It had been a day of emotional extremes, Sebastian thought, of bloodshed and battle and death — so much death, too much death — and of questions finally answered. A full day, and the sun was not even midway through the sky.

Somehow, through the thick of it, when his bow was in hand, sending arrow after arrow to their targets — not his people, he had to tell himself again and again; they were Jessamine's, never his — while Kiara was locked in combat with Jessamine and always too close to the older woman to give him a clear shot as Amelle cast healing magic, glyphs and shields, the light of it all reflecting off armor… something about the chaos of it all was not only familiar, it felt strangely right. Not, of course, the life or death peril of it all, but the knowledge that his third family—not the Vaels, not the Chantry—was once again whole, working as a unit.

Almost whole, he remembered with a pang. Fenris still lay unmoving upon the platform, and the hour window had certainly closed by now. A maelstrom of emotion twisted and clashed in his chest — he was relieved, thankful, grief-stricken, frustrated, angry

It was not what he would have considered the ideal moment to present himself to Starkhaven for the first time since his return. Definitely not the ideal moment to be Prince of Starkhaven with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities therein. For the barest sliver of time, when Amelle stood on the platform and faced the Revered Mother and stated that justice should come from the prince, Sebastian fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see precisely whom she was talking about.

And then the moment passed.

This was more than missives and documents and yellow-duckling curtains — this was what Starkhaven needed. This was why he'd returned. If nothing else, the horrible, bloody mess around them, proved how desperately change was needed. It was his duty—his duty above all things—to usher in that change. Justice had to be done, and he had to be the one to deliver it.

Shouldering his bow, he walked slowly to the platform where Revered Mother Illona, Kiara, and Amelle waited, the latter now kneeling by Fenris, his head upon her lap; their expressions ranging from veiled pride to patient reassurance. Jessamine, nearly rabid with fury, glared at him, and spat upon his feet the moment he reached the platform. He walked by, barely sparing her more than a passing glance. What she did now mattered very little as far as Sebastian was concerned; he had far more important things demanding his attention, most of them she had wrought.

He made a point of standing next to Kiara, but though she did not actually move away from him, he could sense the way she held herself aloof, refusing to look at him. Her arms were stiff at her sides, and she gazed straight ahead. She fears the repercussions of her ruse, he realized. Or she fears what Starkhaven will say, now they know without doubt her sister is a mage. She fears they will no longer accept her, if ever they would have done so.

He wasn't sure she was wrong, for all that. His stomach turned over, but he kept his shoulders straight and his head lifted, and he did not move from her side. Duty, Vael. Your duty above all things.

"Your Highness," Illona greeted.

"Your Reverence," he replied with all due courtesy. "Forgive me, but the time for conversation must be later. Now there are too many wounded." Indeed, Fenris was once again aglow with healing magics. "Starkhaven suffers and must be made well again."

"Indeed, Your Highness. But I believe our young friend has the right of it: justice must be done."

Jessamine bared her teeth when he turned to face her, and her pale eyes were icy. "Go on then, murderer," she snarled. "Have your executioner dirty his hands for you."

"No," Sebastian said. "Not like this. You may have acted it today, Jessamine, but you are no beast to be put down in the street. I, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, charge you with murder, with conspiracy, with high treason. You will have your trial, and if you are deemed guilty, you will be executed by mine own hand, but I will defile these stones with no more blood. Enough has been spilled here already."

He almost called for Elias before realizing the man could no longer answer him. Swallowing past the knot of emotion this recollection raised, he gestured for another of his guards. "Bind her," he said. "Take her to the prisons. I wonder if you might spare some of your guard, Your Reverence. I fear my own may yet be compromised, and I would not have an escape on my hands."

"You have proven yourself a great friend to the Chantry, Your Highness," Illona said. Her voice carried, and she allowed a moment for the words to sink in; he reminded himself to thank her for it later. "It would be our pleasure to repay that friendship in kind."

Jessamine was dragged away, surrounded by templars and palace guardsmen alike. Amelle watched them go with a strange look on her face. Sebastian could hardly blame her; he felt odd letting the woman live any longer than necessary.

This is necessary, he realized. She must not die a martyr. There must be no question as to her crimes. Her guilt must be irrefutable.

"People of Starkhaven," he called out, turning to face the much-dispersed crowd. "Today has been a dark day. These past weeks have been dark weeks. Brother has turned against brother, friend against friend, and it has made me heartsick to see it done. I would have wished to present myself to you under better circumstances, but know this: you are my people. This is my home. I would see it returned to its former glory, a place of peace; a haven. The steps toward this healing must be small ones, but they are ones I do not fear to make. Later, there will be justice meted out upon those who have hurt us, but today is a day for rebuilding, for helping our neighbors, for treating the wounded and honoring the dead. We will survive. We will thrive. There will be no more fire, no more hate, no more death."

No great cheers went up. No great cacophony of approval rang out. Choirs didn't sing and Andraste didn't appear to clap him on the back. But the people of Starkhaven listened. They listened, and the fighting was ended.

"S-sebastian," Amelle said, not quite able to keep the pleading note from her voice, "do you—this antidote Jessamine spoke of—what… what about Fenris?" She reached up from where she knelt, touching the back of his forearm tentatively, her fingertips skating over his bracer.

"The Chantry had some amount of the antidote in its stores; we brought it when we heard," Illona replied, when Sebastian could find no words. "And from a time before this Jessamine might have tainted it, Maker be praised. I know time is of the essence. My templars are already moving through the crowd, treating those they can. But…"

"But?" Amelle echoed. "You don't understand—I know how it must have looked, but Fenris saved my life. There must be something—you can't mean he doesn't deserve this antidote, too?"

"The hour has passed," Sebastian said softly. When Amelle gazed up at him, brow knit with confusion, he knew she didn't know, didn't understand. "Forgive me, Amelle. Fenris… Fenris is my friend, too, but there is no longer anything to be done. Fenris had but an hour to receive the antidote. That hour is past. The window is closed. Even if we were to give it to him, it…" Sebastian trailed off, but he could tell her nothing but the truth: "It would make no difference."

"So you're saying he doesn't even deserve an outside chance?" she argued, her voice catching. "This is Fenris. If anyone deserves a chance,it's him."

He saw it then, in her eyes. Not only dawning comprehension, but something more, something raw and broken and defiant and Sebastian realized that though Fenris may have been a friend to Amelle before, he meant something far more to her now. Oh, Amelle. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.

"We… may yet have enough antidote," Sebastian relented. Though it seemed fruitless, he could not fault Amelle either her hope or her determination. Indeed, even at the time he'd not been entirely certain Kiara had received the antidote in time either. Perhaps the poison's rules were not so absolute. Perhaps. "But if there is not enough…"

Amelle's frown pinched her features as she looked down at the man whose head she cradled. "If there's not enough, then I'll open a door myself," she said fervently, looking up again and shaking her head. She was so pale every streak of dirt and blood and grime stood out starkly on her face. "I'm not giving up on him. He just needs healing—he just needs more time—"

All we require is a little more time.

"There are those you can save now, Mely," Kiara added, her voice wretched with misery. She reached out and put a hand on Amelle's shoulder, but still she would not meet Sebastian's eyes. "Come on. I'll—I'll help. We can work together. You know I'm—you know I'm good at tying bandages."

"He'll be brought to the palace," Sebastian said. "You will… you will have three days."

"No," Amelle said, gently—so very gently—sliding Fenris' head from her lap and setting him back against the wooden planks. "No," she said again, pushing to her feet. "Keep him with the rest of the wounded for now. If there is enough antidote, then I want him nearby to administer it." But when she looked him full in the face, he saw how very pale she was, bloodshot eyes filling with tears, and if Sebastian wasn't certain before, he was now. He looked to Kiara for confirmation, but Kiara's gaze was set on the middle distance, as if she could not bear to look at either of them; her hand no longer on her sister's shoulder, she now gripped Amelle's wrist, but kept her gaze averted. But then Amelle's jaw clenched and determination—as well as something far fiercer—was writ in all the lines and curves of her face. "And even so, you know as well as I that I can do a great deal in a matter of days."

And because he could not bear to break her heart yet more, Sebastian said nothing, and let her cling to her futile hope. Though he cringed internally, because if not for Amelle's determination, he would not be standing here at all, much less to make decisions on who received a cure to a poison whose recipe he sincerely hoped would be lost after this. He felt Amelle's censure, though she did not give voice to it.

Kiara still held fast to her sister's wrist, and began leading her off the platform, where those who'd been wounded now waited for someone to tend them. Templars bearing tiny vials of antidote worked their way through, administering the potion to those who'd been poisoned. Sebastian looked again at Fenris — two palace guards had moved him to a stretcher and were carefully transporting him to a pallet of hay, just one of many temporary beds for the wounded and poisoned.

"Kiara," he said, turning. "Wait."

She turned and met his eyes only briefly, then kept her gaze steadily somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder. "Yes?"

He held back the tumble of words, but only just barely. "I… I would speak with you. Privately."

Hesitation flitted across her face, but she did not relinquish her hold on Amelle. Sebastian saw Amelle's gaze slide his way, then she leaned closer and he saw her lips form the word Go by her sister's ear. Kiara bit her lip, and slowly released Amelle's wrist, letting her sister slip away to see to those needing her help. But just as Kiara took a step toward him, Sebastian heard the clank of armor and turned to find Ser Kinnon standing beside him, looking downcast.

"Highness," he said quietly, casting an apologetic look Kiara's way. "My apologies, but… the men are… asking what is to be done about… about Captain Elias."

Sebastian went still, and felt his own grief tighten his chest almost painfully. "…Of course, Kinnon. I—aye." He looked imploringly at Kiara, who — as he somehow knew she would — was already nodding.

"Go," she said quietly, though her eyes still remained at his shoulder.

Come with me, he wanted to say. Stand by my side. But before he could give voice to the sentiment, Kiara turned back to look at Jessamine's victims, most of whom were wounded, poisoned, or both.

"I'm needed here," she said, and without another glance, she turned and jogged down the wooden steps into the crowd in search of bandages and anyone who needed them applied.

#

Amelle's back ached, her head throbbed, and her fingers tingled with residual healing magic, but there had been not a single nosebleed. Cullen helped her to her feet after she finished with the last. Injuries still abounded, but all the life-threatening ones had been seen to, and that was the important thing. Some distant part of herself that still felt like herself wanted to tease him for his diligence in standing guard over her, but whenever she dared look at him, she saw every word he wasn't saying. Worry and concern danced in the shadows haunting his eyes, and they chased away even the slightest inclination toward levity.

The templars had dispersed among Jessamine's victims, providing doses of antidote to those who needed it, as Amelle tended the injured. Those most grievously hurt were her first priority, though she was always at least peripherally aware of just how often the Starkhaven templars treated a victim of Maker's Light. She tallied the number of antidote vials in her head, the number forever dwindling. Still, she knelt, healing wounds left by arrows and swords, daggers and shields; as she worked, Amelle kept seeing it all in her mind—seeing Fenris—over and over again. The look on his face as he charged upon the platform had been nothing but fury, the glow upon his skin nearly enough to light his eyes like burning sulfur.

Then that light had gone out, doused by that bitch and her poisoned blade.

And then he'd pressed his forehead against hers as he struggled to hold himself upright, his eyes no longer burning, but muddled and confused. He'd shifted or slipped or—and then his cheek was against hers, murmuring to her just before phasing his hand into her chest. The pain of it, of that foreign presence in her, of every piece of steel touching her heart—none of it compared to the ache she felt now. Now, when he still would not wake; now, as his skin burned with fever and not lyrium, and his breathing grew increasingly labored. Amelle would have allowed him to crush her heart entirely if it could have meant sparing her this.

"Mely?" Amelle looked up to find Kiara staring down at her, her brow furrowed. Amelle hadn't even seen her approach. "Are you… you're a million miles away. Is everything… no, I know it's not, but are you…"

"Sorry," she said quickly, before her sister could say the word "okay," and looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly. "I… was thinking."

Kiara nodded and crouched down in front of Amelle, meeting her gaze. "It's been—" she stopped and frowned, pressing her lips together in a pensive line. "It's been a bitch of a day, hasn't it?"

Amelle nodded, not trusting her voice.

"…I missed you," Kiara said softly, and though Amelle knew Kiara was doing a commendable job of holding herself together, her sister's voice still trembled.

"I know—I… me too. I—"

But Amelle's words were lost in a grunt as Kiara flung her arms around her, hugging her tightly. Every iota of worry and fear and love communicated itself clearly through that gesture, and Amelle shuddered hard, keeping her own tears at bay, even as she wrapped her arms around her sister and clung just as tightly. The words they'd spoken—shouted—at each other in Kirkwall were too far away to matter; they belonged to different people in a different lifetime. Then, as she pulled away, Kiara's eyes darted over to where Fenris still lay, and it looked for a moment like she was going to say something. But whatever it was, the words were tucked away again as Kiara shook her head and set her jaw. Then she reached down to press something into Amelle's hand; when she looked, she found a tiny vial of golden liquid. Her breath caught.

"Kiri…"

"Last one," she said, standing and then pulling Amelle to her feet. "It… Mely, it's— the poison. The antidote might not work. Please… don't— don't—"

Amelle let out a laugh that sounded broken to her own ears. "Don't tell me not to hope for a miracle, Kiri." She closed her fingers around the vial. "I have to try. I have to. He… he saved my life. I can't… I can't not try."

"I know." And then her sister smiled a charmingly crooked smile. "And we wouldn't be Hawkes if we didn't have our hopeless causes, right?"

"I hope it's not so hopeless," murmured Amelle as she turned to the pallet of hay where Fenris still lay. But as they wove their way around makeshift beds holding men and women still not recovered enough to be moved, a ragged shout stopped them and sent a chill like ice-water down Amelle's spine.

"Hawke! Amelle!" And then again, louder, more urgently: "Hawke! Amelle!"

Isabela's white tunic was smeared with blood, and she had Varric with her, clutching his arm in place around her shoulders as she half-carried, half-dragged him across the cobblestones. The dwarf was alarmingly pale, an arrow protruding from his shoulder, its shaft broken midway. He was unconscious and, Amelle realized, a sinking pit of dread at the very bottom of her belly, his body was strangely rigid. Cursing under his breath, Cullen rushed over and took up Varric's other side, relieving Isabela of the burden.

"…No," Amelle breathed, for more reasons than she could count. "Maker, no."

"I just found him," said Isabela breathlessly, and there was no mistaking how pale she looked, how her voice shook—and her hands, Amelle realized; Isabela's hands, steady as long as she'd known her, were trembling, too. As Cullen undertook Varric's weight, Isabela appeared to realize her tremors, and folded her arms across her body to conceal them. "I just found him," she said again, this time with steel tempering her voice. "It can't have been a bloody hour, Hawke. He was fighting an hour ago."

"Less than that," Amelle said, looking at the golden vial in her hand. She knew. She'd seen him.

The look in Kiara's eyes was too painful to bear. If it was not pity, it was some close kin, and Amelle squeezed her eyes shut. If her eyes were closed, she didn't have to see—didn't have to face what was right before her.

"Amelle…" Kiara's voice broke, and Amelle opened her eyes again. Kiara dropped to her knees beside Varric and touched his forehead. "Oh, Maker, I should have sent someone to look for him straight away. I knew it wasn't like him to miss such a golden opportunity to play the hero."

Varric. Varric. Who was still well within the blighted poison's antidote window. And Fenris, who was not.

"Hawke?" Isabela asked, a million unvoiced questions loaded into a single syllable, and then double that again. "Amelle? What's—"

"Take it," Amelle said roughly, thrusting the vial out in her clenched fist. "Please, just take it."

In the end it wasn't Kiara, but Cullen who took the antidote from her hands, Cullen who crouched over Varric's prone form. Relieved of the vial, relieved of what felt like the last hope available to her, Amelle sunk to her knees and watched silently as Cullen gave Varric the dram of golden liquid. No one spoke, though Amelle could see the questions running rampant behind Isabela's eyes. For once, however, the pirate did not voice them.

"I think—I think we're done here. We should… get up to the palace," Kiara said. "I'll… I'll have someone—we'll relocate Fenris. He'll…" she swallowed hard. "It's more comfortable up there." She turned to Isabela. "You'll stay with Varric? He… he ought to wake soon. It won't be long."

"Of course. But what—"

"Later. We'll… talk about it later." And then she turned to Amelle, bitter, aching sorrow in her eyes. "There are clean clothes. And… and baths. You can have a bath, if you like."

Your fondness for baths is well-known. Amelle tried not to flinch, shaking her head to hide the involuntary movement. "But what about Varric? And there are still more injured—"

"Starkhaven's templars can see to the rest," Kiara told her, firmly. "You've helped those who need it most."

Amelle glanced over to where Fenris still lay. No, I haven't, she thought. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try.

She had three days.

#

Kiara couldn't help noticing the way Amelle's knees shook when she attempted to regain her feet—which only made sense, given that her sister had expended a vast amount of mana, to say nothing of having started the day wounded, poisoned, bound and possessed of a gauntleted fist in the chest—but before Kiara could reach out and help her up, Cullen had stepped into the breach. Startled, Kiara raised her eyebrows and took a step back. She had noted, of course, Cullen had gone above and beyond the call of anyone's notion of duty earlier, but now he held Amelle steady with one arm, even as he put two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to meet his.

"You're well?" he asked carefully. "I know you're not—but you're well?"

Amelle's expression wasn't a smile, but it was some kind of melancholy kin. "You're thinking of our conversation on the road."

"I confess I am."

"I'm… yes, in that respect I'm well." Kiara blinked, startled when Amelle flung her arms around Cullen and murmured her thanks into his chest. "You didn't have to—what you did back there—thank you, Cullen."

After half a moment, Cullen returned the hug, if a little stiffly. Then he said, "Amelle, templars don't generally go about embracing their charges in the street."

The sound Amelle made was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Closer to a sob, Kiara feared. Above her head, Cullen met Kiara's eyes and sent a glance her way.

"I—" Kiara looked for words but found none. Time enough for tales later. Time enough for explanations. Time enough to understand how her sister and a templar Knight-Commander had come to be on embracing terms.

All we require is a little more time.

"We should get back to the palace," Cullen said, as Amelle stepped away from the hug, already nodding. Not for the first time—or even the dozenth—Kiara reached out and touched the back of Amelle's arm, just to make sure she was actually there, and warm, and alive, and real. This time, before she could drop her hand, Amelle grabbed it and held it in hers as they began the walk back.

After a few moments of too-strained silence, Amelle said, "I may have been drugged and half-dead, but if you think I didn't notice how often that bitch threw around the words 'Sebastian Vael's intended' you're sadly mistaken."

Kiara's stomach twisted as she went abruptly cold. The hand Amelle still held twitched. She could hear how hard her sister was trying to—to sound normal, to sound like one of their friends wasn't poisoned past help, while another was still recovering. Kiara tried to remember how happy she'd been just… just days ago, in the garden, before everything went to the Void.

Foolish, really. She should've been expecting the Void all along.

"That's not—it's all—I don't think—" Kiara couldn't find words, so she ground her nails into the palm of her other hand and bit her tongue to keep from speaking at all.

Kiara regretted her words as concern instantly suffused Amelle's expression. The last thing she wanted was to add to the burden her sister carried. "Kiara?"

Duty. He has a duty to Starkhaven. She wanted to tell Amelle, wanted to unburden herself, wanted to explain she'd seen the end in the way Sebastian had said'I… I would speak with you' after the battle. But she held her tongue because she was glad to see her sister, and didn't want her thinking her… mageness was anything to be ashamed of. Finally she settled on, "It was never official. I think… I think Jessamine will have her way in that, at least. It's the least of our worries right now."

Amelle, however, seemed to disagree, pausing in the street. Because she was still holding tight to Kiara's hand, she was forced to stop too. "But… but Kiri. It's Sebastian. Of course he'll—"

"—Do his duty first," Kiara forced herself to put on a brave face, to pretend it did not matter. In time they would be pleasant memories, and she… she would think of the prince of Starkhaven with fondness. "Just as we must. Come on, Amelle. I-I want to look in on Fenris."

Some of Amelle's color drained away and she bit her lip hard, nodding. "I need… to see what I can do for him."

"Mely…" she began, but Amelle only shook her head stubbornly.

"I'm not giving up on him. If Sebastian's right—" Amelle's voice caught and she clenched her jaw, swallowing hard. "If Sebastian's right, I have three days. To try whatever I can."

Kiara and Cullen shared a brief look, but she held her words—Sebastian is right, Mely—inside.

#

It wasn't until Amelle sank into the bathwater, gently scented and steaming-hot, that she truly realized how much her body ached. Despite healing herself, everything was still sore, still tender. Particularly the spot just behind her breastbone, deep within her chest.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the rim of the tub, pressing her palm flat against the place where Fenris had reached into her. A gentle breath in and out again, and sore muscles began to relax as a fresh wave healing energy washed through, from head to foot. Sorrow still lived in a heavy knot lodged deep in her chest, but beneath that was the deeper, truer knowledge that she would be no use to Fenris if she did not first tend to herself.

And that began with washing away every reminder of the past two days from her body. Amelle scrubbed away dirt and dried blood until her skin was pink and nearly raw, but no amount of soap would cleanse the memory of poison being poured into an open wound, or the residual echoes of demons' whispers still hiding in her mind's shadows. Only time would alleviate that variety of pain, and it would not be a quick process. It never was.

As she rinsed the soap from her skin, Amelle's fingertips slid across the shoulder that had been wounded by the poisoned arrow in the first place. A jagged circle of scar tissue remained, its texture strange and puckered beneath her fingertips. She had so few scars upon her body after years of being able to heal herself before lasting damage could be done, that to have such a reminder upon her body now was… almost foreign to her. She stared at it a moment, tracing the starburst with the tip of one index finger before jerking her hand away from the mark and giving herself a shake. By the time she'd washed away every mark that could be removed with soap and water, what remained was filthy; looking away from such a visible reminder of the past two days, Amelle dried off quickly, and wrapped herself in a thick dressing gown.

The room she'd been appointed was lovely—beyond lovely, in fact, and bordering on intimidatingly lavish. A pert blonde woman named Tasia—her sister's personal maid, for the Maker's sake—had left Amelle with a vast selection of perfumed soaps, salts, and oils, before laying out three different gowns upon the enormous bed. Tasia had hesitated only briefly by the door before leaving again, taking with her the ruined, bloody clothing Amelle had been wearing, hopefully with plans to burn it.

Amelle rubbed the towel gently against her hair as she padded to the bed to see what Tasia left her to wear. There was a nightgown—oh, very subtle hint there, Kiara—and two simpler dresses. One was a cream-colored gown with lavender embroidery along the hem and neckline, and the other a shade that hovered somewhere between dusky pink and pale orange — modestly designed but richly constructed. She chose the pink.

Once properly dressed, Amelle quietly opened the bedroom door to find, perhaps unsurprisingly, that either Kiara or Sebastian—but probably Kiara—had stationed a guard by her door. Amelle blinked, hand frozen on the door handle, and looked up at the guard. At least half a head taller than Cullen and nearly twice as broad with a shock of startlingly blond hair above a boyishly ruddy face.

"Hello," she blurted with a start, trying not to stare. Maker's blood, leave it to Kiara to make sure a human being roughly the size of a wall stands sentry by my door. "Ser…?"

"Ser Braden, my lady," he supplied with a brief bow. "At your service." He paused, looking vaguely troubled in a way that reminded Amelle distantly of Cupcake. "…With respect, my lady, the Lady Kiara'd hoped you'd be resting."

That was far too many "my ladys" in one sentence than Amelle was used to. "Yes," she began uneasily, just barely remembering not to scuff her foot against the smooth marble floor. She was relatively sure ladies didn't scuff. "Well. I've… there's a matter that needs my—there's something I need to… to attend to." Her fingers found the folds of her skirt, worrying the soft material. "Do you know where— where they've brought my—my sister's friend? Fenris. His name's Fenris. He… he was—"

"The one poisoned by Maker's Light," Ser Braden supplied with a solemness that looked out of place on his puppyish face. "Yes, my lady, I know which room they put him in."

"Then will you take me to him?" Uncertainty sketched across Ser Braden's features and Amelle took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. "I'm a healer—"

"Oh, I know, my lady—I mean, I heard from some of the men—"

"Then you know I need to see him. Take me there."

"But…" Ser Braden looked briefly around the hallway. "But, my lady, Maker's Light—"

I don't give half a bloody damn about the poison, Amelle thought fiercely, letting the bedroom door close with more force than was strictly necessary, letting the noise echo up and down the hall. You aren't keeping me from seeing to him. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, glaring up at the knight, who didn't appear to know what to make of her.

"You know, Ser Braden, I've heard more than enough about this Maker's Light," Amelle said sharply, hearing and hating the quaver in her voice. "I am asking you to take me to a man who requires healing. Are you going to do that, or am I going to have to find my own way to his room? You aren't keeping me from this, even if I have to wander every hallway and knock on every blighted door in the palace. And for the record? I'm perfectly willing to do that. Are we quite clear?"

Ser Braden's face went several shades of pink deeper. "Y-yes, my lady," he replied, blinking owlishly down at her. "Of course. Er. Please, follow me."

"That's more like it," she said on an exhale. "Thank you."

Her slippered feet were silent upon the marble floor as she hurried along to keep up with Ser Braden's long strides through the veritable maze of corridors and passageways. Neither spoke until they came to a stop before a large door that looked… no different from any number of other doors lining other hallways they'd passed. Another guard stood watch here, a tall woman with freckles that reminded her vaguely of Aveline, but for the dark hair all pulled back into a neat braid.

The guards exchanged a nod, and Ser Braden turned to Amelle, "He's in there, my lady."

With nothing more than a nod and a brief, belated thank-you, Amelle laid a hand on the doorknob and twisted, letting the door swing open on silent hinges and then close just as quietly behind her. In the middle of the room, on a bed so grand and large it made him look small, Amelle spied Fenris, deathly still and ashen beneath his tan. His chest rose and fell with rasping breaths that seemed to fill the whole room.

She was alone now—no Kiara to be strong for, no Cullen to reassure. Just Amelle, Fenris, and three days stretching out, both too long and far, far too short a time between them. Amelle closed her eyes and drew in a breath too sharp to be anything but a sob, and for the briefest moment she felt the rough warmth of his cheek next to hers, his lips against her ear, those scant seconds before he plunged his hand into her chest and saved her life.

Nothing can be worse… than the thought of living without you.

Throat tightening with a torrent of sobs she dared not release, for if she started now, she might never stop again, Amelle sank back against the door, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other fisted in her skirts. Three days, she thought. Three days. He was so still.

The longer she stared, the more she found herself unable process the sight before her—this was not her Fenris. This was not the Fenris she'd known for nearly seven years. Her Fenris was all motion and action. He was energy and movement and light. Stillness did not suit him.

Swallowing hard, pushing down her tears, her grief, and the wretched shadow of hopelessness, Amelle crossed the room and sat lightly upon the edge of the bed.

"You idiot," she breathed, tears blinding her. Wiping them away impatiently with the back of her hand, Amelle gave herself a shake. "You aren't dying on me, you know," she told him, sniffling. "You don't get to—get to do that and say that and then die on me without so much as an explanation."Amelle dashed away her tears again, then wiped the moisture away on her skirts. "You aren't getting out of this that easily. I don't care if I have to go into the bloody Fade and drag you back by your hair, you aren't leaving me. Not now."

With that, she arranged herself carefully upon the edge of the bed, took the elf's face between her hands and bowed her head, dipping once more into that place inside her where magic pulsed. She pulled it forward with a deep breath, and as Amelle exhaled, the power of the Fade rushed forward with its hotcold thrum and its silver-blue glow.

She had three days.