"And over there's Star and Annie and Gwen, and that's Lady, our broodmare," Hawke said, indicating a stately bay mare with a blaze of white upon its forehead and two white stockings up its front legs. "She had Annie and Falcon—and another male, but he went up to the Perkins' place. His temperament was a bit off."
"How so?"
"He was a really nasty biter," she explained, turning around and leaning back against the fence, elbows braced upon the topmost board. Her expression turned inscrutable for a moment, but she smoothed it away. "He… wasn't good fit here, but he was sound, and aside from a few… sensitivities, he was a solid animal. This farm wasn't the right place for him, but the Perkinses love him, and he's a good fit up there."
"Do you find that to be the case often?" Fenris asked. A distant ache began thrumming up from his knee and he lifted one booted foot to rest it upon one of the fence's lower planks.
"What do you mean?"
"Location being fundamental to happiness."
Looking around them a moment, Hawke smiled a small, sad smile. "Absolutely. In people and animals both."
Noting her expression, Fenris thought back to his conversation with the elder Hawke. "In yourself, then?"
His words had startled her—surprised her, at the very least. Hawke blinked several times before turning her head to regard him for a long moment, wavering between wariness and puzzlement. "There are some places I'm happier than others," she replied slowly. Green eyes focused a moment on the middle distance before lifting to meet his gaze again. "How're you doing?"
He considered a falsehood, then shrugged. "My injuries are… reminding me of their presence, but the discomfort is quite tolerable."
That wary, puzzled look vanished beneath a crooked grin. "You really don't want to go back to the house, do you?"
He conceded this with a grimace. "I am unaccustomed to such inactivity."
"Perhaps a turn about the farm, then," she said, pushing off the fence and brushing her hands down the front of her dress. "A little tour."
"Very well," he replied, stepping away from the fence and joining her.
Hawke held both hands behind her back as they walked, a small purse bouncing gently with the movement. She led him past the other pasture, where the stallion and geldings were kept. "I assume you've met Falcon," she said, indicating her horse currently standing in the shade of an ancient, gnarled oak tree, scratching his back against its bark. "The stallion's Horace, and then there's Possum, the grey one right over there's, um… well, Warden. Then there's Maric, Remigold—but we call him Remy—and Bill." There must have been something she saw in his expression, because she went on to explain, "Bill, Warden, and Possum are the plow horses. Good to have alternates in case someone throws a shoe or goes lame or colicky. Remigold is Mama's horse, and I'm sure you'll not find a more spoiled beast anywhere. Maric was my brother's."
"Your… brother, whose room I am currently using."
"Yes," she said, her tone growing short. "Carver." He didn't say anything more, and in the silence Hawke sent him a look from the corner of her eye. "Mother told you about Carver."
"Only that he is a templar in Kirkwall."
Hawke nodded once, lips pressed together in a line. "You'll forgive me if I don't elaborate on that?"
"Of course."
"Good." She took a deep, bracing breath, and let it out through her teeth. They were just past the pastures and heading towards some of the stone outbuildings. "And here we've got the well, the very exciting chicken coop, and the equally as thrilling feed shed." As they walked by, soft clucking came from the coop and the air was heavy with the scent of hay.
"They… are stone," Fenris observed, frowning up at the structures. Hawke nodded. "Is that not an odd choice?"
"When Daddy—when my father bought the land, it had a great deal of rock in the soil. This was long before I was born, but evidently he got the land for a song, and that was only because of how damned rocky the dirt was."
"This… all came from…"
She shrugged one shoulder, though Hawke's expression wasn't the least bit repentant. "Daddy was a mage too. He was just a bit more adept at earth magic than I am, or ever was. He worked the rock out of the earth and made good use of it. The house and the barn are the only wooden buildings on the property, mainly because they got built first. Even the wall along the property line's made of stone." There was no denying the note of pride in her voice, the secretive whisper of a smile at her lips as she rested one hand against the well's ledge. "He built it all from the ground up." The smile went crooked. "Literally."
It was not wasted on Fenris that Hawke spoke of her father in the past tense. But she didn't volunteer any additional information, and he did not ask. They went on past various outbuildings, past a field Hawke indicated would be plowed eventually—preferably sooner than later.
"I ought to have seen about a new plow last time I was in town, but Merrill said Tomas was sure he could fix it." She kicked a rough pebble and sighed. "Not looking like that's the case, though."
"Is it a problem?"
"Only as far as wanting to get the planting done before the rainy season hits its stride. There's no chore on the Maker's green earth that rain makes more pleasant."
"What is it that needs to be done?"
She sent him a curious look. "Not many farms where you're from, then?"
"None that I had any direct exposure to."
"Fair enough."
She explained the process to him—plowing and seeding one field while letting the other lay fallow—smiling, even as she outlined what sounded like a particularly labor-intensive process. Fenris settled into silence afterward, as Hawke led him further past the fields, where the land lifted and swelled into rolling hills. They stood upon one such hill and Fenris looked out at the space stretching out before him. A large yew tree, its limbs stretching out and up, stood sentry by a pond, an ages-old rope dangling from a bough. He could see, in the distance, the stone wall Hawke had described earlier. He'd never known skies so clear, so unobstructed by buildings; he'd never heard such peace. The air smelled clean, and for a moment, a bare, tiny sliver of a moment, something in him lifted, and he knew how Agrippa must have felt, running through the pasture.
But then, with a breath, the sensation dissipated, reality sinking in once more.
"It is not a small parcel of land, then," he observed. Hawke shook her head.
"He got it on the cheap," she said with a shrug. "Because of the rocky soil. You saw what he did about that. From what they both used to tell me, the whole piece used to be just as hilly as this. Daddy worked out the rocks and graded the land. He had plans, even then." Her mouth twisted into a bitter line that she tried to force into a smile, but the attempt was hardly successful. "Then he died."
"I am sorry for your loss."
She shook her head. "It was some years ago now." But the sorrow in her voice told another story.
"Even so, you have my condolences."
After a long pause, she finally nodded. "Thank you." Then she sent a glance his way and asked, "How are you holding up?"
In truth, as much as he'd enjoyed the exercise, the sites of his injuries had begun a slow, dull throb. When he shared this with Hawke, she nodded, unsurprised, then lowered herself to the grass, her white skirts spread out on the grass like the last patch of snow in spring. When he did not join her, she looked up with a crooked smile, and patted the spot next to him.
"Not the most glamorous spot to rest your aching bones, I confess, but the view's not bad."
After a moment more, he sat, unable to hide his relief when the pressure on his left knee was alleviated. Hawke's look was a knowing one and he shook his head at the unspoken accusation. "I have not overtaxed myself. And, as you can see, I am taking your advice."
"I see that." She shifted onto one hip and placed her hands over the aching joint. "This one's the worst off right now, isn't it?" At his nod, she drew in a breath, concentrating on the spot until her hands glowed blue-white. In what felt like no time at all, the ache subsided and Fenris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Without another word, she turned her attention to the other knee, and then, indicating he should lie back, Hawke pushed up onto her knees in order to see to his hip. The hot-cold threads of healing light sunk down into the damaged bone and muscle as the sunlight poured down on them both, as wind rustled through the yew tree—through all the trees—rippling the surface of the pond.
"All done," Hawke said finally, shaking her fingers out. "Better?"
"It is," Fenris answered, still sprawled back, blades of grass tickling his neck and ears.
"We'll rest here a spell," she told him, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, looking out at the land spread out before them. "Then head back."
He nodded, and stared up at the clouds, realizing he could not remember the last time he'd done such a thing. After the hiss of wind whipping through the grass nearly sent him into a doze three separate times, Fenris propped himself onto his elbows and addressed Hawke.
"Yes?" Her gaze never wavered from the expanse of green.
"You have… lived here your entire life?"
"I have," she said.
He tried to imagine such a thing. He couldn't.
When Hawke looked over, she read something in his expression. "What is it?"
"Your farm… appears prosperous. And yet you—"
"Travel the countryside, hawking my wares?" Her brows quirked together and she let out a soft laugh. "Oh, that's a good one. I haven't used that one before."
"It is a fair question," he said.
"And it's one that if I don't answer," she drawled, "Mama might answer for me next pie you help her bake."
"Hawke," he said, sitting up further, affronted, "you are not accusing me of manipulating—"
"Oh, Maker, no," she said, with a vehement shake of her head. "No, but Mama does enjoy talking with company. One of the reasons Varric adores her so." Having mollified him, she went on. "My father died when I was sixteen or thereabouts. Carver and Bethany were just thirteen—Bethany'd just come into her magic a couple years before."
"Your sister—"
"Hell of an argument against anyone who says magic isn't in the family." Her expression hardened as she stared into the middle distance. "Daddy taught her what he could in the time he had. I taught her what I could—" Her throat closed, cutting the words off sharply. Hawke swallowed hard and bit her lip.
"Your mother… said your sister had died."
Allowing herself a brief, terse nod, Hawke closed her eyes, taking a moment to collect herself. "I taught her what I could. We all worked on the farm, the four of us. But…" She combed her fingers through the grass, running her hand back and forth, over and over again. Finally she plucked a long, green blade and began shredding it into thin ribbons. "But it became evident to me that we needed more help. We needed stronger backs. Repairs. Equipment. A whole lot of things we couldn't afford. I was about eighteen then. A fair hand with potions."
"And you left."
Hawke shrugged. "It wasn't easy, leaving them. Leaving Bethany, especially—I had… I had so much I wanted to teach her. But it seemed like what I had to do, at the time. Being out on my own wasn't easy, either. Thank the Maker I met Varric and Isabela when I did, or I might've wound up lying in a ditch somewhere. Eventually I started making a name for myself." She dropped what remained of the grass and brushed her hands off. It seemed an eternity stretched out before she spoke. "And then…" A muscle in her jaw flexed and her throat moved as she swallowed hard again. "And then, she was gone. And all of my reasons, which had seemed very good at the time…"
"You regret them."
"I did what I thought was best." The words were dull and hollow, as if Hawke had spoken them to herself countless times before. It was possible she had. "Now… well. The money's good, no doubt about that. And it helps. The farm's been profitable these last few seasons, and that's one less thing Mama has to worry about. And if her mage daughter isn't around to draw attention from unwanted parties, that's just another thing she doesn't have to worry about."
"You have said yourself she worries about you while you are gone."
Hawke didn't reply, but the way her shoulders stiffened and then slumped minutely spoke volumes. "I'm doing the best I can. If the farm's profitable, then Mama will be taken care of if I'm ever… caught. And if I move from town to town, that's less time for me to attract the attention that will get me caught."
"You mentioned there were… other measures you took as well," he said, watching the clouds grow a dark and thick blue-grey on the horizon. The wind had picked up and turned cool, carrying with it the scent of rain.
Her smile was a mirthless one. "More and more every day, it seems."
Hawke appeared to be… struggling with something, but before Fenris could either ask her to elaborate, she opened the drawstring purse that still hung from her wrist. Inside, he saw the small bag of candied ginger she'd offered to him earlier—she pulled it out now—but there, also nestled in the small bag, was a brown paper packet.
She read the question written across his face. "It's the ingredients for magebane," she told him, warily.
"Magebane," he echoed.
"I'm going to assume you know what that is?"
"Of course I do." He nodded at the packet. "It is illegal in Tevinter."
"Imagine my surprise," she murmured, running her finger along the packet's edge before pulling the bag shut again. She offered him a candy, which he took—he rather enjoyed the spicy-sweet taste as it dissolved on his tongue—and then helped herself to one, talking as she slowly chewed. "I've been having trouble keeping a cap on my abilities. For a long time now, thoroughly draining myself was enough. Healing someone until I was ready to drop with the effort would… keep my mana levels low."
"Yes, you have told me as much."
Hawke's brow creased with annoyance. "I've been recovering more quickly."
Fenris arched an eyebrow at her. "Forgive me, that does not seem the sort of thing a mage would… complain about."
"Mages who don't care about staying well-hidden, maybe," came her pert retort. "I'm not one of those. Anyway, I'd been tossing around an idea during the last leg of my travels, and I finally got the chance to lay hands on the ingredients."
"And that idea involves magebane."
"A tincture of it," she explained. "To keep me undetectable."
"Undetectable, perhaps," he murmured, "but… defenseless as well."
Her own eyebrow shot upwards. "That's hardly an argument I'd have expected you to make."
"But true all the same." She gave an exasperated huff and Fenris shook his head. "Do not misunderstand me. Your intent to control your powers is… commendable. And as long as you have other means of defending yourself…"
"Hmph. I happen to be more than a fair shot with a revolver, I'll have you know."
He shrugged and said, "Then I cannot see any problem with this idea of yours."
Exasperation melted away into surprise, as she looked at him, and then a tiny smile kicked up at the corner of her mouth. "You… don't think I'm an idiot?"
"You are… trying to keep yourself safe," he reasoned. "Provided you are careful with this tincture…"
"Maker," she sighed, tipping her head back and addressing the darkening skies, the wind ruffling her hair across her forehead. "It's so nice not to have someone look at me like I'm somehow deficient for wanting to try this."
"Your other companions?" he asked. When Hawke nodded, Fenris felt a tiny pull of concern—the dwarf and the woman clearly knew Hawke better than he. What else did they know, if they were concerned with Hawke's intent in this case?
"Isabela swears I'm making a mistake. And she does know her poisons, I'll give her that. But I'm so sure about this. And I will be careful." She sighed. "It's all… rather complicated, I'm afraid."
"It is not so very complicated," he replied. "The choice to do what you feel is best for someone else…seldom reaps pleasant benefits." He paused. "Though I am curious. You remain away from home because you are concerned with implicating your mother should you be… discovered. And yet you have a mage in your employ."
"Correction, we have a Dalish in our employ. Merrill… is a unique case—nobody looks twice at her. After Bethany— after that, when I had to leave again, I went into town to see about finding some extra help. Merrill had left her clan, and had been wandering, trying to find work, but kept getting doors slammed in her face. She needed work, and we needed someone who could work. She said she was good with animals, which was exactly what I was looking for anyway, so I gave her a chance. And thank the Maker I did, because Mama positively adores that girl."
Fenris turned that over in his mind for a moment and something in his face made Hawke chuckle.
"You've met her, so you've already figured out she's a little scatterbrained. But she's got a good heart. And she's a dream with the animals. My mother just loves to dote on her."
The blue-grey blanket above rolled closer and spread out, slowly eating up the sky as the smaller, puffy white clouds joined the mass. Hawke let out a resigned sigh as the first drops splashed down, chilly wet pinpricks, then pushed herself to her feet and offered Fenris her hand; he clasped it and she tugged him upright. "I think that's our cue, don't you?"
Fenris cast a glance behind them, noting the distance back to the farmhouse and the pastures where the horses still grazed or played or lay in the grass. "Will they need to be brought in?"
Hawke shook her head. "Not unless the winds get too unbearable, or if there's lightning. Otherwise, we'll bring them in after dinner. Most of them love being out in the rain." A fond grin tugged at her lips as she said, "Falcon usually makes a muddy mess of himself."
"He is… of a unique temperament," Fenris observed as they walked back down the hill, towards the house.
"That's probably the most polite way I've heard it phrased."
The rain picked up quickly, and was falling in a steady, soaking sheet long before they reached the house. Hawke let out a distressed yelp and grabbed Fenris' wrist, tugging him as she hefted her skirts with her other hand and began running for the porch. His initial urge was to pull away from her grasp—the magic in her made his lyrium brands jump and spark beneath his skin, even when she wasn't actively healing him—but the warmth and strength in her slender fingers pushed through the uncomfortable jolt and he increased his own pace to match hers.
"Does this not count as overtaxing myself?" he asked above the rush of rain.
"It might," she called back, then swore as she plunged through a puddle. "Good thing you know a healer!"
They pounded up the porch steps, and once sheltered from the rain, Hawke released her grip, first checking in her purse to make sure the apothecary's packet was still dry before plucking at the damp dress and pushing her streaming hair away from her face, making annoyed noises. Fenris looked down at his own wet clothing in consternation.
"If you need to, you can borrow one of my brother's shirts," Hawke said, catching his look. "I'm sure we've still got some of his things packed away."
When Fenris glanced up from himself to reply, he turned his gaze sharply away again. The pale, thin material of Hawke's gown was soaked through, the bodice hiding very little as it clung. "That would be very helpful," he said stiffly, staring nowhere but straight ahead of him into the grey downpour.
"Fenris—?"
But whatever question Hawke might have asked was cut off as the door swung open and both Mrs. Hawke and Merrill hurried out, the former with towels in her arms. "Maker's breath, you two! You're soaked straight through!" She bustled forward, handing them both towels; Fenris ran his over his head, and by the time he pulled it away, he was gratified to find Hawke had wrapped hers about her shoulders.
"My thanks," he said, inclining his head.
"Thank you, Mama," Hawke added, with a rueful smile. "That one came on quick."
"Oh, not as quick as all that," Merrill chirped. "I thought those clouds would take forever to get here. We had time to shut up the barn and all the outbuildings. You'd have had to be paying no attention at all to miss—"
"Merrill," Hawke broke in, and Fenris noted there was a flush growing at her cheeks.
"Yes?"
"Shush, please."
#
Amelle kept an eye on the storm outside; though the rain hadn't ceased, and in fact seemed to fall harder, the winds were tolerable and so far there'd been thunder, but no lightning yet, and that was a mercy. Still, the horses would have to come in for the night. It was probably too much to hope for that the rain would move on by then. It'd be a greater miracle if they weren't socked in for a week of damp, soggy weather.
Indoors, however, everything was bright and warm, and the bone-deep chill of her sodden dress turned into a distant memory as they sat down to a thick, hearty stew, riddled with beef and carrots and potatoes, heady with the scent of thyme and rosemary. Mama's biscuits were impossibly soft and buttery—every bite dissolved on her tongue, and it was a true feat not to gorge herself. It was only the promise of pie that kept her from stuffing herself silly on biscuits, and even then just barely.
Fenris, though he'd slid into customary silence after they'd come in from the storm, also seemed to enjoy dinner, giving Mama solemn compliments on every part of the meal. Whether it had been their conversation on the hilltop or her mother's warm smile at Fenris' words, Amelle was reminded of happier times, when the house had been full to bursting with laughter, warmth and magic. Daddy had been cautious, certainly, but never afraid of his powers, and he'd instilled that respect for power in both Amelle and Bethany. It hadn't been until Amelle saw her mother lose Daddy, then Bethany, and finally Carver that she felt caution edging into fear. Not fear of her powers, no, but fear she might be found out. She couldn't—wouldn't—do that to her mother, who'd already lost so much.
When Mama set down the strawberry pie, Amelle's mouth watered. The crust was perfectly domed and golden, granules of sugar giving the crust a nubby crystalized texture. The strawberries inside were vibrantly red, and as she took the small plate bearing her piece, Amelle had to remind herself that they had company and company meant she probably ought to use a fork.
She was only halfway through her second piece, pushing the tines of her fork through the gloriously flaky crust and into a plump piece of strawberry, when her mother said something that made Amelle's hand go still, her fork lodged in her dessert.
"I was hoping we could talk, darling, about Carver."
Amelle blinked at her plate, hating the way tension began crawling up her spine, tightening her shoulders. She swallowed once—it was just wrong how dry her mouth had become—and looked up, forcing her voice to lightness. "What about him?"
And why in the name of Andraste's saggy britches was Mama bringing Carver up now?
"Well," Mama said, setting down her own fork and smoothing her hands across the plain tablecloth, "something… occurred to me, these last few weeks you were gone."
"Oh?" She swallowed again, glancing quickly at Fenris and Merrill from the corner of her eye. Fenris appeared puzzled, but Merrill looked positively shamefaced. Oh, dear. "And what's that?"
Mama sent Amelle a somewhat pointed look. "It's been five years."
"It has."
"And," she went on, "it seems to me that since you already travel so much—"
Amelle's heart began pounding harder.
"—You might consider expanding, as it were. To Kirkwall."
"To Kirkwall," she echoed weakly. Why, Mama? Why are we talking about this now? Why here? Why now?
Mama's fingers plucked at the tablecloth, then smoothed out the wrinkles, the only indication she was at all nervous about the topic of conversation. "I want you to talk to Carver, Amelle," she said quietly. "You've both gone long enough without speaking."
"Mama—"
"I know it was horrid when he left, and I know what I'm asking you to do is difficult."
Amelle's stomach, so full of pie, lurched uncomfortably. She swallowed again, but said nothing.
"I'm not getting any younger—"
"Mama—"
"And he's the only family you'll have left after I'm gone," she said, firmly, lifting her chin and fixing Amelle with an unyielding blue gaze. "Five years is long enough—far too long for you both to go without any sort of reconciliation between you. Please, just consider—"
The chair scraped loudly across the floor as Amelle stood.
"Amelle?"
"Sorry. Sorry, I—I need to… I need to bring the horses in," she stammered, taking a step away from the table, another step out of the kitchen and towards the door. "I'll be right back," she called out over her shoulder before disappearing out the front door, hearing the screen slam in the wet darkness as she made a beeline for the barn.
Everything was swathed in dark grey, the rain making the world even darker and wetter than the twilight Amelle knew it to be. She was soaked to the bone—again—by the time she laid hands on the barn door, yanking hard on it until it pulled open. She hurried inside, greeted a chorus of bleating goats and sheep dismayed by the storm, and called forth mana enough that a globe of blue light swirled to life in her palm, quickly engulfing her hand. Surrounded by the eerie light, Amelle strove to calm the erratic tattoo of her thundering heart; she gathered an armful of lead-ropes from hooks and spun around on her heel, only to find Fenris coming into the barn after her, a lantern held in one hand.
"Hawke, your mother—" He stopped short at the sight of her, and she realized, healing sessions aside, Fenris had never really seen her giving a full display of magic. Oops. She opted not to let her flame gutter out; he knew she was a mage, he could deal with it, or he could not deal with it. At the moment, she wasn't of a mind to care either way.
"Maker," she breathed shakily, "please do not tell me she sent you out here."
"She did not. She would have come herself, in fact." When Amelle leaned heavily against a support beam, he took a step closer. "Are you… well?"
"No," she admitted, looking wearily at the blue ball of light. She flicked her wrist and let it die. "No, I don't think I am." Amelle gnawed on her lip until she the sharp taste of blood met her tongue. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sending a tiny flash of healing mana to her lip and trying to calm down. "This part's probably obvious, but I really don't want to to talk to my brother."
"You don't wish to… to reconcile?" he asked carefully—carefully enough that Amelle was nearly sure Fenris didn't know the details. She didn't answer, mostly because she didn't know how to answer, and it was at that point Fenris took several steps closer, peering at her face with something uncomfortably like recognition. "No," he said quietly. "It is nothing to do with your wants." Another pause, and Amelle truly didn't want to hear what he had to say. "You are afraid."
Damn it, why did he have to be right?
"It is true, is it not?"
Amelle licked her lips, searching for something, some explanation, some defense. "Fenris…" But what could she say? What could she tell him? She had no obligation to tell him anything, and yet… he'd come out here, through the rain, looking for her. Maybe that counted for something.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is it because he is a templar?"
"No," came her tired reply. "Well. Not… not completely."
It was a strange moment then, in the seconds that followed her words. He could have asked. She expected him to ask her to elaborate, even as she braced herself against a barrage of questions… that did not come.
"It is your own affair," he said quietly. "Come. I will assist you in collecting the—"
"He hates me," she blurted, her throat closing up on the last word. She swallowed hard against the lump, but it wouldn't budge. She took a deep breath and tried again. "My brother hates me."
Fenris said nothing right away. Then, "Your mother does not seem to believe that."
"Because she doesn't know." Her back still pressed against the beam, Amelle sunk to the ground, but Fenris didn't move, not an inch. He simply held the lantern and watched her, waiting.
After an eternity of indecision, Amelle took the end of one lead rope in her fingers, playing with the frayed knot. "He blames me for Bethany's death." She sucked in a breath and held it. "And I'm not sure I disagree with him on that score."
Never coming any closer, Fenris sunk to one knee and set the lantern down. "You told me you were not home when your sister…"
"Was thrown from a horse," she finished, bleakly. "Bethany—we… animals don't… always like us. Mages. Or… well, prey animals, I think. I think it's instinct in… in prey or herd animals not to… to trust the… whatever it is they sense in us."
"You ride a horse."
"Falcon's known me since he was born. Daddy knew it was the only way he'd accept me. Bethany had a horse too—Annie, the mare. Falcon's sister. But Annie was colicky, and Carver was seeing to her. So Bethany thought… thought she'd just ride another of the horses." She breathed in, but the sound was too much like a sob, and it was at that point Amelle realized her eyes were burning and her cheeks were wet with tears. "Falcon and Annie's brother. Marius. The gelding up at the Perkins' farm."
"The biter."
Amelle gave a miserable nod. "Biting wasn't his only bad habit." Scrubbing a hand across one cheek and then the other, she looked up at Fenris. "She saddled him up and took him out. The way I hear it, Marius was prancing and pawing at the ground from the start. Bethy figured it was nerves. She figured if she could ride Annie, and I could ride Falcon, and they were so alike in temperament… then she could ride Marius."
"But it was not so."
"He threw her. I know the fall broke her back. That's… that's all I know for sure. I… I was told she couldn't feel her legs. But there was something else wrong, something worse. She— I was on my way home, but… there was a storm. Delayed me." Letting the lead ropes slide free, Amelle wrapped her arms around herself. "I didn't know. I'd have hurried if I'd only known, but—"
"Was there any way you could have known?" he asked, an edge to his voice.
Amelle only shook her head, tears coming too hard and fast now for her to hope they might stop anytime soon. "But if I'd got home a day earlier," she insisted around a choking sob, "if I'd pushed through the rain, I could've fixed it. I could've healed her. Bethany wasn't a healer. She couldn't— If I'd come home on time, I'd've been able to yank her backside away from that horse before the fool thought had even taken shape in her head. But I didn't. Instead, I came home to a dead sister, a broken mother, and a furious brother. They… they had a healer come down from Lothering, but… there wasn't—he couldn't fix what was wrong. They gave her laudanum to help with the pain, but that's it."
She was cold. She was wet and cold, and gripped with a tremble that felt as if it started at her very core. Fenris remained silent. She wondered what he was thinking, how severely he was judging her.
"Carver left the day after the funeral," she managed, rubbing furiously at her face with one sleeve. "But he told me. Before he left, he told me it was my fault. My fault for not being there in the first place. I could've stayed around, he said. I should've stayed around. Not traipsed around the Maker-forsaken country…"
"Hawke."
"The worst part is, he was right."
"No," Fenris said, his voice low, and even, and so very steady that it made Amelle blink.
"But—"
"No," he said again. "We are none of us—even mages—gifted with second sight. Had you known your sister was in danger, would you have gone to her bedside?"
She stared up at him, dumbfounded. "Of course."
"Had you remained at the farm, as your brother claims you ought to have done, would your family have found itself in financial peril?"
After several long seconds, Amelle nodded. Reluctantly. "Yes."
"Accidents are beyond our reach, Hawke. There are occurrences in this world that can be changed, and it can be… difficult to separate those instances from true accidents. Your brother was wrong. Your sister's death was… not your fault."
"It… feels as if it were my fault," she admitted, feeling wretched about it.
"Because you have allowed yourself to believe your brother's words. But have you ever allowed yourself to consider for a moment that he may have been wrong?"
"…No."
"It is a thought worth considering." He stood, then, offering her his hand. Amelle took it and felt herself pulled easily to her feet. "But first, we must bring in the horses. The rest will keep until daylight."
Perhaps he was right, she thought as they abandoned the barn for the soaking night, boots squelching in the mud with every step towards the pasture. Perhaps it was a dilemma that would look differently in the morning.
Perhaps.
But even as Amelle and Fenris brought in the horses, even as she changed into dry clothes and slid beneath warm blankets, lulled to sleep by the rain hitting the roof, she remembered the ice in Carver's eyes the day he'd left.
