Once upon a time, there was a shepherd. But no ordinary shepherd he; no, indeed, for he was a prince by birth. His father, the king, was a wicked mage, and a crueler man has never been found.

The prince's mother died only moments after the babe was placed in her arms, and then only because the king had taken her life himself. For the prince was born the youngest of three brothers; the older two were possessed of magic and, much like their father, and his father before him, and again before that, and they were cruel, caring only for their own desires. The youngest, however, did not have the touch of magic upon his skin, nothing to make him worthy in his father's eyes, or the eyes of his brothers, and it was for this reason his mother was slain.

And so, to make his son worthy of his heritage, the evil mage king laid a curse upon his youngest son, imbuing the boy with the heart of a wolf, so that he would thirst for blood like his brothers, and tear out the hearts of the king's enemies, feasting upon the meat like the animal whose heart beat in his chest.

And so this endured, for many years.

Over time, the boy became a man. No longer a wolf cub, he had grown into his role, and embraced it, giving very little thought to how much misery it brought him, for he saw no way out of his curse. As he'd grown, his fathers and brothers treated him much like the animal whose heart beat inside him. Less a prince than a pet, he was forced to take his meals in the courtyard and to make his bed in the stables. Throughout the kingdom, however, the youngest prince was a source of terror. He was the monster lurking in every shadow, and mothers warned their children that the Great Wolf Prince would steal them from their beds and gobble them up if they did not behave.

Then, one moonless night, while the kingdom slept, the prince slipped beyond the castle walls, vanishing into darkness. For though the wolf's heart existed hot and whole in his chest, he could not live with the atrocities he'd committed, and did not wish to endure this existence a moment longer. He ran, with all the speed and stealth of a wolf, and as day broke, his frenzied, desperate pace slowed. He was far from the kingdom, far from the castle, far from his father and brothers. Here, hills rolled on in endless green waves, the air clean and free from magic.

Here, he decided, he could live. And live he did, building a tiny cottage with his own two hands, and tending sheep on those sprawling, grassy hills. Perhaps it was a bit strange, a wolf protecting sheep, but the prince was content with his tiny cottage and his sheep and, most of all, the quiet solitude of those grassy hills. He did not miss the taste of blood upon his tongue; more than that, he did not miss his father or brothers. Most of all, he did not miss magic, for it had been magic that set the wolf's heart beating in his chest to begin with.

But one day, one of the shepherd-prince's sheep fell ill. His favorite ewe, heavy with lambs in her belly, refused both food and water. She did not graze, but instead lay listlessly in the grass. It was early yet for her to birth the lambs, and the shepherd-prince was frightened, for he had never seen a death he had not caused. And so, at first light, the shepherd-prince ran all the way to the village to fetch a healer who might yet save his ewe.

Alas, the village healer could not leave the village; an outbreak of illness kept her tethered, and she could not risk going so far from the village to tend a single ewe.

Despair threatened to overtake the shepherd as he leant heavily against the healer's closed door, when he noted a young woman watching him from the shadows of the old woman's home.

"I can help you," she told him.

Relief overspread the shepherd, only to be replaced with repugnance when his wolf's heart beat hard, catching the scent of magic on the young woman.

"I do not need your help," he growled. "Or the help of anyone like you."

"You would let your ewe die, then?"

"Magic does not heal; it only causes ruin. You cannot help me. Begone!"

But the young woman did not leave. She followed him back to his cottage; heedless of his growled orders, his threats, his invectives, she followed him.

She followed him, and when they returned to the shepherd's home, it was to discover the ewe had perished only moments before. The shepherd's heart, his wolf's heart, broke at the sight of the dead ewe, and he turned in anger to the young woman, snarling, "Use your magic to fix this, else I will tear out your heart and feast upon it."

"I cannot," the young woman said, the bright sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Then I shall taste your blood before the—"

"But," she said, holding a hand up as if to stem the tide of grief flowing from the shepherd's heart, "I might yet save her lambs."

"Do it," the shepherd ordered, though he never sounded quite so like a prince than he did in that instant. "But know that if you fail, your life is forfeit—"

A soft knock sounded, and Amelle's head lifted from the book she was reading. She'd heard once that even those deeply asleep and lost in the Fade might yet still hear words spoken to them by those in the waking world. So she'd chosen a book of fables and tales from the palace library and read to Fenris whenever she stopped for food or drink, or simply to let her mana replenish. She could not say whether it helped or not, but at this point, there was very little Amelle wouldn't do, or wouldn't at least try.

"Come in," she called out softly, her finger resting on the page, holding her place. But when the door swung open to reveal Varric, Amelle stood, the book falling near soundlessly to the carpeted floor.

"Hey, Firefly."

"What in all the bloody Void are you doing out of bed?" she demanded. "For the Maker's sake, Varric, you were poisoned. You ought to be resting."

The dwarf sighed and ran one hand over his head, eyes shifting to the side. "Yeah, says you and Rivaini and Hawke and Choir Boy and the damn Turnip would probably say something if I'd even seen him yet. But the way I hear it, Hawke was holding archery contests an hour she woke up from this stuff. Least I could do was take a walk down a hallway." His jaw tightened, thick brows furrowing, but the expression lasted only an instant and Amelle could not be sure if discomfort or fatigue was the cause, or at least not until Varric cleared his throat and said, "So. How's Broody coming along?"

Neither discomfort, nor fatigue, if Amelle guessed correctly. Something different. Something deeper. And though Varric's expression was now just as benign as she would have come to expect over the years, she'd seen a glimpse of pain, and regret, and something like enough to guilt that her heart turned over with it.

She looked down at Fenris, brushing back the pale hair lying against his forehead. "No… there's been no change," she told him, around the lump in her throat.

Varric took another step or two into the room, letting the door shut quietly behind him. "Firefly— Amelle."

"You aren't going to try and tell me I oughtn't to have given up the antidote for you, are you?" She sat, letting out a long, deep breath. "Because you'd be wrong." Sending Varric a steady, level look, and trying to tamp down the way her heart twisted painfully in her chest as she said the words, Amelle told him, "Because giving the antidote to Fenris at that point was a… a last resort. An outside chance. There… there were no guarantees it would work, and—and Varric, if you'd—if you'd…" After so much death, so much time spent fighting death, fighting what everyone was telling her was an inevitable death, Amelle could not make herself say the words if you'd died. Varric seemed to understand what she was trying to say anyway, if his somber expression was anything to go by. "We'd have risked losing two friends." Her smile was a watery one. "And you know me. I—I can't do that. Want to save everyone without risking anyone."

"Don't you say that like it's a bad thing, Firefly," he said with a snort, and after a moment Varric shook his head, taking a few steps closer to the bed before settling into the chair Amelle had only recently vacated. "And none of that means I want to see a friend in this kind of shape."

"I know."

Neither said anything for a few seconds, and the room was filled with the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and Fenris' labored breathing.

"This has been one hell of a shitty trip, you know that?"

"Tell me about it," she said with a wan smile. "Not one I'd care to repeat."

They sat a little while, letting the quiet settle around them. Perhaps on some level it was strange that Varric was being so quiet, but despite the sound of Fenris' breathing it felt…almost peaceful, companionable, and Amelle was not inclined to break it. But when Amelle looked at Varric's face, peace was the last thing she saw there.

"…Varric?"

"He was scared, you know."

"I'm sorry?" But Amelle knew. Oh, she knew.

"Broody." Varric paused, and it was a weighty silence this time; even Varric looked as if there were something heavy hanging around him. "Listen. Whatever else… happened, you've gotta know he… he was worried—scared, actually, after you went missing. He was—"

"Don't," Amelle said, and the word was pulled from her, sounding too harsh, too raw, scraping against the soft crackling of the fire. "Don't… tell me things you think you need to tell me because you think he's going to die, Varric." She took a breath and smoothed her hands over Fenris' unrumpled coverlet. "Don't… tell me his story while he's still alive."

His answering look was too shrewd, too knowing by half. "Let me guess. You also don't want me telling you the story about the idiot dwarf who let himself get knocked on the back of the sodding head and was lying on the ground like a sack of potatoes while his friend got kidnapped."

Amelle blinked. Not so much at the vitriol loading down Varric's words, though she could hardly overlook that, but his word choice itself. She'd spent so much time thinking of her sister's friends as her sister's friends that she'd never given any consideration to the possibility that they might've been her friends as well. And she, theirs.

"No," she said quietly, but with enough force to make Varric look up with a start. "I don't want to hear that story either. And I don't want you telling it, because it's an even bigger pile of crap than your usual tales. Hard as it is to admit, she had us fooled. We none of us knew what she was up to—none of us knew she wasn't an ally. So forget that one, too."

Varric let out a breath that sounded as if he'd been holding it a long time, slouching forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Didn't realize my audience was so picky," he said, a ghost of his old tone coming back.

"Selective," Amelle corrected him. "Discriminating."

"So what's the selective, discriminating reader reading now?" he asked, chuckling when Amelle held up the book of tales. "Let me guess: 'The Shepherd Prince'?"

"It seemed to suit," she said with a shrug.

"Yeah, until the part where the prince turns into a wolf and eats the girl because she can't save the lambs and then finds out too damn late that she was a princess who'd run away from her magic-hating kingdom."

Amelle scowled. "That's not the version I was going to tell him."

"Firefly," Varric said, loading as much gravity into her nickname as possible. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave improvisation to the professionals?"

Her scowl melting into a smile as amused as it was affectionate, Amelle arched an eyebrow at Varric. "All right."

"All right what?"

Amelle gestured grandly at Varric, tossing him the book. "You're the professional. Improvise."

It took a moment or two of thought, but after that time had passed, Varric set the book aside, leaned back in the chair and got comfortable, picking up the story where Amelle had left off.

"Know that if you fail," the prince told her, "your life is forfeit. I will devour your heart and soak the earth with your blood."

As luck would have it, the girl didn't fail, and three lambs were born that day. The shepherd didn't make a secret of his dislike for the young woman, but she'd fulfilled her part of the bargain, so he didn't kill her. Instead, together they two worked to bury the favored ewe beneath the shade of a willow tree.

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months, during which time the shepherd called upon the young woman whenever any of his flock required healing. And she called on him in turn, bringing bread and cheese from the village and spending lazy afternoons with the shepherd beneath the ewe's willow tree. Though she dared not speak the words, she was falling in love with the surly shepherd.

One afternoon, after not seeing him in the village for several days, the young woman went to the shepherd's cottage. She found the sheep in their pen; they'd not been let out that morning, and for possibly longer than that. Worried, she rapped on the windows and knocked on the door, pushing inside when the shepherd didn't answer.

When she stumbled into the cottage, she found the shepherd sprawled upon the floor, clutching his chest in incredible pain. He was dying. It didn't take long for the young woman to realize that the spell the wicked mage king had placed upon his son was turning foul. For, unbeknownst to the young woman, the shepherd had fallen in love with her as well; but there was no room for love in the evil king's curse, and the wolf's heart had begun to turn rancid, poisoning him. It no longer fit in the young man's chest; every beat caused him pain, and it grieved the young woman to see him in such pain, for she loved the shepherd. But she did not know what she could do to help him.

Faced with unfamiliar magic, to say nothing of an unfamiliar spell, using her own magic the young woman drew out half her own heart, placing it in the shepherd's chest. His pain eased, and the heart beat. He was saved, though he could scarce believe it himself.

"How can you live with only half a heart?" cried the villagers, when they heard the tale. For the more miraculous the tale, the faster it spreads.

"I do not," the young woman told them. "For as long as my love draws breath, my heart is whole."

The story was over, and the room was once again silent, but for Fenris' wheezing breaths and the fire crackling upon the logs in the hearth.

"I know what they're saying about this Maker's Light stuff, Firefly," Varric told her, easing himself down from the chair and heading for the door. "But I've been around long enough to know that sometimes the things that have no chance of working, the things that shouldn't work? Do. It doesn't matter what anyone says will work or won't work or shouldn't work—you just keep doing what you're doing. You're writing the story now. No telling how it's gonna end." With a final look back at the pair of them, Varric gave a nod and left.

Amelle looked down at Fenris, brushing the backs of her fingers across his feverish brow.

As long as my love draws breath, my heart is whole.

"He's right about one thing, you know," Amelle told Fenris, situating his head in her lap, then breathing deeply, that hotcold thrum gathering and pouring from her palms in a steady blue-white glow. Threads of light and magic sunk into the elf's feverish skin as Amelle poured every ounce of concentration, every bit of her own heart into the work. "Your story isn't over yet. Not if I have anything to say about it."

Not for two more days, at least.

#

After soaking in the bath until the water went cold, Cullen dragged himself through his ablutions. He glanced at the bed, and decided he was still too… no, even with Amelle found—alive, thank Andraste, alive!—and the crisis averted, he knew sleep would prove elusive. When he closed his eyes, he saw Fenris crumpling to the ground, and the arrow going through the heart of that plain man in his plain clothes, and the feral look on the healer Jessamine's face. In some ways the last haunted him most of all. He'd kept expecting something awful—some demon, some abomination—to burst forth and make sense of the hate but Jessamine was only a human woman with human hates, who'd pushed everything into madness. But it's not just mages, Knight-Captain, Hawke had told him once. All people have the capacity for evil; they just aren't as obvious about it.

She'd been right. Of course. Things were never as simple as mages and templars, flaming-sword-breastplates and magic-imbued-staves. He just hadn't realized it. He'd never dreamed of seeing such a wretched example with his own eyes.

And then he'd lied to the Revered Mother. Even now, his mouth burned with the falsehood. Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Maker.

He was beginning to understand why friendship with mages was so frowned upon by the Order. Oh, it started innocently enough with laughter and standing up to obnoxious uncles and afternoons spent hunting Andraste's Grace, but then it became abandoning one's post, haring across the country, and telling bold-faced lies to local Chantry leaders.

And the worst part of all was that he knew he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

He needed a drink. A very stiff drink. Perhaps even two of them. At the same time.

Once he was clean and dressed and more or less put together again, he found his way to the mess hall. It was boisterous and loud, filled with men and women rejoicing the lives they'd kept, even as they mourned those whose lives had been lost. The Order… frowned on such rowdiness, generally, but he'd seen it before. Adrenaline ran high after a battle; it was better to release it than let it explode later.

Before he could find a drink and a table of his own, an arm slipped through his and he jumped, startled. It was Isabela's laugh he recognized, even before he looked down and saw her arm looped through his. "You look like a man who needs to drown some sorrows," she said lightly. The lightness, he noted, did not quite reach her eyes. "Come on. We're practically… bosom companions now, Handsome. Surely you wouldn't refuse to have a drink with a bosom companion."

Even with all the time—had it only truly been a week? A little more?—spent in Isabela's company, and even with all her teasing, he still couldn't help the slight blush that rose to his cheeks at the way she lingered on the word bosom. It was nigh impossible to keep his gaze from straying down to the one she displayed so… flagrantly. She laughed again, as though reading his thoughts. Perhaps she could. She was a bit… scary. He wouldn't put much past her abilities.

"Ahh, and I can still coax a blush," she mused. "The others have been all but immune for years. We may have to keep you, Handsome. If only for the novelty. Come on then. Varric's always the best at sniffing out the good liquor. Let's see what he's found, shall we?"

He thought back to the days on the road, feeling included because Amelle was there to smooth the rough edges for him. Oh, Amelle. "I would not wish to interrupt—"

"Blushes and he's polite. Definitely novel." Her tone remained light, joking almost, but her gaze missed nothing. He wondered, a little, how many people took Isabela at her tone while completely missing the rest. The faint lines at the corners of those eyes said she was more worried than her words admitted, and more relieved. The former for Fenris, he supposed. The latter for Varric.

Oh, Amelle. Oh, Fenris.

As if called by these thoughts, Varric appeared, bottle of something in hand. "Oh, look," he said dryly. "You've found a stray templar."

"Be kind. Handsome and I are—"

"Yes," Varric interrupted. "Bosom companions. I heard."

Isabela snorted. "I'll have you know we made an excellent team this morning."

"He stood like a post and you poked a girl in the back?" Varric asked, arching an eyebrow. He swiped at a nearby table with his sleeve before setting down his find. "Now Bianca and I? I'll have you know we fought off a dozen of that madwoman's puppets. At the same time."

Isabela gave him a skeptical look. "Mmm, yes. A dozen. A pity no one but Bianca was there to witness it." She nudged Varric with an elbow almost playfully, but the creases at the corners of her eyes deepened. "And your bloody heroics nearly got you—"

"Hey now," he said, in as serious a voice as Cullen had ever heard from him. "None of that. Look at me. Fit as a fiddle."

"It was damned close."

Varric smiled faintly. "And don't I know you'll be calling in that 'remember the time I saved your ass by dragging you through the battlefield' favor."

The smile she smiled was a genuine one. It almost stole the grief from her eyes. "How about I call it in now? Share that bottle with Handsome and me? With minimal complaining? I know that'll be the hard part."

Varric sighed. "You know how I feel about drinking with Chantry-types."

"You can't be that against it, Fuzzy. I see you brought three glasses."

"You and your strays, Rivaini. The third glass was for Bianca, but I suppose she's feeling magnanimous enough to share with the Turnip."

Cullen sighed, thought about holding his tongue, and then asked, "What's with the nicknames, anyway?"

Isabela waved her hand dismissively before reaching for the bottle and pouring three very stiff drinks. Cullen eyed the one she pushed his way warily and didn't immediately lift it to his lips. "It used to be all 'kitten' and 'sailor' and 'whore' with me, but Varric's much better at nicknames. He's enlightened me as to their… usefulness. Now I think they're quite fun, and usually we only use real names when we're mad at someone. Handsome."

Varric glowered. "Turnip."

Isabela grinned, bumping shoulders with Varric. "Handsome. He's got pretty eyes. And there's something about the mouth. I can hardly stop myself from ruffling his hair. It actually pains me." Cullen leaned back, just in case she tried to make good on her threat. She snickered but kept her hands on the table. "I admit, the wounded air of, I don't know, what is it? Lost hopes and dreams? Combined with that templar stiff upper lip… usually that kind of thing leaves me cold, but you wear it well." She laughed, lowering her voice suggestively. "I'd praise your Maker."

Isabela leaned across the table to fix Cullen with a steady gaze that made him feel immediately uncomfortable. He did his best not to squirm—she's just teasing, you know what her teasing's like—reaching for the drink she'd poured him more to have something to do than because he was thirsty. Almost before he realized what he was doing, he'd tossed the entire thing back, and Isabela had poured him a second.

Varric leaned back, turning his own glass of liquor between his fingers. "Look. You did a good thing for Firefly today. Don't think we don't realize you're the reason we're not breaking her out of templar solitary right now."

"She'd have done the same for me," Cullen said. His tongue already felt funny, like it was slightly too big for his mouth. Still, he drank his second drink almost as quickly as he'd drunk the first. His glass miraculously filled itself again. There's one for the Maker. Blessed be the always-full glass of… oh, dear.

Cullen didn't want to talk about templars, though. He was here to drink away the nagging, persistent thoughts about just how much trouble he was about to be in. Instead, he swallowed around his already-thick tongue and asked, "Why doesn't Hawke have a nickname?"

Varric gave him a look that clearly said the thought Cullen about as clever as a bag of rocks. A small bag of rocks. Small, stupid rocks. "Hawke's Hawke."

"But that's her name. Why isn't she… why isn't she something else? Like… Bossy."

Isabela burst into gales of laughter so loud people sitting three tables over stopped to look at them, wondering what the joke was.

Even Varric looked amused. "You want to be the one to call her that to her face?"

Cullen gave an exaggerated frown. His third glass was empty—Maker, he hoped it was still only his third glass—and filling again even as he watched. "But she is. Bossy. Isn't she?"

"Sure. But a nickname isn't always what you are."

Cullen puzzled this over, but the words didn't make sense. The world was starting to feel a little fuzzy, to own the truth—and not fuzzy like Varric's chest but a different kind, a drunker kind—but at least he wasn't obsessively thinking about the way he'd lied to the Revered Mother. He blinked. The world remained pleasantly blurry. "But you call her Hawke. Hawke Hawke. And you call her Rivaini. That's what she is. And she calls you Fuzzy. That's what—"

"Yes, yes," Varric interrupted. "I see your point. But Firefly's not a real firefly and Daisy's not a real daisy."

"Some days I had my doubts Blondie was even a real blond, come to think of it," Isabela mused. Cullen had no idea whom they meant, but feared asking. Instead he drank. But slower. Sips. "Ooh! And Choir Boy. You were kind of being mean with that one."

"I didn't like him so much back then."

Cullen frowned. "And you don't like me. So. Turnip."

Varric snorted.

"I call him Princess," Isabela said conspiratorially. "Because, you know, he's a prince. And he hates it. But he's got such pretty eyes and eyelashes like a girl."

"You and the pretty eyes, Rivaini."

She grinned. "I appreciate a pretty arse, too. As you know. But nothing tops the magnificence of your chest hair, Fuzzy. Even if jealousy does not become you."

Instead of getting angry, Varric only chuckled. "This one would've made a decent Broody, I think, if Broody wasn't already taken."

As soon as he'd spoken, however, a sadness swept over Varric's expression. Cullen saw it mirrored on Isabela's face.

Isabela refilled all their glasses. Then swallowing hard, she raised hers. "To Broody."

They clinked their drinks over the table—Cullen spilled quite a lot of his drink doing so—and drank heartily. He fell so hard and lay so still. And Amelle. Oh, Amelle. I am so sorry.

"How's kitten doing?" Isabela asked, sliding her glass around in a circle on the table. Cullen was about to answer that he hadn't spoken to Amelle yet, but it was Varric she'd asked, made plain by the way he heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, tapping one finger in a slow rhythm against the table.

"Holding it together," Varric replied, shrugging one shoulder. "Yelled at me for being out of bed."

"Warned you," Isabela replied, refilling the glasses again. Cullen found himself surprised there was room enough in his glass for any more liquor, but it had somehow been drained without his knowledge. "So what else do we know?"

Varric pulled a small leatherbound book from an inside pocket, flipping it open and setting it down flat on the table. "Well, I can tell you the guy guarding Firefly isn't much of a talker, and I think he's scared stiff of her, but he's no turncloak, so that's something. Lots of people are talking, and most of them saying different versions of the same thing." His expression turned wry. "Lots of people insisting they knew Jessamine was no good from the start."

"Of course they did," muttered Isabela. "Not that anyone did anything about it. Isn't hindsight grand?"

"And I really don't like what I'm hearing about this Maker's Light stuff."

Isabela's eyes darkened. "And I don't like what I've bloody well seen of it. No antidotes? No recipes for antidotes? No—"

"Nothing," Varric supplied with a glower. "For that matter, I haven't heard a peep about Broody that didn't have to do with…" his mouth twisted sourly over the word he was about to spit out, "preparations." He picked up the bottle, as if to refill their glasses, then winced. Without a word, Isabela swept the bottle from Varric's hand—he reached up to rub at his sore shoulder—and filled their glasses again, as if somehow they could anesthetize themselves against the subject.

"I've heard much the same," Isabela declared, setting the bottle down firmly. "And plenty of whispers about Hawke and Princess. Turns out that bitch wasn't lying about one thing. Everyone in the bloody palace suspected something was going on between them. People were placing bets."

Varric snorted. "Well. They never were very subtle."

A very faint smile played about Isabela's lips. "Worst rogues." Then she leaned forward on one elbow and continued, "Let's just say some people were happier about it than others. And," she added when Varric rolled his eyes, "I'm sure it won't surprise you to hear it's mostly the highborn who were less than thrilled at the prospect."

"Let me guess," Varric drawled. "Highborn ladies of a certain marrying age?"

"Got it in one, Fuzzy."

"Look at me, so surprised."

"What about," Cullen began, trying to take care to pronounce the syllables properly, "Amelle?"

"Split down the middle, from what I can tell," Varric told him. "There's a lot of people yelling she should be under lock and key, and others who aren't so sure, given what they saw in the square. Firefly probably helped her popularity with the local color, what with the life-saving and all. But, all in all, folks don't sound as rabid as they could be, finding out they've got a real live mage in their midst."

"The only thing everyone can agree on," said Isabela, holding up her glass and knocking the last inch of liquor back in one gulp, "is that no one knows what's going on or what's going to happen."

"At least the water's not poisoned," Cullen muttered, staring into the bottom of his once-again empty glass. And though it wasn't funny—shouldn't have been funny at all—he couldn't help the little bark of laughter that escaped. Oh, Fenris. Oh, Amelle.

"Speaking of water," Isabela said. Cullen didn't miss the look she and Varric exchanged.

"I think I will… take my leave," Cullen said, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. "Thank you both for the—for the conversation."

He ignored the way he slurred conversation. Thankfully, so did they.

"You sure you're—"

"Indeed," Cullen interrupted. "Good day to you both."

As he walked away, he heard Isabela say, "Isn't the politeness adorable?"

"I suppose," Varric added. "And not bad at keeping up with the drink, either, for a Chantry boy."

#

Kiara didn't know what she'd done to annoy the Maker, but it had to have been something serious indeed. She was still sniffling away the last of her tears, Kinnon's handkerchief long since soaked through, when she turned a corner and nearly walked straight into Lady Aileene Caddell. The tall brunette's cool gaze swept over her from head to heel; Kiara knew the woman missed nothing. She noted the rumpled dress and the handkerchief and the tearstained face, certainly. She probably noticed the bruises left from the morning's fighting, and the way Kiara carried herself a little tenderly because of them.

Kiara stood frozen, willing the woman not to speak, to simply walk away. A faint, cruel smile pulled at Aileene's lips. To an outsider it might have looked like sympathy, but Kiara saw behind the mask to the satisfaction beneath.

"My lady?" asked Kinnon. "Shall we go?"

Aileene laughed a light, tinkling, false little laugh. "Oh, you mean her, Ser Kinnon. How charming." As if Kinnon's words had broken the spell of silence, Aileene turned her piercing gaze back to Kiara and said, "If the tales we hear are true, you have had quite the morning." Aileene's eyes lowered pointedly to the handkerchief still clenched tight in Kiara's fist. "And such tales! Your sister, a mage. That's a terrible taint on a bloodline. Isn't that what kept the Amells from attaining the Viscountcy in Kirkwall only a generation or two back? Pity."

I'm going to kill her. I'm actually going to rip her face off with my bare hands, and they'll put me in the cell next to Jessamine. Kiara swallowed hard.

"Lady Aileene," Kinnon snapped, without even a hint of his usual good humor. "Such discourtesy is beneath you."

"Courtesy is earned, Ser Kinnon. She deserves none from me. You would be wise to consider your own place here. Perhaps she was worth defending when she had something to give in return, but with a mage sister and—"

Whatever Aileene was going to add after the and disappeared in a squeal and a thud as she crashed to the floor in a thunderclap of white light.

Kiara whirled, her hand already reaching for the jeweled blade at her belt. Cullen stood behind her, eyes bloodshot, staring at the heap of blustering lady on the floor. "Thought I heard someone say mage," he explained.

"Was that a smite?"

"Only… only a little one."

"I didn't even know it affected non-mages."

Cullen shrugged, wavering slightly on his feet. "We're not exactly s'posed to use it on people. Non-mage people. I, uh, didn't mean to imply—"

All at once, Kiara put together the wobbling and the reddened eyes and the way Cullen definitely slurred the word supposed and gasped, "Cullen, are you drunk?"

Lady Aileene was struggling to her feet, her hair frizzy about her flushed face and her clothing in utter disarray. "I will have you… I will… the Revered Mother will hear of this! I will not rest until you are driven in shame from the ranks of the Order! I shall send a letter to the Divine herself!"

Kiara almost grinned, but settled instead for a very mild smirk. "And are you a child, then, still hiding in your nursemaid's skirts, unwilling or unable to speak for herself, to fight her own battles?"

Aileene flushed an even deeper shade of crimson when she realized it was her own words being parroted back at her. "Impudent—"

"I know," Kiara said, with an exaggerated groan. "Impudent, over-reaching, stupid, foolish girl. I am inferior to you in every possible way. And yet I'm not the one flat on my arse in the middle of a public hallway." Narrowing her eyes, Kiara fixed the woman with a dangerous look. "Good day, Aileene."

With a sideways glance at Kinnon, Kiara moved to Cullen's side and took his arm. He glanced down at her, confused, but seemed to take the hint when she began to tug him down the hallway. When they were safely away from Aileene, Kiara turned another corner and guided Cullen toward her room; it was closer than his, and she didn't want to risk him either passing out or smiting more bystanders. Not that she didn't deserve that and worse, but at least I'm not in prison. The templar was even more unsteady than she'd thought—he stumbled if they walked too fast, and was muttering bits of the Chant under his breath.

"I knew an Amell once," he said abruptly. "In Ferelden. In the Circle."

Kiara smiled gently. "She's a cousin of mine, I think."

"Was," he said darkly. "I suppose they never told you. I never told you. She died… she died being a hero. I thought she was a hero, but when they told the story later, they hardly even mentioned her. A… a mage girl, h-hardly more than an apprentice, who died trying to stop… trying to stop a blood mage. He was her friend. The blood mage. Never understood why. He was so bloody dour, so insipid, so… whiny. And she was… she was…"

Kiara didn't think the templar realized he was crying, and she wasn't going to bring his attention to it. Her eyes prickled in sympathy. They'd reached her rooms, and on her nod, Kinnon opened the door so she could lead Cullen within. She gave the knight a brief smile and he nodded knowingly, closing the door and returning to his position as sentry outside it.

Left alone with Cullen, she dragged him to the fire and pushed him gently into one of the seats there. "I'd offer you a drink," she said lightly, "but I daresay that's the last thing you need."

His laugh was broken. "She was golden," he said, his voice still tinged with reverence. "She was… and her smile… oh, Maker."

"Cullen," Kiara soothed. "You don't have to talk about it."

"But I do," he insisted. "She was… she looked a bit like you. A bit like your sister. An Amell."

"Same nose?" Kiara asked.

Cullen's answering smile was fond. "Same nose. I think… Hawke. I—kissed your sister."

"What?"

He raised his hands defensively. "It's not what you—it was like kissing my sister. Uh, kissing your sister was like kissing… but you trusted me, and I—thought you should know. Secrets are so…"

"Andraste's hairy toes," Kiara gasped, flinging herself into the other chair and rather wishing for a drink herself. "You kissed my sister."

"It wasn't… right. But it did happen."

Kiara reached across the distance between them and patted his hand. It seemed too small a gesture, but she wasn't certain what else to offer. His pain was wrapped tight around him, like a cloak pulled close against the chill of the wind. "I thought templars… no, never mind. It's not important." It occurred to her then to wonder whether his misery wasn't the product of something closer to home than the girl at the Circle. "But are you okay? With… everything?"

Realization dawned. "You mean Fenris. Of course. She… she cares for him a great deal. Not like a brother. Oh, oh Maker," a laugh caught him off-guard; he seemed as surprised by it as Kiara. "I think Fenris kissed your sister, too."

"Yes, well," Kiara muttered dryly, "it seems to have been a trend."

"You chose bad babysitters, Hawke. Though, if it makes you feel better, I… don't think Aveline kissed her."

"Thank the Maker for small favors."

"It didn't… it wasn't right," he said again, frowning, then he looked at her, and for at least that instant his gaze didn't waver. "She's my friend."

Leaning back in her chair, Kiara looked more closely at Cullen, and the man that sat before her now was such a drastic change from the one upon whose desk she'd impertinently sat, asking him to watch over Amelle (and, Andraste's knickers, how on earth did kissing even enter the equation?). The change in Cullen's demeanor went deeper than the fact that he was quite clearly stone drunk — she'd actually noticed it earlier, after they'd discovered Jessamine's treachery.

"She is," she said, "isn't she?"

"I just… told you as much," he said, taking care not to slur, but only with limited success. "Didn't I? Or was that just in my head?"

"No, you told me. And I haven't yet thanked you for all you've done today. Thank you, Cullen, for stopping me before I did anything irreparably foolish, and thank you for…" Her throat went tight again. "They'd have taken her if not for you. I like the Revered Mother, and we've had the opportunity to work well together, but even I could see her hands were tied. Thank you."

The blush heated his cheeks beyond the flush alcohol had provided, but still, Cullen grimaced at her. "I'd do it again."

"And yet you look like you're in horrible pain."

"I lied."

Oh, dear. "About what?"

The templar tilted his head back and addressed the ceiling. "Kirkwall. My post. I left my post." His head lolled a bit to the side and he peered at her. "Not Knight-Commander of anything anymore. Not even acting. Not even sure if I'm still a templar. According to the Order, I mean. I can still… smite. Had to, though. She would've come alone if I didn't."

"She… told me she tried to leave without Fenris. A lucky thing he caught up."

Cullen addressed the ceiling again, but not before Kiara saw a flash of guilt upon his features. "I left him a note."

Kiara blinked hard, processing this. So he saved her life three times over. That I know of. Amelle got a templar to save her life, leave his post, and kiss her. Maker, what does she do when I'm not looking?

Why, apparently she charms the only individual even less likely to fall in love with a mage than a templar Knight-Commander.

And he's going to die on her.

"This poison," Cullen said, as though reading her thoughts. "Is it—"

"It's fatal."

"But Amelle can—"

Kiara sighed, leaning forward and wringing the still-damp handkerchief in her hands. She could feel the tears threatening, but she knew if she started crying for Fenris now, she wouldn't stop. Oh, Fenris. My faithful right hand, with your glowers and smashed wine bottles and your complete inability to pass up a game of cards. I'd let you win a dozen games in a row if you'd just smile one of those self-satisfied little half-smiles for me now. "I know what Amelle can do. Magebane and this Andraste's Wrath and Maker knows what else… they can incapacitate a mage. It only makes sense there are poisons just as resistant to magic. I'm afraid Maker's Light is one of them."

Cullen's eyes widened, and his face went deathly pale. "It's… not fair."

Kiara squeezed her hand around the fabric until her hand cramped with the pain. "Nothing's fair."

"Nothing's fair," Cullen repeated quietly. "But Hawke…"

She raised her eyes. Cullen was looking past her, at a fixed point somewhere over her left shoulder. "Cullen?"

"Wouldn't it be nice if it were?"

Bitter words tickled the end of her tongue, words about the reliability of children's stories and fairy tales. She swallowed them down, choking on the bile. "Yes," she finally said. "It would be."

Cullen hunched forward, putting his head in his hands. "D'you know what the Chant says about liars?" he asked, his words muffled.

"Yes," Kiara replied. "It's said those who deceive others will be judged by the Maker."

"'All things are known to the Maker and he will judge their lies,'" Cullen quoted.

Kiara stood and moved to the side of the room, pouring water into glasses for both of them. When she returned to his side and nudged him with her knee, he looked up and gratefully accepted the cup she offered. "I'm no expert," she said, pulling her chair close to his and toying with her own glass, "but somehow I think a little white lie told to protect a friend isn't going to go down as a soul-destroying offense. The Maker might even approve."

"Blasphemy, Hawke," Cullen murmured, with a hint of the steely faith she remembered. Then, bleakly, he added, "It's how every liar starts. One thing leads to another."

Kiara winced. No, no ritual. Just mix the ingredients up and… boom. Justice and I are free. And we can take our rightful place among free mages.

The worst part was the truth hidden within the lie.

Boom.

"You—you're too hard on yourself."

He huffed a weary laugh. "Meredith always said I wasn't hard enough. She nearly had me flogged, that day I didn't bring your sister back to the Gallows with me. Oh, she wanted to, but I was too close to the top. Insubordination in one's Knight-Captain might look ill for the Knight-Commander in charge. Instead I was subjected to the Wounded Coast patrol for six months. Every time I came back to Templar Hall still alive, Meredith looked disappointed."

Baffled, she blinked at him. "I didn't know."

He shrugged, his expression terribly weary and terribly sad. "No reason for you to know. We weren't… it was a choice I made. I'd make the same one again. For Amelle and for you." Cullen looked at the glass he held between his hands and drank from it again.

Kiara drew in a deep breath and let it out again, and began to wonder if maybe she hadn't misjudged him a little. He was a templar, and though they'd fought on the same side more than once, she could not look at the flaming sword upon his breastplate and not remember a bright summer afternoon in Lothering when she and her sister hid in a ravine, Amelle's magic hands burning her skin while templars searched the brush above them. She had never truly considered Cullen the enemy, but neither was he a friend. He'd always hovered somewhere in between. Trustworthy… but somehow never quite enough to bring into her fold of misfits and miscreants.

On more than one occasion, he'd been nothing more than a tool for her to make use of. She felt oddly guilty about it now.

"It occurs to me," Kiara said, tilting her own glass of water so very carefully and slowly the surface remained perfectly level as it crept up one side of the glass and then the other. "It occurs to me that saying the Maker will judge our lies is not quite the same thing as promising He will rain damnation down upon any who speak less than the truth."

Cullen peered blearily at her, as if struggling to follow a particularly complex theological argument.

"But—"

Kiara held up a finger, silencing him. "Did you lie for Amelle because you'd kissed her?"

Indignation pierced through the haze of drink as he straightened in his chair. "Most certainly not."

"Good. Then tell me why you did lie, Cullen." He opened his mouth to speak, but only snapped it shut again. Kiara looked more closely at him. "Was it… because you'd been fond of our cousin?"

He gave his head a weary shake. "No. Not even that." Cullen considered his glass again and drank the rest, setting the empty vessel aside before clasping his hands together, almost as if in prayer. "She'd been through so much already. You didn't… you didn't see what she did in Kirkwall."

"She told me what happened," replied Kiara somberly.

"Did she tell you how many nosebleeds she gave herself? I've never seen that, you know — a mage focusing so intently their body actually produces a physical reaction. Did she tell you how many times she drained her mana to the point of collapse? Did she tell you how many babies died, Hawke? How many children? How many tiny bodies she had to wrap in tinier shrouds only to be burned upon tiny pyres? Did she tell you she went too often and too far without food or rest because she truly was the only healer in Kirkwall, and every time she tried to sleep, tried to replenish her mana, she was summoned to the clinic to find another child had died, or another adult had succumbed to madness?"

Kiara stared at Cullen for a full minute, feeling strangely lightheaded. "I… I must confess, she…"

"Left that part out. Witness my shock." He sighed hard and rubbed at his forehead, then made a move for the empty glass, as if to drain it again. Kiara got up and refilled it, handing it back to him wordlessly. He accepted with equally silent thanks and drank deeply.

"The kiss was… ill-conceived," and he spoke those words slowly and carefully, as if mindful of not mumbling them. "We spent an entire afternoon searching for some stupidly elusive bloody flower for a potion—one, I might add, that turned out to be useless. Amelle had only just realized you'd likely been affected by the very madness she was trying to find a cure for."

Kiara could picture that all too clearly, and felt the sting of tears prickle her eyes.

"She was…"

"Distraught?" Kiara asked.

"Panicking. And it… she was so… alone. The only mage, the only healer, the only one who could do… what needed to be done."

"And you wanted to let her know she wasn't alone."

"And I thought…" Here, he blushed and admitted with a grimace, "I rather can't believe I'm confessing this to you. But yes. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. That… someone cared. She was afraid. Afraid of failing." For a moment he appeared to be in actual pain, such was his discomfiture. "And… yes. I thought her beautiful. Intelligent, dedicated… I… yes."

"And then you…" Kiara gestured.

"And it was…"

"—Not what you'd expected."

"As I said." He looked suddenly perplexed. "Why are we talking about this again?"

"We're talking about why you lied for her."

"Ah. Yes." He rubbed hard at his face, pressing fingertips against his eyes. "When Jessamine's letter arrived, it carried the very news she'd been afraid of. She worried it was the illness you'd carried with you to Starkhaven, worried you had been in the Fade too long, worried… about you. Would've had to smite her into oblivion to get her to stay. So I went with her. Didn't… didn't even think twice, really. Then it all turned out to be a trap." He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. "I don't care what anyone says — she was doing the Maker's work in Kirkwall. Healing a man someone didn't want healed and caring too much about her sister aren't crimes. She'd been—I don't want to think about what she'd been put through while she was missing. And then she…" he shook his head slowly and there was sorrow and grief in his eyes. "I could not let her reward be… that."

"But, Cullen," Kiara said softly, "what will your reward be?"

"I have sins to atone for," he replied. "Perhaps the new Knight-Commander will be forgiving."

Kiara didn't want to think about what forgiveness would look like for a templar who fully admitted to lying to keep an apostate free. "Cullen—"

"No," he said. "No, Hawke. I know the way of things. The Order gave me my second chance in Kirkwall; I will not get a third." He pushed himself to his feet and put a hand to his head. "Keep—you must keep your sister close. They will say she corrupted me. I will deny such charges, but the Chantry will not listen—they would rather believe the lie of the wicked apostate than believe the truth of an acting Knight-Commander who went against his indoctrination."

"You see," said Kiara with a frown, "now that's the kind of thing I think the Maker would frown on. But you're not leaving now, surely?"

He shook his head, wincing. "After," he said. "Amelle will be… I will go after." He peered at her searchingly, and for a moment she forgot the blood-shot eyes and the scent of whiskey—not funny, Isabela, not funny—and saw only the troubled man beneath. "Her name was Solona. Your cousin. Solona Amell. Perhaps she wasn't at the eye of a storm, like you, but she deserves to be remembered."

Kiara nodded weakly.

"Don't pity me, Hawke," he said quietly. "Not that. I know what I've done, and I did it all with my eyes open. Don't pity me."

She forced herself to smirk. The expression felt odd on her lips, like a mask, but it made Cullen smile. "You mistake me, Cullen," she said with forced brightness. "I was only thinking I'm so grateful I could kiss you. But since Amelle's already taken care of that…"

But it was a lie. She did pity him.

"You always were a terrible liar," he replied. "But thank you. For… listening. For everything."

"Thank you for smiting Aileene Caddell into next week."

Cullen's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Oh, Maker. Oh, Maker. I didn't… oh, sweet Andraste. That was a foolish thing to do."

She grinned, and this time there was nothing forced or fake about the expression whatsoever. "Foolish, maybe. But still the most fantastically satisfying application of a holy smite I've ever seen in action. Come on, templar. I'll make sure you get back to your room in one piece. You're going to want to sleep this one off."

"Maker," Cullen breathed. "I am in so much trouble."

Kiara snorted. "If I know drunkenness—and I do—your hangover tomorrow will be punishment enough for any discomfort you caused Aileene Caddell."

Cullen only groaned.