It would take her to Lowtown and in the completely opposite direction from home, but it would get her away from the templars in front of her. And she knew she could lose them in Lowtown — or Darktown, if she needed to.

No. Ser Cullen said—They wouldn't just… pick me up in the middle of the city, would they?

She held her breath, poised to run, even as she turned an amiable smile at the templar. The smile relaxed and became more genuine as he approached and she realized it was Ser Thrask. Thrask wasn't a bad type — her sister liked him well enough, which was endorsement enough for her.

"Good morning, Ser Thrask." She frowned at the sky. "Well, morning for a little while longer, at least."

The templar appeared troubled as he looked down at her and asked, "Mistress Amelle—"

She waved a hand at him. "Just Amelle, please."

Something about her request seemed to pain him, but he nodded. "Very well. May I have a moment of your time, Amelle?"

"Of course," she said, sliding the basket from her elbow and holding it in both hands. "Is something wrong?"

"A great many things, I fear. Do you have the time to walk with me a while?"

"A very short while, perhaps. I'm on an errand and expected back shortly."

He offered his arm and Amelle hesitated before taking it. She didn't entirely like the sensation of plate armor digging into her through the thin material of her dress, but neither did she want to appear rude.

"Your sister has done a great deal of good for Kirkwall," the templar said, leading her up the stairs, away from the market. "Many of us remain in her debt."

"Thank you. I'll be sure to let her know you said so." She looked over her shoulder as the butcher shop got smaller and smaller.

"Some, however, would mean to use her."

"Oh, Kiara's pretty crafty," she replied lightly. "Not many people get the jump on her. Usually she knows someone's her enemy before they've even decided it themselves." The templar made a noncommittal noise and Amelle cleared her throat. "Well. Most of the time."

"Some of us are concerned your sister has allied herself with…" he paused, and Amelle thought for a moment his grip on her arm tightened minutely, "with the wrong people of power in Kirkwall. People like Knight-Commander Meredith."

Amelle was shaking her head before the templar had even finished. "No. Not my sister. She would never—"

The grip on her arm was tighter now, and grew firmer still as Amelle found herself pulled along, unable to douse the flicker of apprehension in her breast. The flicker licked into a full flame as Thrask continued to speak. "We have our sources, Amelle. I'm sorry. I truly am. You must understand we cannot allow that to happen."

Alarm prickled through her and Amelle tried to pull away, then pulled harder; she tried to step away, but her shoes had no purchase against the stones as Thrask led her to a blind alleyway, hidden too well by pillars and statues. She caught the reflected glint of armor on the stones even before she saw the armor itself. Hissing a curse, Amelle let the basket fall and swung her arm around, readying a fireball, but the templar was too close, the cleansing aura too effective.

She drew in a breath to scream — if magic doesn't work, scream bloody murder — when Thrask looked at her, such pity in his eyes and said, "I am sorry for this, Amelle. If nothing else, you must believe that."

A blast of white light made all go quiet.

#

They were trying to teach Fenris how to use a bow.

It wasn't going well.

Kiara covered her mouth, faking a cough to keep the elf from seeing her grin as he shot—and that was using the term loosely—an arrow that flew so wide it nearly hit Varric.

And Varric was standing as far from the practice butt as was possible in the Hawke estate's back garden. Varric leapt aside with surprising grace and glared at Fenris. "You doing that on purpose, Broody?"

"Would that I were," Fenris growled. Kiara had no doubt that if Fenris, like Amelle, had the ability to burn things with the power of his mind, the bow in his hand would have long since been reduced to ashes. Still, his perseverance couldn't be faulted. Instead of tossing the weapon aside—or snapping it in half, as he so clearly wished to—he merely retrieved another arrow, narrowed his eyes and bit his lip in concentration.

It was precisely the same look he wore when he was puzzling over a particularly challenging passage in their reading lessons. Sheer, bloody determination. As if the task at hand was an enemy to defeat, and he would do so even if it was the last thing he did.

This time the arrow skimmed right over Varric's head.

It wasn't going well, at all.

"I'm not sure I want to play this game while the healer's not in residence," Varric groused. "Since someone here seems to think the bull's-eye is shaped like a magnificent specimen of dwarf."

Kiara turned away, meeting Sebastian's eyes. He appeared to be having the same difficulty hiding the urge to smile. When Sebastian spoke, a hint of laughter made his accent just the slightest bit stronger, "You have to keep your eye on the target, Fenris."

"I am."

Varric raised his eyebrows. "See? He's aiming for me. He just admitted it."

Fenris let out a stream of invective in the Tevinter language. Not for the first time, Kiara was glad she had no idea what he was saying.

"Where is she, anyway?" Varric asked. "Can't believe your sister would pass up the opportunity to experience entertainment like this."

Fenris glared. Hard.

Maker, but it was a good thing he didn't have fire at his command.

"Market," Kiara explained. "Orana didn't think we had food enough to feed three growing lads." She frowned, glancing skyward. By the sun it was long past noon. "She… should probably have been back by now, though. Maybe she's inside."

Before Kiara had crossed the garden however, the door to the kitchen flew open. Orana's face was streaked with tears. She managed to choke out, "M-mistress. There's—there's a templar—there's a templar. He says—he says something's happened to Mistress Amelle. N-not the Gallows. S-something… something worse," before her sobs began anew.

Killer ran out into the yard, sat at Kiara's feet, threw back his head, and howled.

"Where is she?" Kiara demanded, already reaching for her bow, heedless of the companions clamoring behind her, heedless of their questions and cries and insistence on helping. Her heart pounded in her chest. Rage choked her. "Where is she?"

"T-the Wounded Coast," Orana managed feebly. "He… the templar. He thinks it's blood mages. B-but they have t-templars with them."

Pushing past the trembling elf, not knowing and not caring whether her fellows followed, Kiara heard the echo of Killer's howl ringing in her ears and she ran.

#

Sebastian doubted the elf girl's words until the first group of templars and mages attacked them, and still, it wasn't until one of the templars actually swung at him that he realized the situation was life or death, and that for some Maker-forsaken reason, these templars had turned against all that was right and good and holy.

Though their helmets hid their faces, he did not doubt he knew some of these men and women. Perhaps he'd taken their confessions, or shared a pew with them at services. They were brethren.

And now they were kidnapping innocents? Joining forces with mages who did not even pretend to hide the scars on their arms and the knives at their belts? He could make no sense of it.

A voice that sounded irritatingly like Anders' echoed in his head: Is Amelle innocent? She's an apostate. Really, Brother Sebastian, you ought to have turned her over years ago. It's a slippery slope, isn't it? Once you put a toe over the line…

One of Sebastian's arrows felled a templar before the warrior could bring his blade crashing down on Hawke's unprotected back. The white fletching quivered as the man fell, and the flaming sword on his breastplate ran red with blood as Hawke's mabari leapt to tear the man's throat out.

Sebastian swallowed the feeling of betrayal and drew another arrow from his quiver.

Amelle is innocent. She's… she's a healer. She's good.

The sneering voice laughed. They say spirit healers are the most dangerous, you know. Maybe she's not as innocent as you think.

And he hesitated.

Hawke did not hesitate. Her arrows flew as fast as she could draw them. One took an apostate in the eye before he could finish casting whatever devious spell was whirling to life around his bloodied fingers. A second hit a templar's plate with force enough to stun, and Fenris' blade did the rest. Except that she barked the occasional order and was careful to stay out of the line of friendly fire, he'd have thought she was too single-minded even to realize they were there with her. She fought with a vicious fury unlike anything he'd seen in her before. It was awe-inspiring. It was terrifying.

And Sebastian knew that he would have fought just as hard for his brothers' lives, if he'd been able.

All too well he remembered Hawke's pain after her mother's death. He remembered Amelle coming to him, swathed in one of her sister's cloaks, her eyes swollen and her face blotchy with tears. It had not been an apostate come to see him in the chantry that night. It had not been an apostate he'd allowed to cry on his shoulder. It had not been an apostate's tears dampening his robes. Only Kiara Hawke's little sister, grieving her mother and worrying for her sister. Whatever else Amelle Hawke was, she was Kiara Hawke's sister first and foremost.

He could not bear to see a night such as that one repeated. Apostate or not, templars or not, Sebastian knew he would fight tooth and nail—would give his own life if necessary—if doing so meant he would not have to see Hawke blood-stained and paralyzed, slowly dying of the grief her sister's death would cause.

That was enough. Whatever these templars were doing, whatever these mages had planned: this was not the way honorable people acted. Honorable people did not resort to treachery and hostage-taking. Honorable people used words, and they used them face to face.

Sebastian drew another arrow, and this time did not hesitate before he shot it.

#

All of Kirkwall knew Hawke's reputation, but Fenris was only too aware that those with power, with influence, were the ones most frequently challenged. It had only been a matter of time before someone was foolish enough to challenge her directly. Only a fool would cross her. And yet fools these templars must have been, to align themselves with blood mages.

Doubly foolish to cross Hawke. Hawke, who had his loyalty and his blade.

Foolish indeed. For when she heard the words, heard that someone had taken her sister, murder flashed in those grey eyes, turning them to ice. His own anger rose with hers. His hands clenched. His heart pounded.

Hawke had his blade. He would strike them all down if she asked it.

A soft voice whispered that he would strike them all down even if she didn't.

Fenris did not think too carefully on this. Hawke's sister was a mage — this was no secret. While he trusted Hawke implicitly, he had no reason to trust her sister. A viper in the nest — that is what he'd called her that night, now so many years ago. A viper who would soon show her true nature. And in the intervening years, he'd waited for that true nature to emerge.

He has his reasons for having neither love nor trust for mages. I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger.

Fenris kept pace with Hawke all the way to the Wounded Coast, telling himself his anger, the slowly bubbling fury in his chest, was only on Hawke's behalf. The cold knot of concern deep in his gut was for Hawke and Hawke alone. She was his friend — and that was still a word he'd not yet grown accustomed to using with any measure of frequency — and the last of her family had been wrenched away from her in a cowardly attempt to control her, to intimidate her.

All they had done was underestimate her. They would not do so again, Fenris knew.

They followed the twisting, sandy path and rounded the corner into the small cove, and it was then that Fenris saw Amelle Hawke's crumpled form, still as death. He stared, unprepared for the sight as something deep in his gut iced over and grew leaden. But the cold only lasted a moment, barely a second, before it was blanked out by swirling, blinding, burning rage.

When someone hurts us, we remember it, and even if we don't want to, even if we don't mean to, we still hold it against the type of person that hurt us.

In that instant, there wasn't the least doubt in his mind they would all pay for whatever they had wrought. There would be no mercy, no forgiveness. Not for this. Death would come this day — it was just a matter of how swiftly Fenris dealt it.

Lyrium flashed bright as daylight as Fenris hefted his weapon and swung into battle. Warm blood splattered his armor, coated his blade, and still his markings burned brighter, hotter. He lifted his sword above his head and swung downward, cleaving a mage in half, from shoulder to waist, the ruined remains collapsing to the sand, the blood from his fading spell mingling with the blood coursing from his dying body.

I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger.

A curse ripped through Fenris' gritted teeth as he clashed swords with a templar in heavy plate. The blades locked at the hilt and as the other man pushed forward, Fenris thrust one glowing hand into the templar, listening dispassionately to the man's screams. He withdrew and the templar fell, but Fenris had already turned to advance upon another opponent before the man even hit the ground.

Fenris kept an eye on Hawke throughout, but she was a force unto herself, red hair flying behind her like a bloody banner as she ran forward, nocking and shooting arrows with speed that seemed haphazard and accuracy that was anything but. He knew her anger as well as if it had been his own.

Blood magic, the dark red tint of it, the foul stench of it, spiraled up and all around, twisting in upon itself in a spray of color as mages hurled spells at them all. His markings flared brighter still, his blood thrumming and pounding in his ears as he rushed forward, his greatsword a blur as he angled it to the side and swung, using the momentum to knock a second mage back with the pommel, then reaching inside with gauntlets like claws and squeezing. Spells died with the mages and soon more blood soaked the ground than fouled the air.

Fenris straightened, flicking the blood from his gauntlet before turning again, sword raised, markings bright.

He glanced again where Amelle Hawke lay, now in the shadow of the abomination Grace revealed herself to be. She looked too small, too still, and anger coursed through him anew, the lyrium in his skin glowing brighter and brighter. He knew what Amelle Hawke was. But he also knew she had already shown him her true nature, and he knew that just as surely as he knew the shrieking, howling fiend before him was the blood mage Grace's true nature.

She had fought for him. And now he would fight for her.

#

Words. It always came down to words.

It always came down to the uselessness of words.

Kiara had loved words, once, back when she thought they had value, back when she thought using words might save lives. She was good with words. She could be clever and witty with them. She could be kind and diplomatic. She could be brave. Words were her friends. Her old companions.

But what value did they have? Words had not ended the conflict with the Qunari. Words had not saved her mother or her brother or her father. She'd been speaking words and words and words for almost seven years in an attempt to bring peace—something like peace, anything like peace—to the madness embraced by Kirkwall's mages and templars.

While she'd been using words, they'd been planning this.

She saw Thrask's lips move. She saw Grace's sneer. She saw the templar die—had she actually respected him once, back when she valued words? Madness. Foolishness—and she saw Grace turn to blood—I knew it. I knew it, Papa. I knew she was never as innocent as she claimed to be—and Kiara Hawke realized she'd had enough of words. Words could bloody hang.

Arrows were so much more eloquent. So instead of allowing Grace her speech, her futile, mad explanations, Kiara shot her. And then she shot her again. Again and again and again. Killer howled and snarled, his muzzle bloody. Fenris didn't howl, but his lips were curled back, and his eyes were dark with hate. White-fletched arrows and heavier crossbow bolts struck all around them.

And Amelle lay still on the sand. Blood trickled down a too-pale cheek. Her hand was slightly curled by that cheek. She'd always slept that way, ever since she was a little girl, on one side with her hand slightly curled by her cheek. But Hawke didn't think she was sleeping. Not this time. She was too still. And there was blood on her cheek. There was blood. Amelle hated having blood on her. Hated it.

This time the howl Kiara heard wasn't Killer's. It was hers. It, too, was more eloquent than mere words. She cast aside her bow and leapt on the thing, the thing that had been Grace, and she drew her belt knife. It wasn't anything, really; backup for when enemies drew too near, not even a real dagger. Again and again and again she drew her arm back, until it was heavy, until the muscles burned, until everything ached. Again and again and again she brought her knife down. Blood was everywhere. It dripped down her face, clung to her hands, dribbled into her mouth. It was hot. She was cold.

She didn't have words. She had a knife. She had a knife and an arm and the howling rage and sorrow and despair too deep, too horrifying for words.

The creature beneath her was bloody pulp. Still she raised her arm. Still she struck.

Amelle lay still on the sand.

"Hawke," cried a voice behind her. She knew it. She didn't care. It was only words. More words. "Hawke, stop. They're all dead, Hawke. They're all dead. You can stop now. You can stop. Kiara. You can stop."

She snarled and snapped and whirled so hard and so fast her knife nearly caught Sebastian across the cheek before his hands closed on her wrist and squeezed tightly enough to make her bones creak. The dagger fell to the sand. Still she fought him, twisting and spitting and screaming. She threw a punch with her other hand and he did not duck away; he let it land. It caught him in the jaw, and he grunted, his eyes watering. And then he twisted her knife-arm behind her back until her shoulder nearly gave.

She screamed. Sebastian wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his armored chest. Too tight.

Amelle lay still on the sand. There was blood on her face.

There was blood everywhere.

Kiara shouted something wordless—warning, grief, panic, something like no would have sounded if she still had words—as Fenris knelt at Amelle's side and gently touched his fingertips to the pulse-point at her neck.

It was too late. They were too late. She was always too late. Always, always, always too late.

Amelle was too still.

Fenris looked up. Met her eyes. Nodded. Not grief. Satisfaction. "She lives."

She would have fallen if not for Sebastian's arms keeping her upright.

She didn't have words for this, either. She only had tears. She put her head back against Sebastian's bloody breastplate and she sobbed.

#

When the last of Grace — or the abomination she became — died away with a choking scream, the resultant silence was staggering. There was only the lapping of water and the more distant roar of the ocean, punctuated by the wet, sucking sounds of a knife being plunged over and over again into gruesome remains, and Hawke's wordless keening.

Sebastian had never seen Hawke like this, pushed even further to grief than she'd been the night he'd found her unable, unwilling to move as she sat before a fire burning too high and too bright and still not chasing the chill from her bones. He recognized her helpless fury, turning mindless in her sorrow. He saw the ache — oh, and he felt it keenly, remembering with sharp, terrifying clarity the days after he'd learned of his family's massacre — and he prayed never to see torment like that again.

And when that despair turned out to be premature, Kiara Hawke cracked and crumbled under the weight of her relief. Kneeling upon the ground, he held her as she sobbed the deep, wracking, hoarse cries of one who had come far, far too close to losing everything. He breathed a silent prayer to the Maker for sparing Amelle Hawke's life; he feared the woman in his arms would not have returned from such a loss. And if she had, she would have been irrevocably changed.

He cradled her until her sobs subsided into wheezing, hiccuping breaths, though tears still streamed from her eyes. It was relief, he knew, and after a battle fought believing the worst, prepared for the worst, he could not fault her such a reaction. He brushed the hair away from her brow, and she blinked up at him, her face wet with tears and sweat and smeared with blood.

"Hawke," Fenris said, his tone gentler now, as if perhaps she hadn't heard him before. "Your sister lives."

Hawke nodded, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and letting it out again, wiping at her face and pushing her hair back, pulling herself together, piece by piece. He'd seen this before as well — seen it too many times after too many battles. Sebastian released her and helped her stand again. She sent him a smile then, small and teary, but genuine and grateful as he squeezed her hand and let it go. She winced as she rolled her shoulder, and then she reached up and touched gentle fingertips to his jaw. He could feel the bruise beginning to ache.

"She's all right, Hawke," Sebastian said in an undertone. "Amelle is safe."

Varric strode across the sand and crouched down by Fenris, who was carefully cradling Amelle's head as he tried waking her. But her body remained limp, her face slack.

"Safe is one thing, Choir Boy," the dwarf said, frowning hard as he gave Amelle's shoulder a brisk shake. She did not rouse. "But for anyone to sleep through a fight like that? Not sure I'd use the words 'all right.'"

A lone mage, barely more than a boy, and quavering with fear, came out from behind the rock formation where he'd been hiding. Sebastian tried to find sympathy for him, but in the face of such horrors committed so senselessly, he found the feeling rather lacking.

"Alain," Hawke breathed and Sebastian couldn't tell if she was amazed he was there at all, or that he'd lived through the battle.

"It's… i-it's a spell," he stammered, looking down with unabashed horror at what remained of Grace. Of Grace's pride. "Grace—s-she used blood magic. To… to k-keep your sister under."

Fenris' lip curled as he glared at the younger mage. "Then undo it."

"Now, now, Broody," Varric said, giving the elf's shoulder a little pat, "we're reasonable types here, aren't we?" He cast a glance back at Sebastian and Hawke, and Sebastian at once saw the hard edge in the dwarf's eyes. "You said the lying, murdering, backstabbing bitch here used blood magic to knock Little Hawke out?"

Alain nodded, his eyes darting fearfully to each of them. "Y-yes…"

"Well, then. Looks like it's our lucky day, doesn't it? If it's one thing we've got plenty of right now, it's blood." He gestured at the fallen mages and templars, their wounds oozing in the afternoon sun. And as he turned back to Alain, he hefted Bianca into his arms. "I recommend you fix this, Sparky."

"Varric," Sebastian said, trying for patience. "Don't you think enough blood has been shed already?"

The dwarf only shrugged. "Don't ask me, Choir Boy — blood magic needs blood. Them's the rules, and I didn't make 'em up. I'm just trying to be helpful." He looked back at Alain. "Well?"

"I-I can!" Alain cried, putting his hands up. "I can wake her again! But— but I'd have to use blood magic to do it."

Bianca gave a deadly click.

"Varric," Hawke said, resting a hand on his shoulder. That was all she said — that was all she needed to say. The dwarf looked up at her, his expression still stormy.

"I never said I was going to kill him, Hawke. But if he needs blood to make this work, hey, I'm a helpful sort. Who needs a kneecap these days, really?"

Hawke only gave a tremulous smile and shook her head. Varric shrugged and lowered his weapon. Then she looked at Alain, fixing him with a steely glare.

"Do it," she told him, and for all the tears she'd shed, for all the heartbroken cries, her tone brooked no argument. She was Hawke, and unquestionably in charge once more.

But Sebastian had seen too far behind her mask, had seen her closer to broken than he'd ever seen before. And though she appeared to have pulled herself together, he could not ignore the thread of worry that pulled in his breast. She appeared fine now, but he wondered how long it could last.

Maker, watch over her.

#

Cullen and his templars had been walking the sandy paths of the Wounded Coast for days, and they'd met with more action than he was accustomed to. A band of mercenaries had attacked their camp, and the slavers they'd come upon seemed even more desperate than usual, more willing to fight and die rather than run and leave their goods behind. On a sigh, he realized it must have been some time since Hawke and her companions had had reason to sweep through. Hawke was sometimes a thorn in his side, but she and her companions were very good at keeping the paths clean and free of vermin. He had to give them that.

It had been a lengthy patrol, and he thought he'd been gone long enough for Meredith's temper to have cooled once again. Every time the Knight-Commander had a run-in with the Champion, it was Cullen who paid the price.

Every time the Knight-Commander had a run-in with the Champion, Cullen found himself respecting the Champion a little more, and the Knight-Commander a little less.

It wouldn't do to think too hard about that.

Still, it had been a full day since last they saw anything out of the ordinary, and Cullen had begun to long for his bed and a bath. He was about to order their return when he heard something—something out of his memories, he thought at first. They'd been too long away. He never slept well out under the open sky. Surely there was no—

—He heard it again. The scream of a demon. Followed by the crash of battle. As distant as the ringing of blades sounded, the demon's scream was near. Too near. It echoed in his head, making his heart stutter even as a cold sweat began to bead upon his brow. Cullen nearly put a hand to his head, as though such an action would—could—drive the sound away. Instead, he wrapped his hand tight around the grip of his sword. The sword was real. He knew the sword was real.

"Knight-Captain?" asked Ser Hugh tentatively. "Should we—should we investigate, ser?"

Cullen nodded brusquely, still not trusting his voice. Hugh hears it too. It is not illusion. It is real.

But Cullen couldn't be certain Hugh heard the demon, and he couldn't bring himself to ask in case the answer was no. This is not Ferelden. This is not the Circle. There is sand beneath your feet. There is a sword in your hand.

By the time they crashed down the hill—too many bodies, too many mages, too many templars Cullen recognized, all riddled with arrows and savage sword cuts—the battle was done. The demon had ceased its screaming, and he found himself oddly relieved when he surveyed the scene and saw the mangled corpse of something he knew to have been demonic. This is real.

The stench of magic—dark magic, blood magic—permeated the air, twisting his stomach. As he scanned the carnage, he recognized Sebastian, the Chantry brother first, even though his white armor was bloodied. The dwarf merchant stood at his side, crossbow still readied. The white-haired elf had one clawed fist tight around the bicep of a Circle mage—Alain, Cullen remembered—but the mage looked too mortified to do more than stand and quake. Cullen noticed the man's arm was bleeding, and he readied a smite just in case.

It took him longer to recognize Hawke. Indeed, he only put a name to the bloody horror kneeling on the sand because he recognized the red of her hair and the girl she cradled in her arms as her sister. Amelle was just blinking awake as they arrived. "W-what happened?" she asked, voice cracking. "I—oh. Ser Thrask was in the marketplace. This isn't—where are we?"

"The Wounded Coast," said a voice so terrifying Cullen nearly flinched. It was Hawke's voice. He knew it was Hawke's voice, because it was Hawke's mouth speaking, but he had never heard her sound so grim. "You're safe now. They can't hurt you."

"Hawke? We, uh, have company," the dwarf said, swinging his crossbow around until Cullen found himself staring down the point of a particularly savage-looking bolt.

Even at a distance, Hawke's eyes chilled him. She whispered something to her sister and then gestured toward the elf.

"I'll be fine… I'll be fine in a minute," Amelle protested, pushing unsteadily to her feet, but Hawke was having none of it. She bodily pressed her sister into the elf's arms, forcing him to release the shuddering mage, before stalking across the sand to face him.

She wasn't even armed, and she was still the most forbidding foe Cullen had ever faced. "Did you have anything to do with this?" she snapped.

"I don't even know what this is," he admitted. "We've been on patrol out here for days. We heard battle. We came. There are a lot of dead templars here, Hawke. I need an explanation."

If possible, her eyes grew even cooler, even more dangerous. "They kidnapped my sister. Thrask. Grace. Their… conspirators. They thought to use her as leverage, to ensure my cooperation with their plans. I don't know what those plans were. I don't care. They were all dead the minute they laid a finger on her, whether I might once have sympathized with them or not."

You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever.

"I see," he said, because he did.

Hawke raised her hand, but it was only to jab him in the breastplate. Ser Hugh made a sound of disapproval, but Cullen only gestured at him to remain silent. "Keep them away from her, Cullen. Keep them away from her, because I swear by the Maker and Andraste and every holy thing in all of Thedas I will slaughter anyone who threatens her again."

"I understand," he said, because he did.

"I think perhaps you do," she replied. She swept her hand around in a cutting motion, taking in the still-shivering Alain. "He must be watched. If he so much as scrapes himself, kill him. He brought Amelle out of the spell Grace put her under, but he's no innocent. He was out here, after all. Only his cowardice kept him from death."

"He will be questioned."

Hawke nodded. Something about the nod disturbed him. It seemed… satisfied. Too satisfied. Not very much like Hawke at all. "Good. I hope this ends here, today, but if there is a deeper conspiracy…"

She didn't have to finish. If there was a deeper conspiracy, and she knew about it, Cullen would have more templar corpses on his hands. He knew it. She knew it.

"S-ser Cullen," Hugh began tentatively, "s-she's an apostate. It's our duty."

"Hugh," Hawke snarled, and Cullen blinked at the realization she knew the lad's name. "Today is not the day to fuck with me. So, begging your pardon, the Maker can take your duty and He can shove it up His arse."

Behind her, Brother Sebastian flinched, but said nothing.

You cannot have her, Cullen. Not now. Not ever.

"Stand down, Hugh," Cullen warned.

"The Knight-Commander won't like—"

"Hugh," he commanded. "Not now."

Hawke nodded approvingly, her expression warming just slightly.

"Kiri," came Amelle's voice, stronger now but still tremulous, "can't we… can't we just go?"

"They—they'll torture me," Alain pleaded. "Please, Champion, please—"

But Hawke was immovable. "You should have thought of that before you got yourself involved in something so monumentally stupid," she snapped, returning to Amelle. Her sister was standing now, albeit unsteadily, still leaning heavily against the elf. Hawke touched her sister's cheek gently and wrapped an arm tight about her shoulders.

"But, Champion—"

"Alain," she said, her voice low and dangerous, rage barely controlled, "be grateful I'm leaving you your life. I do not want to."

Cullen sent two of his men to subdue the mage, and ordered others to begin gathering the dead. Then he watched as Hawke and her companions began the slow trek back to Kirkwall.

Hawke didn't look back at him. Amelle did. And for a moment, he thought she looked truly distressed.

He could hardly blame her. He found himself similarly distressed.

But then Hawke said something in her sister's ear, Amelle turned away, and Cullen was left to clean up the mess they'd left behind. As usual.

Meredith would have him walking solitary Wounded Coast patrols for ages after this.

#

It was nothing like the other times they'd walked home from the Wounded Coast. For one, Amelle was usually better prepared than this, wearing boots instead of thin, leather slippers. For another, there was usually more talking than was going on right now. Which was to say none.

She looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye; Kiara's face was streaked with blood and blotchy with tears, her hair matted and sweaty, her light armor slick with gore. But none of that did a thing to hide the rigidness of her sister's jaw, or the tension in her shoulders and down her arms. Every step Kiara took was stiff, as if it pained her.

After another few minutes spent in silence, Amelle ventured a quiet, "Kiara?" She tried again a moment later, but when her sister still hadn't responded, Amelle laid a hand on Kiara's arm. "Kiri?"

Kiara startled and whirled, and for an instant Amelle saw her sister's face go ashen beneath the blood. "What?"

"Let's stop a moment."

But Kiara shook her head. "No. I want to get you back to Kirkwall as quickly as possible."

"Kiara, you could be hurt."

"I'm fine."

"Just… stop and wash your face," she suggested, pointing vaguely down to one of the small segments of beach far below them. "Please?"

Kiara started to protest, but when she brought a hand to her face and felt stickiness there, she closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. "All right. A rest. A short one." She whistled for Cupcake, who had trotted on ahead. Within moments the huge mabari was galloping back toward them.

"All clear?" Kiara asked the dog. Cupcake sat, his stubby tail wagging, and let out a sharp bark. Kiara nodded and gave him a scratch behind the ears. "That's a good boy." When she indicated the downward sloping path to the dog, Cupcake bounded on ahead, barking his delight. The sounds of splashing water soon followed.

Amelle slipped out of her shoes and ventured down the narrow path that led down to the sandy beach. Surprisingly, it was Fenris and not Kiara who remained by her side. Amelle glanced briefly behind her, nearly misstepping as she did. Fenris' hand grabbed her elbow before she could stumble, and she was surprised to find his grip wasn't as punishing as she might have expected.

"Be more careful," he advised curtly, nodding at the hole she'd nearly stepped in.

"Thank you." But she spared another glance behind, then lowered her voice to a whisper as she said to Fenris, "I don't know—what happened?"

The look he shot her was inscrutable. She was used to it by now. "You were kidnapped." A shadow passed over his eyes as he spoke, and Amelle wondered what he wasn't telling her.

"I figured out that part," she murmured, lengthening her strides just a little. "What—"

"She feared you had been killed, Amelle."

Her shoes slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers as she turned and stared at him, her heart giving a mighty thud that was hard enough to make her ribs ache. Killed. Oh, Maker. Like Mother all over again. Amelle thought of the carnage strewn about the campsite and swallowed hard. "She—"

She picked up her shoes and Fenris took hold of her elbow again. "Come," he said, though without his customary brusqueness. "She thought you… she thought you dead." He paused, staring straight ahead. "We all did. You were… very still."

When she spoke, her voice sounded faint and far away. "…Oh." Amelle looked back again at her sister. Sebastian and Varric flanked her. Sebastian watched Kiara closely, and something about his bearing seemed almost coiled and tense, as if waiting to catch her if she fell. Varric was chattering on about something, but Amelle could see how keenly the dwarf watched her sister too.

No matter where anyone else's eyes were, Amelle could feel Kiara's gaze on her — eyes like a winter sky and twice as sharp, Papa used to say whenever Kiara hit a particularly difficult target.

It seemed strangely appropriate now.

She dropped her shoes and turned to Fenris. "Is she all right?" she asked in a whisper. The look she got in return was eloquently dubious. Amelle sighed. "Is she hurt? Physically hurt?"

"I imagine she must be, for all she's hiding it. Surely this does not surprise you."

Amelle nodded, this time suppressing her sigh. "What about everyone else? Are you hurt at all?" There was a small cut at Fenris' temple and Amelle frowned as she reached up to touch it, but the elf flinched away at the last second.

"I am unhurt," he said quickly, dismissing the cut. "That is but a scratch. If you're going to tend anyone, tend your sister."

Kiara and the others had reached the shoreline by now. Varric took a seat on a boulder, setting down Bianca next to him. "You guys go ahead. I like my water in a tub. And heated."

"Big baby," Amelle tossed back, attempting a casual tone as she let the water wash over her feet, up to her ankles.

"Maybe, but I'm a dry big baby, thank you," Varric replied, bracing his hands behind him.

Amelle smiled, but that smile faded as she watched Kiara crouch down, then kneel in the sand, heedless of the slowly lapping tide as she cupped salt water in her hands and rinsed her face. Once the blood was washed away, Amelle saw clearly the strain in her sister's face and her heart turned over in her chest. She strode through the water and knelt down in front of her sister. The wet sand gave under her knees, and the cold water soaked the skirt of her dress. It didn't matter.

"Kiri."

Kiara splashed her face with water again. "I'm fine."

"Kiri, please." Reaching out, she grasped her sister's hand, holding it tightly. Kiara tensed again, and Amelle could almost feel her sister think about pulling her hand away. "Look at me, Kiara. Please."

Kiara closed her eyes, shaking her head briskly. Tiny droplets of water flung free from her hair. "I can't. I can't, Mely. Don't make me."

With her free hand, she placed her fingers beneath Kiara's chin, tipping her face up, gently forcing Kiara to look at her. "I'm okay, Kiri. See? I'm okay."

Kiara looked at her — and looked for a long time, blinking back tears. "I thought you were dead," she breathed, and even Amelle almost couldn't hear Kiara's voice over the gentle rush of water.

"I'm all right," she whispered. "I'm healthy and whole, I promise. I'm safe now."

"You're not safe. You're never safe, Mely." The words came out in a haunted whisper that chilled Amelle throughout.

Amelle found she could do nothing but shake her head and fling her arms around Kiara, hugging her hard. After only the briefest hesitation, Kiara was clinging to her so tightly it almost hurt, and Amelle could feel the way her sister's body shuddered, shedding more tears she didn't want anyone to see. Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she let a wave of healing magic into her sister. Kiara shivered, but didn't comment. A bad sign.

"I'm okay, Kiri. I'm fine. I promise. I swear it, Kiara."

"I'll make sure you're safe, Mely," Kiara mumbled against her shoulder. "I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll do better. I promise you'll be safe. I promise."

But Amelle found herself chilled rather than reassured by her sister's words.