Once Hawke and the Knight-Commander had left the room, the silence was near to overwhelming. Indeed, the only sounds in the chamber were the storm outside and the fire in the hearth. Amelle busied herself around the room, but Fenris could see her mind was elsewhere; she picked up bottles of lyrium potion and moved them to another table, then picked up a tray carrying a cold teapot and a covered dish and set it on the sidebar near the door. Fenris watched her move about in this fashion for several minutes, noting with a pang that she seemed determined not to look at him.

This avoidance, this distance was such a far cry from the look in her eyes when he first awoke, and the memory of that unchecked happiness, that relief and joy, settled over another memory—no, not a memory; the memory of a dream, perhaps—of Amelle with a cat upon her shoulder, her eyes warm, concerned, affectionate. He scarcely recognized the woman moving silently about the bedchamber now.

"You—you'll want to rest, I imagine," she said awkwardly, coming to his bedside and smoothing the coverlet. "You ought to rest. It's been… you—" Amelle's fingers worried the blanket. "You ought to rest."

"I have been asleep three days," he replied, looking up at her. Finally, after several seconds, Amelle met his gaze. Pulling her hands up from the bed, she clasped them together tightly, her fingers winding fretfully around each other. "And," he went on, "you still have not told me what transpired in that time."

With a grimace, Amelle sat upon the chair next to his bed. "I don't… I don't know how to tell you."

"As plainly as possible," he said, fingers twitching as if to reach for her hand, but then he thought better of it. "Your sister typically uses an overabundance of words to convey a simple thought."

Amelle laughed at that, softly. "You wouldn't be wrong there." After a moment, she took a deep, steadying breath and, with effort—he could see the effort—she met his eyes. "You… Jessamine poisoned you. It-it was the blade. The blade was poisoned." Amelle looked down at her hands again before continuing more softly, "We didn't have an antidote for you." She was silent again. "I… I tried to heal you."

"I… I knew," he said softly. There had been moments of searing, burning-cold pain, of ice-lined fire that had scorched and froze at turns, even as it pulled at him, or made the… strange imagery shimmer like the illusion it was—moments that lived in his memory still.

"You… knew?" She looked up, eyes wide and searching his face, though searching for what, he did not know. Either Amelle saw what she was looking for or she did not, for she dropped her gaze quickly to her hands.

"Amelle." When she finally looked at him, Fenris saw the reason she'd looked away so quickly; Amelle's eyes were too bright with tears. Her lower lip began to tremble and she pressed her palm over her mouth as if either to stop the movement or simply hide it. He wanted to reach out to her, to clasp her hand, to reassure her somehow. He settled for leaning forward and wiping away the damp tracks down either cheek. "Tell me."

Amelle's palm slid away until just the tips of her fingers rested against her lips. "I can't—you—you were poisoned, Fenris." The words came out in a broken, trembling whisper. She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard before saying, tremulously, "You were poisoned, and I was scared."

Afraid. She was afraid for him. She'd shed tears for him.

"You were weeping when I woke," he said.

"I thought…" Amelle rubbed her palm across one cheek and then the other before looking at him with damp, reddened eyes. "I thought we'd lost you." She swallowed hard, then lifted her chin in a whisper of defiance before adding, more quietly, "I… I thought I'd lost you."

The breath he didn't realize he'd been holding came out slowly, softly. "You did not."

"It was a very near thing. Too near."

After a moment, Fenris placed his hand out, palm up. Amelle slid from her chair to sit on the edge of the bed, settling her hand over his. Her skin was warm and the lyrium in his skin woke and shivered at her touch; it was such an achingly familiar sensation, reminding him all over again how close he'd come to losing this. Her.

"I was in the Fade," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Am I…" Fenris frowned, searching for the right word.

Amelle slid closer, tucking her legs up under her skirt, never relinquishing her hold on his hand. "You are not an abomination, Fenris," she said softly.

"You are… certain?"

"Yes. And I hope you'll forgive me if I decline to chase you around with a sword just to prove it." She smiled, but there was something broken in it; the borrowed linen tunic he wore was still damp with the tears she'd wept. Closing his eyes and letting out a breath, he still recalled memories of bright, burning pain, and then… nothing, but it was a peculiar sort of nothing that somehow existed between memories, between dreams and memories.

It was all too clouded, he realized. Fenris could not separate the tangle of dreams, thoughts, and memories. But as he thought, as he remembered, Fenris became increasingly certain of one thing, however, and he watched Amelle closely for any sign of dissembling as he spoke.

"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"

Her sharp breath told all. Amelle's eyes went suddenly wide, and he was certain she was going to try to tell him otherwise. "Fenris—"

"You forget," he said, stopping her. "I was with you in the alley when you called Sebastian's spirit back to his body. I was there, even, when you tended your sister after her duel. You have told me some of what you are capable."

"I…"

"You did not let me die."

"No!" she cried suddenly. "How—how could I have? I couldn't. Not—not after—" She bowed her head, clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline. As if, he realized, she were afraid he would disappear before her eyes. When Amelle finally did speak again, it was slowly, choosing every word with infinite care. "What you… what you have to understand is that what I did—what I can do…" she trailed off, looking intently at his hand in hers, lightly tracing the lyrium lines with a fingertip. "It's the spirit, you know. If yours had passed through the Veil, there's nothing I could've done, no matter how badly I—" She cut off her own words, biting down hard on her lower lip. "And it's not absolute. If… if you'd wanted to—to go, nothing I could have done would have made a difference. Same with Sebastian. Kiara. They didn't… want to die. Their spirits fought to stay as long as they could."

"But if you had done nothing—"

"You'd have—yes. The spirit can't remain tethered to this side indefinitely. But… You saved my life." The words were softly spoken and pulled from her as if every syllable hurt. "I couldn't let you…"

"Did you… was this a… debt to be repaid, then?"

In truth, even as he spoke the words, Fenris hoped he didn't have the right of it. Never, in fact, had he ever wanted so badly to be mistaken. And when Amelle's head flew up and he saw the expression on her face, he'd never been so relieved to be wrong.

"No. Maker, no—I…" Her hands spasmed around his. "I couldn't lose you like that. You…" Shaking her head resolutely, Amelle said, "You've just woken up after three days poisoned. I think perhaps you ought to rest a bit before we attempt any serious conversations. Any more of them."

Fenris frowned. Scowled, if the truth of it were to be known. "I assure you, I am recovered enough for conversation." Before Amelle could argue, and Fenris felt sure she would argue, he said, "I will ask you to remember when I last saw you. A madwoman had bound you to a stake and was threatening to burn you alive. You were drugged, insensible, and in pain." His voice caught and roughened as he shook his head and added, "If you think I am any less in awe that you are safe and well and whole—"

"You thought I…" Brow first furrowing and then contorting in confusion, Amelle murmured, "Then what you said—before you… before…" Amelle's hand laid over her heart. "You said…"

Fenris nodded once. "Nothing… can be worse than the thought of living without you." It was different, saying the words here, now, in the hearth-warmed hush of the room, thunder rattling the windows as rain pelted the glass. He'd meant them when he'd spoken them before, when they'd both been in possession of uncertain futures. But here, now, there was more weight to them, somehow. "I knew something was… wrong. That I was unwell. I knew what needed to be done, and… only hoped I was not doing more harm than good."

"It worked," she breathed. "As you can see." Releasing one hand, Amelle reached up to massage her forehead. "Maker, I was so… so angry at you afterward," she confessed, sniffling. "You—you'd said that and you'd done that and then, there you were, just—just… dying, and nothing I did worked, and I just kept remembering you'd said that. And I…" She laughed and shook her head, more tears squeezing out as she did. "I wasn't ever going to get the chance to…" Biting down so hard on her bottom lip, Amelle reached up to cradle Fenris' face in her hands. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face blotchy and tearstained, but her smile, though hesitant, was true. "I wasn't ever going to get the chance to ask if you meant it."

Pressing against the warmth of her palms, Fenris met her gaze. "Every word."

She closed her eyes and tipped her head forward, until her forehead rested against his. "I… don't want to live without you, either," she whispered. "I came too close—"

"I am here."

A shudder wracked through her, but Amelle pulled away, nodding and rubbing her palms against her cheeks, scrubbing the tearstains away, attempting to recover herself enough to speak. "I've been wanting to—to apologize to you for days, you know. Longer. Since—since that night. I…" reaching out, her fingers skated across his forehead and lingered at his temple.

"The night you restored my memories." Amelle nodded, and Fenris said, wonderingly, "How can you think you would have to apologize for that?"

Her laugh was sudden and bitter. "I had no right—I never should have done it, and when you left—"

As her words sank in, the night in question flashed vividly through his mind. The warmth of her hands upon his head followed by wave after wave of near-ticklish magic. And then the sudden sensation of something snapping under too much pressure, followed by an overpowering rush of memories—of sights and sounds and smells—things he'd yearned to remember and things he'd been happy to forget.

"You…"

"I had no right," she said again. "I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all for—"

"You believed I left," he broke in, cutting her off, "because I was… angry?" Shifting against the pillows, Fenris sat up carefully, the better to turn and meet her eyes. However much he didn't want to believe it, Amelle's words made far too much sense, particularly given the aftermath.

She swiped the tears away, flicking the moisture from her fingertips. "Magic spoils everything," she said in a voice so small and unsure that Fenris hated himself for ever having uttered a thing to begin with.

"Amelle," he said. When she did not look at him, he repeated himself with more urgency.

She sniffled, wrinkling her nose and blinking rapidly. "Yes?"

"You are aware we would not be having this conversation if not for your magic."

"You wouldn't have been hurt in the first place if I wasn't a mage."

He closed his eyes, remembering. Again, remembering. The hot sand under his feet and his hands sticky with blood. How he'd fought, with everything he was. The freckles dappled across a sunburned nose. "I fear you are… laboring under a misapprehension. It was not your magic that distressed me that night. I was not angry with you."

"You don't have to try and make me feel better about it," she told him, arching a wry eyebrow. "I was there. I remember. I was… the arrogance. The sheer bloody arrogance." She wiped furiously at her face, but the tears were coming too hard and to fast to be stopped. "I—I thought I could just—just wiggle my fingers and you'd be grateful for it."

Fenris reached out, lifting her chin with a finger.

"I was not angry with you," he repeated. "I was angry with myself. More than that, I was disgusted. Part of me… remains disgusted. When you released those trapped memories, it was too much too quickly. I left because I was overwhelmed and… I did not come back to you right away because once I'd realized all I'd done, I was forced to acknowledge how unworthy I am of you. I know well enough why I left that night and why I stayed away. At the time, I could not bear the prospect of confessing such a thing to you."

"And now?"

"And now," he said quietly, his thumb swiping away the tear tracks from one cheek, then the other, "I cannot bear to think you believed me angry with you for so long." Fenris met her eyes then. He wasn't quite prepared to put a name to what he did see, but censure and reprisal were both absent.

Just then, from somewhere on the floor below them there came a tiny mew.

"Oh, Maker," Amelle breathed, pulling back and casting about briefly before sliding off the bed. She crouched down and when she rose again she held a tiny kitten, its coat a patchwork blend of white and grey. "The poor thing. That was quite a bit of magic it was subjected to earlier—it must've been hiding under the bed."

Fenris found he could only stare at the kitten. It was tiny enough to fit in one of Amelle's hands, and its downy fur and too-large ears gave it a perpetually startled appearance, but beyond its size, there was something… something almost familiar about the animal's markings. Still cradling it carefully, Amelle once again sat upon the bed, running one finger back and forth along its skull for a moment before gently setting it down upon the coverlet.

"Who is your… beast?" he asked, staring intently as the kitten picked a path across the blanket. It was small—an infant—and yet. And yet.

"Beast?" Amelle snorted. "You don't mean the tiny baby kitten, surely?"

"Does it not have a name?" he asked, picking it up carefully and holding it at eye level. The kitten's eyes were blue-grey and it blinked them at him once, solemnly, before mewing again.

She shrugged, rolling her neck to peer at him. "Not yet. Sebastian only gave him—or her; I don't know that yet either—to me a couple of days ago."

"Sebastian gave it to you."

"Well, I suspect he was trying to distract me, no matter what he says. I was… singularly focused. I think he was more worried than he let on." She sighed. "It's been one great unpleasant cycle of worry, Fenris. He worried about me and I worried about him and we both worried about Kiara and everyone worried madly about you."

The kitten gave a yawn and stretched its tiny body, dropping its head and butting it against the fleshy part of his palm. "It is small."

"Yes, well. Baby."

"It should have a name." The kitten sat back, tail twitching, watching him. "All things are deserving of their names. It is fierce and proud. It should be…" Fenris paused here, frowning at the kitten, who stared back at him, unblinking. "Bellator."

Amelle groaned, and Fenris pulled the kitten close, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks. "Maker, a mabari called Killer and a kitten named… what? Arcanum for warrior?"

Fenris nodded.

"Can't it be something like… I don't know. Muffin?"

"You wish to name the beast after… a pastry?"

Amelle threw up her hands, smiling. "Fine. No food. And no fighting. Something in between."

Fenris thought about this a moment, and then said, very softly, "Spero."

Amelle arched an eyebrow. "And what does that one mean? Blood-thirsty, magister-hating hero?"

"No," Fenris said, not quite able to meet her laughing green eyes. "It means hope." At his words, the amusement in Amelle's eyes softened somewhat.

"…Spero." She leaned against the pillows—closer to him, he noticed—and, moving hesitantly, almost uncertainly, Amelle rested her head lightly against his shoulder, peering at the kitten. Resting upon his abdomen, it kneaded intently at the coverlet. "I think I like that."

The kitten was truly tiny. Undersized. With the pads of his fingers he could feel the faint ridges of its ribs, each tiny notch along its spine. Spero, however, seemed not to care one way or the other and tumbled onto its side, purring, eyes closed in bliss as Fenris petted it.

The longer he held the animal, the more acutely he became a ware that he was using it as a means to avoid saying things that still needed to be said, and the unvoiced words hung more heavily around his neck with every moment that passed.

"There… is more," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the kitten.

Amelle, who was by now curled up next to him, legs tucked up under her skirt, head resting more heavily now against his shoulder, went still. "You don't have to—"

"I do." He cleared his throat. "Varania spoke truly. I did compete for these markings. Not only did I compete for them, I ignored everyone who urged me not to fight for them. I wanted their power, Amelle. And… not only did I compete for them…" Fenris paused, hesitant to say more, but the truth had gone unspoken for long enough. "I killed for them."

Amelle whispered a curse under her breath, but did not move away. He clung to that. Her hair was soft against his neck and the warm weight of her head resting against him was something he believed he'd never feel again. The moment he realized she'd left Kirkwall without him, the ghosts of strained silences around campfires, all faded beneath the warmth of her so close.

"There was a… a young woman," he went on. "Liaria. Another slave." The words came out haltingly; though it had all transpired so many years before, the memories were fresh and raw and painful still. "She was dear to me." As Fenris spoke, he focused entirely on the kitten and the warm circle of warmth now resting against him as it slept. Slowly he related Danarius' scheme, piece by piece. He told Amelle about the boon, about the final match, of Danarius changing the rules at the last moment, demanding Fenris kill Liaria or be killed himself.

Throughout the tale, Amelle did not move, scarcely breathed, and was every bit as still and quiet as the slumbering Spero. She had not, however, moved away from him, and that fear had simmered beneath his skin with every word he spoke, every sliver of restored memory he shared. After a moment, she reached out to his hand, petting Spero's head with her fingertips.

"He—he actually made the two of you fight," she breathed.

"He did." His mouth twisted with the bitterness upon his tongue. "Do not tell me you are surprised."

"No, I… no. That part doesn't surprise me. "But—Fenris, Liaria knew enough to warn you away, but… she didn't withdraw from the contest herself when she knew you had no intention of backing out."

"Such markings were coveted by every eligible warrior in the Imperium," he replied with a shrug. "Including Liaria."

"So she would have killed you to get them."

He sent her a sidelong glance. "That hardly makes it forgivable that I killed her first."

Propping herself up on one elbow, a strange, pensive look on her face, Amelle took her hand from where it rested against his, petting Spero gently, and reached up to run her fingertips over the markings on his chin, and then down his throat to where they disappeared at the neckline of the loose tunic he wore. He swallowed. She wasn't actively using her magic, but still the lyrium in him responded to her, flaring ever so slightly beneath his skin. Or perhaps it was only that he responded to her; he still wasn't sure where the line was drawn. "Amelle…"

"Shh. I'm thinking."

He hushed, watching her face instead of the path of her hand. Her fingertips continued, ghosting along his bared arm. When she touched the sensitive skin at the bend of his elbow, he couldn't help shuddering. She smiled at that, but didn't linger. When she reached his hand, and the veins of white winding down his fingers, she paused. Then she entwined her fingers with his and let out the breath he hadn't noticed she was holding.

"It doesn't matter," she said. Before he could protest, she added, "Forgive me, that—that's not what I meant. I mean… I'm…" she swallowed hard. "I'm glad you're here."

"…Amelle?"

She squeezed his hand. "If things had gone differently—if you'd never fought, if you'd stayed Leto-the-slave, if you'd let Liaria kill you, if you'd been anyone other than who you are—I wouldn't know you. You wouldn't be here. Maker, Fenris, you've saved my life—and Kiara's life—dozens of times over. Maybe we'd both be dead by now. I don't know. But I do know that Isabela once told Anders we're made by our mistakes. Maybe it's wrong of me, but I'd never unmake you. I wouldn't change you. Not even if I could."

He didn't have words to answer her right away, but she didn't seem to mind. She kept holding his hand, running her thumb over the skin of his knuckles. Finally, in a voice as hoarse with emotion as it had earlier been with disuse, he said, "Then I'll abide no more talk of an Amelle without magic."

Her thumb stopped. Then she huffed a breathy laugh. "I suppose that's only fair." Then she tipped her head at him, confusion contorting her brow. "But I still don't understand—how does any of that make you a hypocrite?"

Looking down at the hand that held his, watching the hypnotic back and forth motion of her thumb across his knuckles, Fenris said, in an undertone, "While it was the memory of what I'd done that sent me away, it was… another memory that left me hesitant to return." Amelle didn't speak, she only watched him intently, silent and patient. "Varania was not the only member of my family who possessed magic. It was… a trait passed down from my father."

"Your father was a… a mage?" At his nod, she settle back against the pillows, but did not pull away from him, as he'd been so sure she'd do. On the contrary, she settled her head against his shoulder, her lips settling into a thoughtful line. "…And you thought I'd think you were a hypocrite."

"I did. I am."

"No," came her firm reply. And before Fenris could argue, Amelle brought a hand to his cheek, cupping his jaw, stroking gently before her thumb trailed down to the twin white lines of lyrium, coming to rest beneath his chin. "I refuse to hold you responsible for thoughts you never had because someone else had prevented you from having them. If your father was a mage, that doesn't… erase or excuse the things Danarius did. Those things still happened, and it was wrong that they happened, but don't lose sight over the things you can and cannot control." She paused then, her expression inscrutable for barely a second before she met his eyes and said, so quietly, "Live in the now, Fenris."

Live in the now.

Insofar as the now was concerned, everything that had happened before was too far away to truly matter. Fenris was too acutely aware of the fact that this moment was a gift he'd never expected to receive. Amelle was safe, and he was alive to treasure it. That was the now. And beyond now, nothing else mattered.

Fenris pulled her hand close to his breast, pressing the back of it to his heart. Her eyes widened, their color strange and luminescent for a moment as lightning flashed outside. "Amelle, I want—"

But he didn't get a chance to finish. She closed the breath of distance between them—the kitten mewled its displeasure at being so rudely awoken—and kissed him first.

Fenris was aware—however distantly, for he was lost in the warmth and softness of Amelle's mouth—of Spero squirming out from between them as Amelle pressed more insistently against him. The kitten's tiny claws pricked lightly at his skin as it scrabbled for purchase up his sleeve and climbed again to his shoulder, then picked its way down the bed where it would run less risk of being crushed. The animal's absence, however, also gave Fenris room and opportunity to pull Amelle closer until she was pressed entirely against him. As he did, her mouth went from warm to hot; he shuddered the moment her tongue glided across his lower lip, followed by the lightest teasing scrape of teeth. He knew instinctively what she was asking and he answered, parting his lips as he buried one hand in short, soft hair, pulling her so close he was certain he felt the beating of her heart against his chest.

Beneath the rush of—Maker, he dare not name it—was relief, immense relief, his gamble had paid off. Amelle was not dead, not burned to blistering skin and ash. She was alive and warm and wrapping her arms around his neck kissing him with the same sort of relieved wonder and gratitude he felt.

It had been a very close thing: they could have died believing the very lies each had told themselves, never knowing, never dreaming the truth.

Our mistakes make us who we are.

It was true, he thought (even as his ability to maintain rational thought struggled beneath the pressure of Amelle's mouth, the pliancy of her lips, the heat of her tongue), for they had both made mistakes and, through either accident or divine grace, were being permitted to move forward and allow the time for those mistakes to shape them both. At the moment, the lesson had left them both thankful.

Amelle let out a soft groan, her hand skidding across the material at his chest, barely-contained power in its wake. He shivered, hard.

Very thankful, indeed.

The kiss broke, but neither of them moved away, and when Amelle spoke, he felt the tickling brush of her lips against his, the warmth of her breath.

"Sweet Andraste," she breathed, and the tenor of it made him want to pull her close all over again, pressing her back against the bed, sealing his mouth over hers as they both sank into soft pillows and smooth silk. She rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes as she tried to slow the rapid breaths. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him a long moment before speaking.

"You know, I am sorry," she murmured, her hands traveling up his arms, roaming ever upward until she was cupping his cheeks.

"Amelle." Her name came out nearly a growl. "Have we not already—"

Her fingers pressed against his lips and once he fell quiet they trailed downward, past his chin, down his neck, ghosting across his collarbone. "I'm sorry I left you behind," she whispered. "That I jumped to conclusions. I am sorry for that."

"Consider yourself forgiven." And on that last syllable he pushed against Amelle, rolling her easily onto her back, and looked down at her. Firelight flickered across her features, and the sudden ferocity of emotion that welled up in his chest was so strong, so true, and burned brighter than his light and hers combined that he went perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

"You're going to be getting visitors soon," she murmured, and though Amelle's face still showed evidence of her earlier tears, there was a smile at her lips. "Perhaps I should take my leave."

"Stay."

Amelle arched an eyebrow at him. "I've stayed three days already, you know."

"I was not awake to appreciate it then," he countered. "Do not go. Not yet."

Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.

It had been true the moment he'd said it, and it remained true now. Perhaps he wouldn't have to find out after all.