Kiara was not accustomed to feeling either useless or helpless. Throughout the whole of her life, she'd been one to act and do and work, changing the things she could and working to reconcile a way to come to terms with things beyond her ability to affect. It was not her way to sit and wait and wait and wait. Yet, on this day, for this occasion, she would not be anywhere or doing anything else even if it meant doing nothing more than sitting, doing nothing beyond watching her sister pull and twist and pour her mana into Fenris.

Despite all Amelle's best efforts, he remained unresponsive. And today was the third day.

Kiara slept ill and woke early, dressing herself in her leathers.

She needed to feel like herself. Like the version of herself Fenris knew.

She didn't want to wear a gown for waiting.

She was not ready to wear one for mourning.

And today was the third day.

The third of three very long days. She hadn't been able to do much to ease her sister's burden in those days, and it galled her.

Oh, she spoke with the maids and let the staff know which were her sister's favorite foods and how she liked her tea. She did what she could around Starkhaven, checking on those still recovering from Jessamine's wrath. All who'd got the antidote had fully recovered by now, and those whose injuries Amelle healed were on the mend and resting comfortably. She'd stopped in to check on Joff and found him remarkably well, all things considered, his children playing around him and wife fussing. She didn't know how to tell him how vital he'd been to the tide turning; she merely clapped him on the shoulder and insisted the debt she owed would be repaid someday to the best of her ability.

But saying goodbye to a city she'd only just come to love was not the same as somehow trying to imagine saying goodbye to a friend who meant as much to her as family.

As much as Kiara hated waiting, hated having empty, useless hands, she vowed Amelle would not go through this—the third day, the last day—alone. And Fenris…

Kiara's breath caught. Fenris had done all it was in his power to do to save her sister, and whether he'd done so because he cared for Amelle the same way she cared for him, or because he was Fenris, Kiara didn't know. She didn't have to. She owed him. She owed him everything.

It was the third day. She would sit vigil for him. She would be there for him at the end. It was the very least—the very least—she could do.

With Kinnon close behind, she made her way to Fenris' room, startled to find not only Ser Braden, but also Cullen standing watch by the door. Cullen did not bow as Braden did, but he did nod in greeting as she approached, saying simply, "Hawke."

He did not say "Good morning" or "Good day" or anything remotely to do with the word good. She appreciated that. "Cullen," she replied, "I didn't expect to… to find you here."

With a brief look at the door, Cullen said, in an undertone, "Amelle has… invested a great deal in Fenris' healing. I am not ignorant of it. If the worst happens, I would rather be nearby." He swallowed hard, looking troubled. "Should Amelle decide to vent her grief and anger on the one responsible."

Jessamine. Of course. Guards and bars and stone walls could only do so much, after all. Kiara thought of Amelle, her rabbit—a healer, first and foremost—reaching such a point where she would strike against someone in vengeance, and while she was perfectly aware everyone had their breaking point—Amelle lay still on the sand. Blood trickled down a too-pale cheek. Grace stood smirking above her. And oh, the sound the knife made plunging over and over into that hideous body—the knowledge that her sister was so near hers caused something to tear a little in her chest.

"Thank you, Cullen," she said thickly. "Thank you."

With a final nod, Kiara let herself into Fenris' room. Much as she'd expected, Amelle sat on the bed, Fenris' head in her lap, the blue-white glow pouring from her hands, soaking into his skin, light catching his hair. Perhaps it was the amount of magic Amelle had been releasing in this room, or perhaps it was the strength of it, borne of desperation as time continued running out, but the room all but vibrated with the hotcold thrum. The hairs upon Kiara's arms and neck stood on end, like a chill, but not. Like music she couldn't quite hear, or a breeze she couldn't quite feel, something pulsed off them in waves.

And, beneath all of it, was Fenris' struggling, wheezing breath, no better for all the magic he'd been exposed to these three days.

Before she could go further than a few paces into the room, the magic flared off and the light receded as Amelle first flexed her hands and shook out her fingertips, grimacing a little as she did.

"Does it hurt?" Kiara asked before she could think not to.

Amelle gave a little start as she looked up. "Kiri, I—sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

Kiara lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug and went to the chair pulled to the side of the bed, fingers coming to rest along the back, though she couldn't quite bring herself to sit down. The urge to move, to do, was still too strong. "Well, you know. Rogue." Her fingers plucked and worried at the plush edge of the upholstery. "Sort of comes with the territory."

Amelle snorted as she twisted around, busying herself with something on the bedside table. Kiara noticed a tiny white and grey kitten curled into a tiny ball on the pillow next to Fenris' head, asleep and utterly unbothered by the magic resonating in the room. "Hurt isn't quite the word I'd use," said Amelle. "Tingly. Like I've been making snowballs without gloves, but hot despite that. Maybe a little stiff." When she turned back around, she held a shallow dish of broth in her hands, reminding Kiara—unintentionally and yet painfully—of a time not so long ago when another life had hung in the balance, when she herself had been the one holding the broth and talking to a dying man.

It was so bloody unfair.

Tearing her eyes away from Amelle as she coaxed broth into Fenris' mouth, then carefully—no, tenderly, she realized—massaging his throat, Kiara turned her attention to the window. The day had dawned spitefully clear and sunny, but now, only an hour or so later, dark clouds thickened and gathered, coming in with the breeze off the river. The wind blowing through the open windows was damp and cool and rain-sweet. She went to the window, breathing in deep. Once she'd centered herself again, she looked over her shoulder at her sister.

"What's his name?" she asked.

Amelle looked up. "I'm sorry?"

Kiara jerked her chin at the kitten, now very much awake and stretching languorously on the pillow, little kitten claws extending and retracting, its tail curling with the stretch. "The kitten."

"Oh." Amelle swallowed and turned back to her task. A few moments later she said, with something that sounded like studied neutrality, "Hasn't got a name yet. Sebastian only just gave it to me the other day."

"I see," she answered, looking back out the window before her sister could see her flinch. From behind her, the kitten let out a plaintive mew; Kiara saw in the window's reflection the kitten was picking its way across the enormous bed, stopping to sit just at the edge of the mattress nearest her. It mewed.

"It was half-drowned when he found it," Amelle said. "So he brought it to me."

Kiara almost smiled. "Of course he did," she said softly, turning around and picking up the kitten, cradling it in her hands as she returned to the window.

"Hmm?"

"Going to rain," she said.

"I suppose we'll have to close the windows when it starts," replied Amelle, sounding resigned.

"Depends on how hard it comes down." Kiara saw in her reflection the way a tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth. "Do you remember—do you remember how," she began, running her index finger along the kitten's spine, "back when we were small, we used to convince Carver that Papa was making the fire in the hearth spit when it was just the rain?"

Amelle chuckled, shaking her head. "I thought for sure Mother was going to scold us when she found out."

"Turned out it was an effective way to keep Carver behaving when Papa was away." The rain hadn't started yet; the windows could stay open a little longer. This time, when she walked around the bed, she did settle into the chair, setting the kitten once again on the pillow, then clasping her hands and leaning forward, resting her elbows upon her knees; she watched Amelle work in silence, wishing there was something she could just do. Things needed to be done, but they were things that came after the strain of waiting was over, one way or the other.

Hope for the best while preparing for the worst.

All we need is a little more time.

A pyre would be arranged; Sebastian would see to that. If it hadn't already been taken care of, Fenris' armor and leathers would need to be mended and cleaned. Tasia would know; she had taken care of hers, after all. And though Kiara was certain Fenris would have scoffed at such things, after so many years and all they'd been through, he was a friend akin to family—and it wasn't as if Varania were near to hand to query about things like pyres and ashes and laying a dear friend to rest, not that Kiara would have asked her, even if she were. No, this was up to her and Amelle, though if she could spare her sister anything—Maker, if she could spare her sister anything, Kiara would spare her this.

No, she decided, we'll do it together. If she's able to and wants to, then… together.

Oh, Maker—they would have to tell Merrill and Aveline and Donnic. She hadn't written yet out of the most tremulous hope that Fenris would recover. But now it appeared sharing this news would be unavoidable.

Kiara swallowed hard and pushed her hands back through her unbound hair.

"Do you want—" Amelle began tentatively. Then she shook her head, and, with more certainty, "Do you need a moment?"

"I'm—"

"You don't have to say fine."

Tears burned Kiara's eyes and she willed them not to fall. Not yet. "I'm not fine," she said. "We're none of us fine. I was thinking how mad he'd be about the fuss. I was picturing the exact scowl he'd be wearing if he were awake right now. You know the one. It-it's the… the one when he's pretending to be upset but he's secretly touched and he doesn't want to be touched so a little bit of the being upset is real. That one." She gulped a deep breath, ignoring the trickle of moisture running down the curve of her cheek. The wind cooled it instantly. "I was thinking I wish I hadn't taken him for granted. I was thinking about how he's left half a dozen bookmarks in tomes all throughout my library, and it's not fair he won't get to finish those stories. I was thinking I don't want to give up but the time is just slipping away, Mely, it's just slipping away." Kiara pushed the heels of her hands over her cheeks and glared at the ground between her feet. "He would hate this."

She pressed her palm to her mouth to stop the words, but whatever dam she'd built was washed away, replaced by a flood of memories. Sitting on a patch of unbroken roof at Fenris' mansion after an evening of cards and too much wine, watching the sun rise in the most companionable silence she'd ever known. The look in his eyes after they'd fought Danarius, like a man suddenly placed on dry land after a decade at sea. The way she'd always known where he was on the battlefield, his blade a perfect complement to her bow. The way he let her hug him because she needed to, the faint smile pulling at his lips.

"You're right," Amelle said, and her expression said she was reliving memories too. "He would."

#

In many ways, standing in the quiet hallway with nothing to do but wait reminded Cullen powerfully of Solona Amell's Harrowing, and in many ways, it did not. Oh, the waiting was the same, the constant pressure pushing down on him from all sides, the worry something was going to go wrong—that was painfully familiar. The feel of magic pulsing gently through the air, tickling his senses—that was familiar enough, too. But this was Amelle and not Solona, and that was the difference between Look, I know this'll sound mad, but believe it or not? You, Ser Cullen, are an answer to prayer and, You will have to smite me from here to the Void to stop me, Knight-Commander, and I still won't go easily.

Even the feel, the sensation of their respective magics were different, now he thought about it. Something about Solona's magic had felt akin to a musical beat. An Orlesian minuet, perhaps. Something light. Cheerful. Silly. But Amelle's was a softer sort of thrum, with a rhythm like a breathing, or a heartbeat. It resonated softly, but deeply, and he wondered if her being a spirit healer accounted for at least part of it.

So much of his training had depended upon never befriending mages, that learning to understand them was the quickest way to send everything to the Void. But it was near impossible to ignore that each mage's power carried differently, as differently as their own voices did.

And Cullen sensed Amelle's determination, hope, and worry, all twined up in her magic, as clearly as if she'd been speaking to him. The hallway thrummed with it. He knew, also, that despite getting a new cache of lyrium potion—and, Maker, he dared not ask her how she managed that—she was still being careful. It was as she'd said, short, intense bursts of magic, with time to recover in between. If she had given herself a nosebleed, she'd hidden the matter from him, but somehow Cullen was… confident she had not.

But it was the third day. The whole of the bloody palace felt weighted down and subdued. He'd seen little of Isabela and Varric—though the latter had been to see Amelle several more times, always coming out of the room looking more troubled than when he went in. Cullen suspected if Isabela hadn't yet stopped by, it had more to do with stubborn hope, or an equally stubborn refusal to face what was looking more and more like a truly dire situation. He suspected Isabela didn't want to say goodbye, was not ready to say goodbye, not yet, and he could hardly fault her that.

Amelle's magic went quiet soon after her sister had gone inside, and Cullen exhaled softly. He had not told Hawke his true reason for taking up this post; while it did occur to him that Amelle might be tempted by vengeance if Fenris died, his true fear was that his death would… would break her, would send her so far into grief, into despair and rage, that she would lose herself. Amelle's control was admirable, no doubt, but…

I… accept what I am. And I know… I know what can happen if—I know. I don't want to be a mindless… thing, a thing that would slaughter those I care about without compunction. Being trapped like that is… it's worse than death.

I will not freeze, he told himself. I will not falter. I owe her no less.

#

Red sky above the Gallows. Ash still rained down as the fight raged around him. Hawke shouted orders as arrows hissed from her bow, sinking solidly into their targets. The air was thick with the heat and force and stink of the battle, with battle-cries and clashing swords and the smell of blood and death.

The fight called to him—sang to him.

He was a warrior. If there was nothing else in this world, he knew how to fight. He'd fought for his markings. He'd fought—killed—whenever Danarius ordered it of him, whether he wished to or not. He'd fought his own circumstances in his search for freedom. But fighting by Hawke's side, with her, with others, was a wholly different experience. He'd never had other people on whom to depend; he did not have friends, comrades, brothers in arms. The whole of his life, he'd had only himself, and it had been years since Fenris had had to fight alone. He did his part, and Hawke and the others did theirs.

But something was wrong.

From the moment he'd stepped off the boat, Fenris' strength began to fade. Even now he could barely hold his own sword, could not call upon his markings to aid him.

Perhaps Hawke was right. Perhaps he'd fought too long already.

He looked down at his hands, gripping The Blade of Mercy's pommel so tightly his knuckles were white. It was an honor to fight with such a blade; did that mean he was too weak for honor? Was he somehow undeserving of it?

No, that didn't seem right either.

The sword grew heavier and heavier still, pulling Fenris down, first to one knee and then to both. He gritted his teeth, fighting the blade's weight, but the more he struggled, the heavier it became, until finally the sword hit the stones beneath his feet with a clang that echoed hollowly through his head, through his whole body. His neck ached, each breath burned in lungs that were too hot, too tight.

He had no strength to wield a sword, none of the gifts afforded him by the lyrium markings—even breathing and standing upright were beyond him. Gasping, he buckled forward, forearms braced against the cold stones.

I cannot, he thought, hands curling into fists. I cannot.

The distant clicking of boots against stone met his ears. Different from the scuffling sounds of hurried footsteps, these were slow, measured steps. The footfalls of one with plenty of time to reach a destination. When they stopped, Fenris forced his eyes up from the stones, up from the sight of his own clenched fists, to see a pair of plain brown boots. Bright blue fabric hung down, rippling with color as it brushed the tops of the soft, supple boots.

Robes. Mage robes.

This was to be the end of it, then. The abomination would end him here, now—he could, after all, and there was nothing Fenris could do to prevent it.

"Maker's breath, what are you doing down there, Fenris?"

When he looked up—he knew that voice; he knew that voice—it was to find Amelle Hawke staring down at him, a bemused smile at her lips and the grey and white cat perched upon her shoulder. She crouched down and took his hands.

"Well?" she asked again. The cat meowed and turned, butting its head against hers; Amelle smiled, but didn't look away from him.

"I…" he began, looking at where her hands rested against his. We wanted to rise, wanted to stand. His sword lay abandoned, looking strangely forlorn and forgotten at his feet. "I cannot fight," he said, forcing himself to meet her eyes as he said the words. "I want to fight, but I…"

"I understand. Maybe I can help?"

And though the battle went on around them, arrows and bolts slamming into armored men, swords and shields clashing and grinding, cries of pain and fury and victory mingling in a familiar cacophony, Amelle held firm to his hand. With the other hand, she reached out and lay cool, gentle fingers against a brow hot from battle and… and…

He couldn't remember. Other things. He'd been fighting. And searching.

The cat mewed, the sound small but unmistakable even amongst the battle cries around them. He meant to say something, to warn Amelle to pay attention, to be safe, but instead he opened his mouth and said, "I've… been looking for you."

"I know," she said, bringing a hand up to brush his bangs aside. "I'm here now. Let me help." Her eyes were warm. Concerned.

—her eyes too wide, too bright with tears as her lips formed his name—

"Fenris?"

An answer. He needed to answer her. Fenris struggled to nod; the ache in his neck stretched down his back, down his arms, into his lungs. He felt sure he must have winced, for Amelle's grip grew tighter.

"Please," he managed.

And then came the light. Blue and white and blinding, ice and fire the likes of which felt as if it could sear him or freeze him. Bright beams shot outward where their hands were joined, and slowly, slowly the pale tattoos began to lighten and glow, inch by agonizing inch, fire and ice beneath his skin, casting that lyrium flare upon those twining lines. It continued up his arm—slowly, too slowly—and though Fenris could barely draw breath, Amelle's grip remained firm, the hotcold thrum pulsing through him. He felt the burning cold move across his chest, up his neck, down his spine and knew without looking that the white markings glowed every bit as brightly as his arm

Noise exploded around them as the fighting became even more chaotic; blood was smeared across Hawke's leathers, a bright stripe of it across one cheek, but her smile was bright and fierce and she fought on, as he knew she would—as he knew he must.

Live. Fight.

He could scarcely breathe. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Amelle's lips brushed his cheek, then her voice whispered in his ear, "I can let go. If you want me to, I can let go."

"Do not," he ground out, as the world went black around him.

Do not.

#

Clouds thickened, roiling and turning the sky a leaden blue-grey, throwing Starkhaven's morning into premature dusk. The sun burned above, but no shafts of light permeated the thick clouds. Far off, well beyond the river, came the distant roll of thunder, and as the wind picked up, outside the windows leaves rustled like so much dry parchment. Fat drops of water splashed and plunked, resounding against the palace spires before each individual drop was lost in the soft rush of water as the rain began to fall in earnest. Amelle looked up from Fenris and the bowl of broth, and made a move as if to close the windows herself. But Kiara levered herself out of the chair—anything to be useful, anything to help—and waved a hand at her sister, who settled back against the bed.

"Don't worry, I'll do it," she said, closing and latching any window the wind was pushing rain through. In her peripheral vision, she saw Amelle set the bowl aside and lean back against the headboard with a soft sigh, Fenris' head still in her lap, her fingers drifting gently through the strands. If Fenris skin wasn't so very, horribly pale, if his cheeks weren't burning with fever, and if his breath weren't coming in such Maker-forsaking rasps, they would have looked… sweet together. Her rabbit, with her smiles, and Fenris, with all twenty of his different brands of scowl.

He didn't scowl now. In fact, despite everything, he looked strangely… peaceful, and that realization brought Kiara absolutely no peace whatsoever.

Taking Fenris' head from her lap and placing it carefully upon the pillow, Amelle stood and stretched, linking her arms over her head and reaching up until her back gave a series of soft pops. She turned to a small collection of shimmering bottles and, rolling her shoulders, twisted the cork off one and downed the bottle's contents in several long swallows.

"Lyrium?" Kiara asked. "I thought you were out?"

Grimacing at the taste, Amelle shrugged and set the empty bottle down with a clink. She turned to the window; it was almost perfectly dark outside, and the rain was coming down in a downpour, sheets of water slicking the window. Drops spat and hissed in the fireplace and Kiara saw Amelle's smile in the window's reflection. "I was. Sebastian found more for me," she said quietly.

Of course he did, Kiara thought, pressing her palm to her chest, willing her heart to stop aching. Oh, Sebastian. Lyrium potion and a kitten. Only you.

"Maker," Amelle breathed, trailing a finger across the window, "it's really coming down out there."

They stood in silent contemplation, staring out the window. In the reflection, Kiara saw her sister's raw emotion mirrored, and knew the last thing Amelle wanted was for her to acknowledge it. Instead, never pulling her gaze from the view before her, Kiara slid an arm around her sister's shoulders; she felt Amelle's slow, controlled breathing hitch slightly as she closed her eyes, tipping her head and resting it against hers.

"Mely—" Kiara began, but before she could say a word, Fenris' breathing, which had been agonizingly slow and labored, sped up suddenly, erratically. Each breath, now loud beyond a rasping wheeze, sounded strained and… almost panicked, as if he were drowning with no hope for rescue.

No, she realized, tears burning and blurring in her eyes, not drowning. Suffocating.

Jerking away, Amelle spun on the ball of her foot, and any blind, foolish hope Kiara may have had that this was a good sign vanished the moment she saw the look on her sister's bloodless face.

"No," she breathed. "No." In a swirl of skirts, she rushed forward, kneeling upon the bed, trembling hands checking for any obstruction as she muttered feverishly to herself, looking for any reason—any reason beyond the worst—for such a change. She tipped Fenris' head back with hands already aglow with healing magic, supporting his neck as she tried to clear his airway. But nothing worked; on and on it went, longer than seemed possible, each struggling breath coming faster and faster, a high, thready wheeze that turned his lips blue.

Kiara hugged her arms protectively across herself, standing over the bed ready for any order Amelle might have barked—no matter how impossible, no matter how ludicrous, no matter—

Fenris' body, rigid for three days now, went instantly, horriblystiff; his head pressed back against the pillow, his back arching as his body fought—literally fought—for every breath. The muscles in his arms trembled, his hands curled into claws that dragged and caught in the linens, the tendons stood out on his neck as he gulped futilely for air.

"No—no. Don't you—don't you bloody well dare! Fenris! Don't—!"

With one final desperate gasp, he went suddenly still. Eerily still. The long, slow exhale was his clearest in days. The room was silent but for the spitting of rain in the hearth. He did not inhale again.

The light in her sister's hands sputtered sharply and went dark. What little color remaining in her face drained away, green eyes going too wide, too glassy with tears. She brought one trembling hand to her mouth, but it did nothing whatsoever to muffle the sharp gasp.

"…Mely?" she breathed. Amelle did not look up. Did not move. Did not even seem to breathe. As Kiara drew in air to say her sister's name a second time, Amelle drew back, hands clenched, her chest now heaving with breaths both too fast and too deep, a terrible echo of Fenris' last gasps. "Amelle?"

"No," she said, her voice raw and aching, straining with hurt and heartbreak and something else, something more, and before Kiara could even think to act, Amelle's hands were alight with magic so intense it was barely blue-white at all. It was blinding, more white than blue, and she threw her hands upon Fenris' chest, just over his heart. With the contact, juddering threads of magic pulsed and spat forth, nothing at all like the gentle bobbing threads of healing magic that seemed to dance above the skin a moment before sinking in. No, this resembled nothing so much as blue-white lightning, hitching and shuddering with every sob breaking past her sister's lips.

#

Truth be told, they heard very little in that hallway. There was the faintest rumble of thunder, audible only because Cullen knew well enough Amelle was keeping Fenris' windows open. Conversations behind closed doors were muffled, and though Cullen heard Hawke and her sister speaking, there was no way to tell what was being said.

But the very instant Amelle's magic seared through the air, the hotcold thrum pulsing hard and ragged and desperate, Cullen didn't have to know what was being said. This was no steady, gentle heartbeat of mana; this was raw, palpable grief, and every wave of it shot through him like needles, like knives, like a long, wailing cry. His insides twisted and clenched as the air crackled, as every breath he drew in was at once too hot and too cold, burning and freezing in his lungs. The three steps it took to reach the door was too far a distance, took too bloody long.

It was not, however, too long for Cullen to gather his will for a smite, hoping to the Maker and Andraste, as he flung open the door, he would not have to use it.

The first thing he saw was light. It filled the room, pushed back against the darkness of the storm pounding beyond the windows, tiny threads of crackling energy jerking and twitching across every surface—across the floor, up the walls, along the ceiling. It was a storm of ice, of fire, of the two impossibly combined, and at the very center of it was Amelle, her hands braced upon Fenris', her body trembling, her face a stark mask of grief. And though Cullen felt a rush of something that was almost relief she had not succumbed, had not become an abomination, he had never felt this level of power pour out of her before. Not since the underground spring, at least, and though Fenris glowed with healing magic, his markings, at least, remained dark.

Then, all at once, the light went out. Though lanterns were lit and a fire crackled in the hearth, the room seemed dark and dim by comparison, and he had to blink to adjust his eyes.

When he did, though, Cullen found nothing had changed. Fenris remained lying still on the bed. Amelle, her mana spent, fought her trembling arms, staring down into the elf's face for something, anything. Tears flowed fast and hard, dripping from her chin, from the tip of her nose as she watched him, holding her breath and biting down hard on her bottom lip, watching and waiting.

But Fenris did not move.

The sudden rush of magic gone, her mana depleted, Amelle's shoulders sagged, her trembling arms no longer able to support her weight. With a hitching breath she slowly crumpled, pressing her face against the elf's chest. There she began to weep quiet, hitching sobs. Behind her stood Hawke, her eyes just as bright with tears, her face just as damp, reaching out to run a gentle hand down her sister's back as she sunk down to sit upon the edge of the bed, bowing her head and bringing her other hand up to stifle the sobs that shook her shoulders.

Neither sister had noticed him, and Cullen, his heart heavy and having no desire to intrude any further on their shared grief, turned to go, to leave them in peace to say their goodbyes. But as he turned and gave them a parting look, Cullen noticed that Fenris' brows seemed to be… furrowed. He straightened, equal parts wary and alert and hopeful, and took a step closer to the bed. He held his breath, watching.

Fenris' eyelids twitched, as if he were struggling to open them. The elf's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

"Amelle," he breathed, too softly for either woman to hear him. "Hawke. Amelle."

At the words Cullen spoke, or perhaps the urgency in his tone, Hawke's head jerked up as Fenris' eyes blinked slowly open. The furrow at Fenris' brow deepened in confusion.

"Mely," Hawke breathed. "Amelle, Fenris."

Amelle looked up as one shaking hand slowly came up to rest upon her head. Her eyes widened, though she scarcely breathed, as if she were imagining this, and speaking at all might break the spell. She brought trembling fingers to his cheek and, evidently finding the skin warm with blood and breath, pressed her palm to that same cheek as her eyes filled anew with tears.

#

He woke to pain. Unimaginable, indescribable pain. So bright, his markings so impossibly white-hot, hotter than any flame and burning like the bitterest winds, the sharpest, coldest ice. The pain propelled him into waking, though for a moment, for a starkly terrifyingmoment, Fenris had been certain he was dead. There was nothing but darkness. Amelle was gone, no longer gripping his hand, no longer his tether.

I can let go if you want me to.

No. Don't. Never.

Even as he remembered them, the words slipped away, leaving Fenris bereft. She had let go in the end, hadn't she? Or perhaps he had. It was so hard to tell, and so much had been blotted out by the brightness of his tattoos. Ice and fire chased through his veins, twining and twisting, turning in on itself until he'd felt like to crack apart beneath the onslaught. And then his sword had been in his hand and—

Then silence. Darkness.

No. Not silence. A breath. Another. A heartbeat.

Dampness against his chest. Weeping.

He breathed, slowly, and with every breath, more pieces fell into place. Fear, followed by rage, followed then by the sharp, slicing pain of a dagger cutting too easily through his leathers, and into his flesh. And then, as the world seemed determined to slip out from beneath him and fade into blue sky and green grass, Fenris remembered having no trust for the sudden bliss. He remembered every staggering step he took and Amelle's green eyes, bloodshot and horrified.

Amelle.

There had been no time. No time to remove his gauntlets, no time to explain himself—time only to whisper in her ear before losing his hand in her chest, hoping with what remained of his rapidly diminishing sense that he could save her life. And then he'd relinquished his grip on consciousness and tumbled back into a blue sky and green grass and memories.

No. Not memories.

He breathed again, tried again to open his eyes, fighting to pry open his lids. A blur of brown and white and grey met his eyes before they closed again, and he tried again.

The templar's voice. Amelle, weeping—alive, not dead, not burned to ash—and Hawke, her face pale, but also streaked with tears. Fenris lifted his hand, fingertips settling upon short soft hair as she looked up. Too many emotions crossed her face too quickly—grief and sorrow, then disbelief, hope—as she pressed her warm palm against his cheek. Fenris leant into the touch; he'd been so certain he would not get this chance again, realizing dimly that her hand trembled against his skin. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks and Fenris carefully brought his hand to her cheek, brushing away the moisture with the backs of his fingers.

"You're all right," she breathed. "You… you're…"

"You're awake," Hawke supplied. "What…" her eyes flicked briefly to Amelle, then back to him again. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Fenris swallowed hard and when he spoke, his voice sounded dry as dust. "Battle…" he finally managed, though the memory of one battle mingled with the dream of another and his mind felt too muddy to separate the two just yet.

"Kiri—Kiri, get the water. He's—"

But Hawke was quicker than her sister and was already pouring a glass from a nearby pitcher.

Amelle fixed him with an intent, level gaze; whatever else she might have been feeling, whatever happiness and relief he'd seen, she was holding those emotions in check. "You remember the battle?"

He nodded, slowly, then sighed as Amelle's hands lit with a gentle glow; a faint rejuvenation spell began to warm him, but the spell stuttered out. Amelle swore under her breath before reaching out and grasping blindly for the bedside table, unwilling to take her eyes off him. The Knight-Commander was by the bedside in an instant, wordlessly pressing a bottle of lyrium potion into her hand.

"Try a stunt like that again and I swear to the Maker," murmured Amelle, twisting the cork free and draining the bottle, "I'll immolate you where you stand." Her hands were aglow again, and the rejuvenation spell trickled through him like sun-warmed honey. He exhaled a long, deep breath as weakness and exhaustion slowly, gently ebbed away.

Hawke hovered a moment, holding the glass between her hands. "Are you… strong enough to—or should I…"

"I am able," he managed, grunting softly as he sat up.

"Be careful," Amelle admonished. "I've not poured mana into you for three days to have you drown in your drinking water at the end of it."

Hawke helped him hold the glass even when he tried to take it from her. A moment later, she eased back and he realized he was glad of the aid she'd given. She shook her head, and her lips formed the words three days. Fenris could hardly comprehend it himself. Half-remembered images hid behind his eyelids when he blinked, and his bones ached with a kind of deep weariness no mere wound could account for.

"I should tell Sebastian," Hawke said. "He'll—I should tell him."

"You should," Amelle agreed.

"He'll want to see you," Hawke said.

"He will," Amelle continued, a strange note in her voice Fenris couldn't quite place. "But perhaps not quite straight away. If you two need time to discuss anything…"

Hawke bent quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Fenris' brow. He'd have flinched if he'd been any less startled. "You scared me," she whispered, low enough he knew the words were meant only for him. "Don't do that again."

"I… am still uncertain what I did in the first place," Fenris said.

"Doubtless my sister will fill you in," Hawke said, the smile on her face still somewhat at odds with the shine of tears lingering in her eyes. "Just know I've never been happier to see that particular scowl, Fenris."

"I am not—"

Hawke's smile broadened. "It's the everyone's making a fuss and you just want to throw a bottle of wine at the wall scowl."

"You're wrong," he replied, trying to push himself a little more upright against the pillows. Amelle took the glass from his hand, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. "I wish to drink the wine."

"No wine," Amelle admonished, but at least she smiled.