IMPORTANT AUTHORS' NOTE:

Just a quick note from the both of us to everyone reading: we're going to be taking about a week off of posting to get some editing and polishing done. Yes, I know, we probably couldn't have chosen a worse point in the story (actually, now that I think about it, we absolutely could have chosen worse spots). You all know we wouldn't take extra time if we didn't need it, and we do.

ANYWAY.

No new updates until next week (2/28 or thereabouts). See you then!

###

Kiara woke with the kind of headache that could only be borne of battle and stress and a devastating number of tears. She lay for a time contemplating the canopy above her, wondering if anyone might notice if she chose to spend the day in bed. After their… conversation, she doubted Sebastian would seek her out. Amelle might be concerned if she knew, but Kiara was fairly certain her sister would not leave Fenris' side. Tasia would frown and cluck and make vague threats, but Kiara did not think the maid would follow through on any of them. Not after yesterday.

Kiara rolled to her side, pulling a pillow close. It was a weak substitute for an embrace, but the coolness of the fabric felt soothing against her cheek. No cool pillow could soothe the memory of the day before, however. When she closed her eyes she saw again and again Fenris running and glowing and falling. She saw Maisie's defiant eyes, Kinnon slumping boneless to the ground, Garreth's misguided attempt to be a hero and Elias… He was an archer, not a swordsman. Oh, Elias, what were you thinking? She saw the bravery that had almost cost Joff his life.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she mumbled into the pillow. "You're alive. Do something."

Her headache didn't abate as she rose. Tasia seemed surprised to see her up and about, but the wide eyes and lifted eyebrows almost instantly returned to a polite neutral. She must be bloody worried about me. Kiara was grateful when Tasia, for once, worked in absolute silence. Her head was in no mood for gossip or arguments about attire. Kiara drank three cups of very strong tea, but did not touch her breakfast; her stomach, it seemed, was nearly as put out with her as her head.

Kinnon was waiting in the hall. She didn't protest when he fell in with her; after yesterday she was surprised it was only the one guard. "Don't you sleep?" she asked, aiming for amused but not quite reaching it. Her own voice sounded too drained and weary to sustain anything like genuine amusement.

Kinnon blinked at her. "My lady?"

"It seems like you are on duty all the time."

The knight shrugged. "Monterly and Garvis watched your door last night, my lady. I slept."

She noted the dark circles under his eyes and arched a querying eyebrow.

"I tried to sleep," he amended, his ears going pink. "Yesterday was…"

"A bad day," Kiara finished. "And a good day. Battle is always like that." She frowned. "I suppose you were too young to… have been much involved when the mercenaries came."

Kinnon closed his eyes and shook his head. "Old enough. I was newly knighted, my lady. Maisie and I both." The smile that twisted his lips was bitter; it looked sad and wrong on his face. A bad day. And a good day. "But we were not on duty. A lot of… a lot of good people died that night. More died the next day when they refused to bend the knee. I would have been one of them, if not for Captain Elias. And Maisie."

She wanted to ask, but she didn't want to push. After a moment, Kinnon continued. "The old Captain was killed defending the prince. A lot of the swordsmen were. Elias… well, he stepped into the breach, my lady. He said… he told us the usurpers would kill us all if they had to, without hesitation. Our blood wouldn't bring back the dead Vaels, but if we lived we could still protect Starkhaven. So he told us to bend our knees, but to think of Starkhaven when we did it. Maisie knelt first. I couldn't let her do it alone."

"You care for her."

Kinnon swallowed hard and scowled. "We grew up together, my lady. Joined the guard together. Trained together. As far back as I can remember, Maisie's been my best friend. I thought I knew her. Turns out I didn't know anything."

"People make bad decisions."

Kinnon crossed his arms over his chest, and all trace of his usual good humor slid from his face, replaced by hurt. And anger. And no small amount of betrayal. "No, my lady. I beg your pardon, but no. I thought about what you said. About blame. Flirting with the prince's lady in front of him? That's a bad decision. Siding with a traitor and plotting against someone who's done you no harm? Turning on your friends and comrades? That's betrayal."

"Yes," Kiara said softly. "It is."

They were most of the way to Fenris' room by the time Kiara said, "Flirting with the prince's lady, hmm? I suppose that was the reason for the punch?"

"I told you I deserved it."

She huffed a brief laugh. "I should thank you, Kinnon. It turns out a jealous Sebastian is ever so much more forthcoming about his feelings." And then she remembered and pressed her hand to a heart suddenly beating too hard and too fast.

Kinnon pressed a handkerchief on her as the tears began, and she gave him a watery smile.

"You're murder on a lad's supply of handkerchiefs, my lady," he said lightly.

Scrubbing at her face, she gave a thin chuckle. To her credit it almost sounded more like laughter than a sob. "I'll see you're well compensated, ser." His jest, however, was enough to stop her crying, and she was even more grateful for it than for the cloth to dab her eyes.

She stopped to check in on Amelle and Fenris, but found her sister slumped in the chair, asleep again, one hand still covering Fenris'. Amelle was snoring softly, lips parted and head resting against her shoulder. She looked so terribly young it nearly broke Kiara's heart. Part of her wanted to cover her sister with a blanket, but she knew Amelle well enough to know she'd only wake and refuse to sleep again, so Kiara blew a silent kiss her sister's way, sent yet another desperate prayer Fenris' way, and retreated back to the corridor and Kinnon.

Kiara had never been to young Lord Grayden's rooms, so she had to defer to Kinnon's expertise. "All we do is walk the halls, my lady. Halls, walls, gardens, gates. I should hope I have a serviceable map of the place in my head."

No immediate answer came when she knocked on his door. She tried a second and third time, and was just about to turn away in defeat when the door opened a crack. "Lady Kiara, I—" Garreth managed before the tears started and whatever he meant to say drowned in them.

Kiara nudged the door open with her foot, and pulled Garreth along with her into the sitting room. The room was a strange blend of boy and lord, she noted: weapons in disarray, books on every surface, piles of correspondence, fine clothes scattered in a manner that would've had Tasia in fits, several trays of uneaten food. Evidently he'd sent his servants away.

"Sit," she said. When he gazed at her in tired confusion, she led him to a chair and gently applied pressure to his shoulder until he collapsed into it. Then she strode to the window and threw open the curtains, blinking in the sudden brightness. The fire had been allowed to die, and the room was too cold, but before Kiara could remedy this by making a fire, Garreth said, "What are you doing here, my lady?"

"I'm still Kiara," she said. "And I would have come sooner, but yesterday was… complicated."

"Are you come to see me arrested, my lady? Kiara?"

"Maker's balls, Garreth, for what?"

"W-when I woke up. They told me. A-about the Captain. That's my fault, isn't it? If I hadn't—"

She raised a hand to forestall him. "Garreth. No. What you did was rash, reckless, and ill-conceived, certainly. It was also brave. And noble. You were fighting for what you believed in."

"But Captain Elias—"

"Elias stepped in because a woman under his command had gone rogue, Garreth. He had to try to stop her. He felt it was his responsibility."

He was an archer. She's a swordswoman. It was never going to be a fair match.

Garreth still looked sick and miserable. It reminded her how very young he was. "Garreth, listen to me. Elias wouldn't want this. You're a good lad, and you've a world of potential. The prince will need men like you at his back. You mustn't let this get the better of you. Do you understand me?"

Garreth's face crumpled, but he managed to keep from crying again. "She was toying with me."

"She didn't want to kill you. You'd done nothing to her. She let you live, just as she let Kinnon live, when she could easily have killed you both."

"She could have let Captain Elias live."

"She didn't. That's her burden to bear, though. And she will be punished for it."

She knew even as she said it that Garreth, too, now had to carry a burden he'd not had before. Starry-eyed youth had met harsh reality, and those worlds could not mesh comfortably. She remembered that well enough herself. We waited for the reinforcements at Ostagar. We waited for the beacon on the tower to light. We waited for victory to come in a flood of glory.

The girl who'd enlisted in King Cailan's army dreaming of holding back a Blight and emerging a conquering hero had died at Ostagar. Harsh reality always killed starry-eyed youth when they clashed. Always.

Kiara clapped a hand to the young man's shoulder. "Come on, Garreth. Up you get. We're going to the practice yard. You're going to spar with Ser Kinnon until you can't lift your arm."

"It's not the falling off your horse that counts. It's the getting back on after you've tumbled," Garreth said softly, almost to himself. "The prince said that."

"Just so," Kiara agreed, empty stomach lurching painfully at the thought of Sebastian. "Only instead of horses we're doing swords."

Garreth got to his feet wearily, but he did rise. His dark eyes were still haunted, and she feared it would be a while yet before his sweet smile returned, but he rose, and that was always the first step. "Come on," she repeated. "We survive, Garreth. That's what happens after something like this. We live, to honor those who didn't."

When the boy turned abruptly and wrapped his arms around her, she held him close and whispered soothing platitudes into his tousled hair. They all had demons to fight, after all, and ghosts to lay to rest. Better to do so in the company of friends.

#

From the way Fenris' eyelids twitched, Amelle knew he was in the Fade. He was there, and here she was, forced to sit and wait and watch and do nothing but split her time between sending wave after wave of healing magic into his body, willing her power to fight the poison that had entrenched itself within him, and pressing cool compresses against his feverish skin while she let her mana recover.

Amelle soaked a fresh cloth in the cool water, squeezing the excess moisture free and folding it, carefully wiping away the perspiration glistening upon his brow. Memories of that night surfaced mockingly in her mind, when he'd lain with his head in her lap mere moments before she'd undone the magic that had wiped his memories. Her gut wrenched and she leaned down, brushing a kiss against Fenris' burning forehead.

"I'm still here," she whispered. "I'm not leaving you."

The soft, hesitant sound of a throat clearing made her start and sit up. "Sebastian," Amelle said, wiping quickly at her face. If the prince's expression was any indication, however, he was suffering too. Not that she expected less, given everything. "I didn't—I didn't hear you. I'm sorry."

"Please, don't…" Sebastian shook his head, adding, "I do not wish to intrude."

"It's hardly an intense debate we're having," she replied, trying so hard for levity, cursing the way her voice shook through it.

Sending her an almost pitying glance, Sebastian walked in and looked around briefly before settling in the chair by Fenris' bedside. "How does he fare?" asked Sebastian, quietly. And she saw there, in his face, beyond the worry for his friend, something more — something weighing on him as heavily as this. Amelle didn't know, but she could guess. Oh, Kiara. She looked down at Fenris again and pressed the damp cloth against one flushed cheek, then the other.

"He…" The words wouldn't come and she bit down hard on her lip, trying to maintain her composure. "I haven't detected any change."

Sebastian bowed his head.

"He has two days left." I have two days left. I still have two days. "If hope is all I have, I must hope, and I must try." And she let out a soft, broken laugh. "And I will keep trying. It'll be a miracle if he's not glowing blue with healing magic by the time I'm finished." Another tear squeezed free and she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder to rid herself of it.

"He is in the Fade, then."

Amelle gave a shaky nod, her fingers drifting through Fenris' hair, carding through the fine, pale strands. Sebastian looked at her a moment, then turned that pensive gaze to Fenris. "And you have not…" he gestured a little, awkwardly. "Can you not go in after him? As you did me?"

"It's different," Amelle replied on a sigh. "There was no reason for you not to wake up. You were keeping yourself there. Punishing yourself." The smile she sent him was faint. "You needed a push. But Fenris…"

"The nature of the poison prevents you?"

"Partially." Amelle said nothing for a long moment, then let out a shuddering, long-held breath. "In your dream, you had reconstructed Kirkwall. I had a reasonably good idea where I might find you. Fenris' version of the Fade could be anywhere, and if I drop down in the middle of Minrathous? I could try to find him. I might even get close. There's no guarantee."

"And yet you do not." Sebastian didn't sound like he was condemning her, but he did sound puzzled. "You went in after me and…" Here, he gave her a gentle smile. "I dare not think I have ever been dearer to you than he."

"Don't mistake my not making the attempt as my not wanting to go. I do want to, very badly, as it happens," Amelle explained, as carefully as she could.

"So why…?"

Amelle's smile was a grim one, brittle around the edges. "When a demon whispers the thing you want most to do is a wonderful idea and, yes, you should do it right away and very quickly, it is best to refrain, no matter how badly it hurts to do so." It took Amelle a moment to realize his sharp look was worry and not disapproval, and she looked away with a shrug. "Yes. I hear them. Even in this case—perhaps especially in this case—I hear them."

"Now?"

She grimaced and shook her head. "Not right now, thank the Maker." After a moment, Amelle took Fenris' hand in hers and held it, fingertips tracing the lyrium markings. "Usually when it's… when it's dark, and quiet, and the palace is asleep, and his breathing's the loudest thing in the room." She shrugged and looked away. "That's… when doubt creeps in, after all, isn't it? But… yes, they have tempted me," she said, not looking up, "urged me on when I was trying to decide if it would truly be helpful, or whether my efforts would be better spent doing what I'm doing now."

"What… what do they…"

Amelle's head jerked up and she stared at Sebastian, feeling herself on the cusp of anger. But he had asked so tentatively, and he was watching her with a look so hesitant and respectful, she bit back the retort poised upon her tongue and inhaled deeply. Was this not what she'd wanted? What Anders had complained of so frequently? People never caring to understand what the mage's connection to the Fade meant, only fearing and condemning it? Sebastian, she saw, was trying to understand. She met his gaze unflinchingly.

"They tell me he is lost and searching for me. They tell me I must find him, that they will take me to him."

He arched an eyebrow. "And you are certain these are demons speaking?"

"Yes. They make—" Sudden heat rushed to her face and she swallowed hard. "They make promises," she said, and prayed Sebastian would not ask her to elaborate.

"You resist the temptation then."

Bowing her head as she let out a dry chuckle, Amelle said, "Maker, it sounds so pious when you put it that way. I'm just—I have to consider the consequences of my actions. When I went into the Fade to help you, I genuinely felt you were keeping yourself from being healed. I thought I could reason with you. I did it because I could not bear the thought of telling my sister you had perished."

That brief mention of Kiara made Sebastian flinch and look away. When he finally spoke, the words sounded as if they were being torn from his throat. "If I could have traveled into the Fade to aid your sister after her poisoning, I would have."

Amelle couldn't help but smile. "My, you have changed, Sebastian."

"What about…" Sebastian trailed off, stopped, shook his head. "When your sister went after Feynriel. You accompanied her then, but she could have gone without you. If you fear the demons will tempt you, could not someone else—could not Kiara or myself go for you?"

"Oh, Sebastian," she said. "But you—"

"Are a different man, as you said," he interrupted. "And would not have you think I'm unwilling to do what I'm able. For Fenris. For you. For… I would not sit idle if I can help instead."

Amelle reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Even if I thought it would help, I'm no Marethari." She lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug. "I wish this kind of battle could be fought with blades and bows, or mucking about in the Fade. It would be much simpler."

The shadow that passed over his features reminded her that the last battle of blades and bows had cost him a great deal, and she pressed his hand in hers again. She heard him murmur a prayer under his breath. That, she supposed, was a way to fight, too.

Fenris drew in another struggling, wheezing breath and she looked down, brushing his damp hair away from his forehead. "Beneath the sweet, false promises, there's a… there is a softer voice, whispering to me as well. It urges me to remain by his side, to stay with him and care for him on this side of the Fade. It makes no promises, offers no bargains. It pleads with me. I am doing all I can for Fenris right here. Whether it will be enough remains to be seen."

Sebastian nodded, and after a moment or two of thoughtful silence, he cleared his throat and turned a sterner look her way. "The maids who tend your room say you haven't been there. I hope," he said pointedly, "you are taking proper care of yourself."

"Maker, Sebastian," she said on a laugh, "this room is more than large enough for me to stay in while I'm watching over him. The bed itself has got to be at least as large as Varric's suite at The Hanged Man." She sent what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I am taking care of myself the best I can right now. I promise you. I wouldn't risk…" The smile faltered, and she looked down at Fenris. "I wouldn't risk compromising myself foolishly."

"I… I believe you, Amelle," replied Sebastian, his words tight, his voice strained. "Is there anything you do require?"

She pushed a hand through her hair, thinking. "I'm running low on lyrium potion," she admitted. "I brought what I had from home, but my own stores had run low. If you… know of anywhere I might get more, that would be useful."

He nodded. "I can make no promises, but I will see what I can do." Then, frowning, Sebastian strode to the open window; the breeze coming through was cool, bordering on crisp. "The weather's just beginning to turn," he said, fingering one of the fluttering curtains. "I'll have some extra blankets brought in as well. The last thing anyone needs is for the daft healer to catch a chill." Despite the shadows under his eyes and the worry creasing his forehead, there was no mistaking his affection woven into his words.

Amelle's smile was grateful. "Thank you, Sebastian."

He rested his hand on top of her head for a moment, gently mussing her hair. "Be it faith in the Maker, or faith in the gifts He bestowed upon you… your faith is strong. I find myself bolstered by it. I will pray for him, Amelle. And for you."

As Amelle watched Sebastian turn and leave, closing the door softly behind him, she hoped faith would be enough.

#

As doors went, it was a good one: well-crafted, heavy, with a solid, shining doorknob. It was not locked, so far as Cullen could tell, but he hesitated. He had a reasonable idea what awaited him on the other side of the wooden barrier, and still he found himself unprepared for it.

Holding his breath, Cullen lifted his hand to knock, but only once, and softly. Barely a heartbeat passed before he heard her muffled voice bidding him enter. When he opened the door, he first registered the vast, lushly furnished room, with its marble floors and gilt accents. The bed itself was enormous, and on it lay Fenris, feverish and still, the scratching wheeze of his struggling breath the only sound. Light streamed in from open windows, and the curtains and drapes were pushed aside, Starkhaven spread out below. The view was impressive, though he doubted Amelle had noticed it, or cared to.

She sat upon the bed, her back braced against the headboard, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. One hand stroked Fenris' hair back, while the other held a book. When she looked up, however, a strange, unreadable look flashed across Amelle's face right before she smiled at him, and promptly hid the book in the folds of her skirt.

"Coming to check on your charge?" she asked lightly, unwittingly reminding him of the lie he'd tried to drink out of his memory and Cullen grimaced. Reading his expression for what it was, Amelle's own turned contrite. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

But Cullen cut her off with a wave of his hand. He wasn't about to place another weight upon Amelle Hawke's shoulders. He also knew her well enough to know that if she teased him, it was fondly done and without malice. "If you must know, I was coming to see how you were doing. But, it hardly does our, ah, cover story any harm in either case." He settled into the chair that had been pulled up to the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. "So. How are you faring?"

There was another ripple in her expression, eyes flickering down to the man who lay by her side. "I've… been better," she answered honestly.

"Nosebleeds?"

She laughed a little, softly, and it was such a tired, wrung out sound that Cullen reached out, resting a hand on her forearm. "No. No, I can't afford to push myself like that now. He doesn't have the time for me to be reckless. I need to be smarter. Lots of small, intense bursts of magic, with time to recover in between. I don't have a lot of lyrium potion left over from what I packed. I have to… ration it. Sebastian's got people looking for more, but… well. This is Starkhaven."

Cullen wasn't sure whether Amelle meant she had to ration her potion or her mana, and decided it didn't much matter. "I am relieved to hear you're being cautious."

"Saves you having to come in here and smite some sense in to me?" Her smile said she was jesting, but Cullen vividly remembered the lady in the hallway and felt a flush of shame creeping up his neck. "Cullen? I was joking."

He coughed to clear his throat. "I know," he replied. "I—it's nothing."

Amelle looked amusedly aghast, the expression at war with the exhaustion in her eyes. "Don't tell me you've been running around smiting other people behind my back. I don't know if I could bear it. You might break my heart."

"Amelle… you are japing about a very powerful divine ability."

"You're the one who smote me in your sleep. I feel that earned me the right to poke fun as much as I like."

He sighed, but before he could speak, Amelle leveled a more penetrating glance his way. Setting her book aside and swiveling around on the bed, she reached out, taking his chin in her hand, and frowning her healer's frown. "Speaking of sleep, and not getting any, do you want to tell me why you look like you got kicked in the face by an angry mule?"

"It is nothing to concern yourself over…"

Without warning, she raised her other hand and lit her palm with bright fire—too bright. He winced as his sensitive eyes sent a lance of pain hammering through his skull. Amelle's snort was caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Sweet Andraste, Cullen. You think I don't know a raging hangover when I see one? Have you met my sister?"

"I am perfectly—"

"Hungover," she interrupted. "Hold still."

He tried to pull away from her, but she had all the leverage and he was stuck in a chair. He felt the familiar resistance to her power, but after a few moments of hotcold onslaught, the headache behind his eyes began to fade and his nausea disappeared. He didn't want to admit—even to himself—how overwhelming the sheer relief was. When the glow of her magic dissipated, she punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"You didn't have to—" he began, but she waved a hand dismissively.

"I have become so proficient at hangover cures they hardly use any mana at all."

He frowned at her little lie. He knew very well that any magic—beneficial as it might be—was a challenge when wielded against a templar. Years of training and lyrium-abuse lowered magic's effectiveness drastically. "Amelle…"

"Was it Kiara? I… she's been known to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle, and yesterday was…"

"Not your sister," he replied. And then, with some rancor, "It was Varric. And—"

Amelle's laugh was so abrupt she clapped a hand over her mouth and rocked back. "And Isabela. Maker, you drank with Varric and Isabela? Alone?" On his grimace, she added, "I didn't know you for a man with a death wish, Cullen."

"It seemed…"

"Like a good idea at the time. Yes, that sounds familiar." She sighed, still laughing a little and squeezing his hands. "That's usually how some of my worst hangovers come into being. Even Fenr—" She stopped suddenly and swallowed hard, and when she smiled again it was more brittle, false. Her hands had gone cold and Cullen found himself rubbing them gently between his own to warm them.

"You were saying?" he asked, as conversationally as possible. Best not to call undue attention to the lapse in what he was now utterly certain was a facade. Even so, it took a moment for Amelle to shake off the emotions that had blindsided her.

"…Even Fenris did—doesn't mind making use of my little cure, and he's at least as distrustful of magic as you are." She breathed in deeply and let it out, but Cullen had seen the crack and was not fooled when the mask of serene confidence settled into place. "So, what brings you here?"

"As I said, I merely wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm…"

"Amelle Hawke, Maker help me, if you say I'm fine, I will smite you where you sit."

That was enough make her start and sit back, blinking at him as if she'd never laid eyes on him before that moment. "Andraste's knickers, cure one little hangover for a templar and he gets awfully bossy afterward."

Cullen closed his eyes and let out a sigh. "All I ask is that you don't lie to me. I know perfectly well you aren't fine. And I am… worried about you."

She looked down at their hands and was silent a long while. "I'm not going to turn into an abomination. It's… I'm not—I swear to you, I'm not."

"I… I know."

She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her bangs. "You know?" When he shrugged, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. He knew how she felt; he'd been puzzled for a long while now.

"I only thought you might…" Cullen frowned and swallowed hard, looking over at the unconscious Fenris. "I thought," he began again, "you might want to—to talk. Perhaps."

Amelle followed his gaze and sighed, her shoulders rounding as she gave a slow nod. "I don't know how I'm doing," she said wearily. "I'm trying. I'm trying as hard as I can, not even knowing if I can make a difference. Just… hoping I can, even if I'm afraid I can't." And then her expression went strangely inscrutable, bordering almost on sheepishness or embarrassment. "Trying to find… find faith, where I can."

It was then that Cullen noticed the book she'd set aside, the rich leather cover emblazoned with an embossed sun, glittering with gold leaf he was fairly certain was genuine. Amelle followed Cullen's gaze, and he did not think he imagined the pink tint upon her cheeks. "You probably think I'm being silly," she said, looking at the book.

"Amelle," Cullen blurted, staring at her. "Why in the Maker's name would I think you silly for—"

"Apostate," she reminded him. "It's not as if I'm…" she trailed off, struggling. "I mean, I know I'm not…"

"So help me, if the next words out of your mouth are I'm not one of the Maker's children, I will absolutely smite you where you sit," he said, the vehemence in Cullen's tone surprising even him. "Twice. How can you possibly say that?"

"Are we really having this conversation?" she asked him, brow quirking. "You know as well as I do—"

"I know you do Andraste's work," he broke in, glaring at her. "I know that. And I'll hear nothing more on the subject of whether or not you are one of the Maker's children. 'Foul and corrupt are you who have taken My gift and turned it against My children,'" he quoted sternly. "Now, maybe I don't have the right of it, but this certainly doesn't look as if you've turned your gifts against Fenris."

Amelle grimaced, but did not argue. A first, perhaps. "Mm. I thought not." A second or two passed and Cullen settled back a bit in his chair. "Though I hardly think you've been reading Transfigurations to Fenris," he mused lightly. "It's very dry."

"No… the Canticle of Trials," she said, running a finger over the book's spine. "Less dry. 'Maker, thought the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.'"

"'What you have created,'" Cullen finished for her, "'no one can tear asunder.' There is nothing silly at all about finding solace in faith."

"He missed the antidote window," she said quietly. "I know that. I know that Maker's Light is resistant to magic. But I also know, with just as much certainty, that I cannot sit by his bedside and weep and fret and give him a three-day-long goodbye. I'm going to do all I can, until there is nothing more I can do. If that is faith…" she trailed off with a shrug.

"Might I ask… why have you not turned your efforts to crafting an antidote yourself? I realize the recipe is lost, but surely you could use the poison's recipe itself to… to…"

"Use the poison to recreate the antidote—or any antidote?" she asked. "Something better, maybe?"

"Yes. Exactly."

Leaning back and bracing her arms behind her, Amelle fell silent, looking down at her lap. "Like I tried to do in Kirkwall."

"Yes." Then he looked at her more closely, narrowing his eyes at her choice of words: tried to do in Kirkwall. "Surely you aren't—you aren't avoiding that option because the potion you'd crafted… failed?"

"Oh, no," answered Amelle instantly, shaking her head. "No, not in the least. Dragon's Sight— there was nothing wrong with the potion," she explained, "it was only the wrong potion for what ailed people. True, it didn't work, but that… I don't think that means the potion itself was a failure. It probably works incredibly well, when it's used against the condition it was crafted to fight. It was just… just the wrong tool for the job, I suppose. Try to use a hammer to fix a glass lantern, it's not the hammer's fault the glass gets shattered."

"So… Maker's Light…"

Her expression darkened as she brought the heel of her hand up to rub at a spot between her eyebrows. "I've looked at the recipe already—Kiara sent one of her pages up with not long after I'd settled in here. Like you, she thought I might be able to work backward and recreate the antidote."

"And?"

Looking up at him from behind her hand, Amelle's eyes were dark as she said, "That recipe was one of the nastiest pieces of work I've ever seen." The disgust in her tone was palpable. "Magebane, sleeping draught, demonic poison—and those were just the ingredients I'd heard of. At least half the ingredients are indigenous to Starkhaven, so far as I can tell—I wouldn't know them if I went out and tripped over them." Her hand dropped to her lap. "Even if the antidote window weren't a factor, it'd take me months to reverse-craft an antidote for Maker's Light."

Cullen looked down at Fenris. "And we haven't got months."

"We haven't got months, and we might not even have research materials. The Circle here burned, after all. No library to research in." She shook her head and looked away. "So… I'm doing what I can." And then, softer, "It doesn't feel like much—it doesn't feel like nearly enough. But I don't—" She stopped and frowned down at the book. "There's nothing else I can do but this."

"But you said—Amelle, you said there was magebane in Maker's Light."

Amelle didn't answer for several seconds. "…I know. And I have every bloody reason to believe magic won't do a damned thing against it. But… but consider a rock. Consider a wall of rocks, built specifically to keep…" Amelle flung a hand out as if to grasp for a word, "to keep water out of a place. Think of… of a sea wall, or a dam. That structure—that wall, or that damn, or that rock—is resistant to the water it's trying to keep out. But over time…"

"Over time, the water wears it away. Smoothes it down. Creates… fissures. Leaks." He frowned at her. "And that is what you hope to accomplish?"

She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I don't know if it'll work—I…" Amelle looked up, met his eyes and held his gaze; there, in the green depths, he saw determination in the face of uncertainty, and raw, painful honesty. "I don't know. But in the end, this is what I can do, which means it's what I'm going to do." One hand slid out and captured Fenris'. "Until I can't do anything else."

"We are none of us masters over life and death," he said, tempering the steel in his voice with something like compassion. "Even your healing is not limitless, as you know. Things may appear bleak, night might appear long, three days may seem an eternity, but hope… hope is never lost."

"You mean to say it's in the Maker's hands."

He shrugged, leaning forward and clasping his hands loosely between his knees. "At times the words sound trite, I know. It is… it is not the words though, that matter most," he said, indicating the leatherbound tome with its golden sun. "It is the feeling behind them. You are a creature of feeling, Amelle. And given that you feel things deeply, I would rather see you hope." He sighed, shaking his head, still fixated on the carpet between his feet. "I no longer recognized myself after everything that happened in Ferelden's Circle. I had been naive before, and perhaps a little foolish, but also kind and caring and hopeful. Afterward I seethed with hate, with the desire for vengeance, with bitterness about all the things—real and imagined—I thought stolen from me. Thankfully, looking back, I no longer recognize that iteration of myself either." He paused here, and when he looked at Amelle, he found her listening attentively, her brow slightly furrowed, her head tilted the way it always tilted when she was looking carefully at a problem she was trying to solve.

"Before I came to Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander—Greagoir, his name was—took me aside and told me something I've never forgotten. He said, 'Lad, I'm not going to insult you with platitudes or bore you with quotations from the Chant I'm perfectly aware you already know. It was wrong, what was done to you. It was cruel. It was evil. But you survived. No one can change the past and no one can foretell the future, so the best thing you can do is learn to live in the now. This moment right here is the only one you can control, and even then nothing's guaranteed.' It didn't… I won't pretend it made everything better. Words don't, you know. But later, even when I was still hurting and bitter and angry, when I thought of those words I felt… something almost like peace."

He glanced past Amelle to Fenris, so still and so damaged. "We neither of us can change what happened to him yesterday. But neither can we know what will happen to him tomorrow. For today he is still here, still breathing, still alive."

"To be honest, I think I rather prefer your way of it. I cannot change what happened. And if I do nothing, he will most certainly die."

"Whereas if you do all you can…"

"Then I will know I've done all I can," Amelle answered simply. "And if… if such a thing… if he—" she swallowed hard, unable even to say the words. It mattered little; Cullen knew what she was trying to say, and that was good enough. "If he does. Then I must consider why I got to live."

His frown must have been evident, for even before Cullen tried to object — survivor's guilt was a fruitless path — Amelle held up her hand.

"I know what you're going to say, and I don't mean it that way. But if Fenris perishes and I live, then it is up to me to discover why. Because if the Maker allowed an apostate to walk away from certain doom…"

"He must have plans for her?"

"Maybe." Amelle lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and twisted around to look down at Fenris. "Though, to own the truth of it, I'd rather he survive."

"Suppose he does survive. What then?"

"I suspect the first thing I will do is get very, very drunk."

The groan escaped before he could swallow it, and Amelle kicked at his shin lightly with her slippered toes. "Is the pain too fresh? I suppose I won't force you to drink with me, then. Though…" she paused, squinting at him. "Would it be horrible to admit I find myself most curious? Putting the words 'drunk' and 'templar' to say nothing of 'Cullen' all together never occurred to me before today."

"You missed very little."

She arched an eyebrow and ran her fingers through Fenris' hair. For a moment her magic turned the white hair blue-silver, and then it faded again. "Why don't I believe you? Oh, because I know what drinking with Varric and Isabela is like, that's why. Did they make you play cards?"

"No!" he exclaimed, only to remember something else, something worse. "Oh, Maker," he breathed. "I… I smote a noblewoman who was being wretched to your sister. Sweet Andraste, and then I cried on her shoulder."

"The noblewoman's?"

"No," Cullen gasped, scandalized, "your sister's."

Amelle gasped, poking a finger abruptly into his sternum. "Cullen," she said warningly. "What did you say to her?"

This blush did not stop at his neck. Amelle's eyes widened and the second kick she aimed at his shin was anything but gentle. "I… am not… entirely sure."

"Cullen!"

He winced. "There may have been… oh, Maker, it's all muddled."

"Tell me you didn't… you know, the garden." He didn't have to speak. Whatever she saw on his face earned him a third kick. "She's going to be insufferable. I should not have healed your hangover — I've half a mind to give it back to you now!"

"It—I didn't—it didn't seem like a good idea, keeping secrets—"

But Amelle was covering her eyes. "Oh, Andraste's lacy underpants…"

"I told her there was nothing—"

"No. No, no. You do not know my sister. She's—she's going to think—I don't even know what she's going to think! Probably that I bloody well seduced you in the viscount's garden if you were crying on her shoulder over it." She tilted her head and looked at him queerly. "Why were you crying on her shoulder over it?"

This time it was Cullen's turn to look affronted, which earned him both a scowl and another kick. "I was not crying over what transpired in the garden, Amelle. And I made quite clear—I-I think I made it quite clear what occurred was entirely innocent."

"You think."

"I am very nearly certain."

"And yet you were crying on her shoulder."

"Well, not literally. And not anything to do with you, truly."

She was still frowning at him. Much as he hated to admit it — and as much as he was certain a bruise was going to turn up on his shin sooner rather than later — Amelle's glares and pert retorts were a world of improvement over sadness, grief, and the looming threat of loss.

"Well…?"

"I believe you needn't worry about my telling her what — what happened. I — your sister is laboring under no misconceptions that I am carrying a torch for you."

"Andraste's arse. Dare I ask how you managed that?"

"I… I believe I may have told her it was… er. Rather like… kissing my sister. If I had one."

And again she went for the shin. "Ew. Maker, Cullen. That's horrible. Clearly you do not have a sister, or you'd know how creepy that sounds. As far as I'm concerned, the question of anything sibling related should be left out of kissing entirely."

Scrubbing his hand through his hair—and resisting the urge to check for tenderness at his shin—Cullen caught her meaning and blushed even hotter. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't quite think—"

She shot him an arch look but didn't kick him again, for which he was grateful. "Evidently. Couldn't you have said it was like… I don't know… like kissing a friend?"

He rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "Well, yes, when you put it that way I see how it might have been a better option. With less… creepiness."

"Thank you. Ugh." A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, tinged with the kind of impishness that was rapidly making him fear for his shins. "I can tell you one thing for certain."

When she didn't immediately enlighten him, he raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"I am now beyond intrigued. I am going to have to see you drunk at some point. To satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else."

"I swear to you, Amelle Hawke, I am never drinking again."

She snorted. "I'll make sure to let Varric and Isabela know. They do love a challenge."

Cullen glared at her. "You wouldn't."

"I might," she replied airily, swinging her slippered feet. "Depends entirely on how intolerable my sister is, having been given such potent ammunition."

"It was… it was just a kiss. A chaste one!"

Amelle rolled her eyes, and gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yet more proof you don't have siblings." And then, in an instant, the aggrieved annoyance melted into a fond smile and she tilted her head.

Cullen felt himself grow wary. "Yes?"

The smile stayed in place, though had gone slightly lopsided. "I know what you're doing, Cullen."

Yes, he rather imagine she did know. All the same, he straightened his shoulders and sent her an arch look of his own. "And what is that?"

"It's bearing a striking resemblance to cheering me up." Her brows quirked together quickly and she added, "Interspersed with disgusting me beyond comprehension. But mostly… cheering me up."

"I would rather see your smiles than your sadness any day, Amelle. And I would rather you be hopeful than not." He cast a glance at Fenris, then back to Amelle, hesitating just a moment before he stood. Amelle got to her feet as well and he sent her a smile of his own. "We cannot know what will happen, but… I suspect you will be happier knowing you did all within your power while you could. Do what you must, just remember—"

"I know, I know: no nosebleeds."

He chuckled then and nodded, letting Amelle hug him and, perhaps more surprisingly, letting himself return it. "No nosebleeds."

"Deal."