Fenris didn't see Hawke at their meeting place, which struck him as… odd, particularly since he'd been concerned his own errands were taking too much time—more time than he was comfortable spending, at any rate. He didn't think she'd have left without him, but nor did it seem terribly likely she was still busy with acquiring a new plow for the farm. He shifted the brown paper and twine-wrapped package in his arms and made his way slowly down the street, pausing briefly in front of the shop windows to glance inside. The general store yielded no sign of her, and neither did the feed store, the apothecary, or the saloon. He went as far as the chantry before turning back, but on his return route, Fenris caught sight of something he hadn't seen on his first trip up the street.

Amelle Hawke, coming out of the dressmaker's shop, similarly-wrapped packages in her arms.

"Hawke," he called, lengthening his stride to catch up with her. She whirled, eyes wide with surprise that turned quickly to sheepishness.

"You… weren't waiting long, were you?" she asked, arms tightening around the parcels so the paper crinkled. "I thought—I thought I'd have enough time…"

"No," he answered carefully. "I have what I came for."

"And… and Hiram had what you were looking for?"

"I required nothing unusual." Indeed, he'd replaced the lost and damaged clothes with more of the same. "And you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow and letting his eyes slide back to the shopfront window. "I was unaware ladies' garment shops sold such things as field plows."

"Tomas and Kellen are bringing around the wagon later," was her pert reply. "I can hardly carry a plow home myself. Unless you thought perhaps that's why I'd brought you along? To help me carry it?"

"I suspect that might constitute overtaxing myself," was his own deadpan reply.

"Now you care about the healer's orders. I see how it is."

The walk home was significantly less tense than the walk into town, and Fenris found himself wondering if part of the reason for that had to do with the parcel Hawke carried. She asked his impressions of Lothering and he gave them (small but not unpleasantly so); the conversation moved to horses (though she steadfastly refused to answer his inquiry regarding Falcon's "full name"), and, finally, travel.

"I… suppose I ought to be thankful you were around for Mama's little… request," she said after a lengthy pause.

Fenris glanced over at her, but Hawke's gaze never strayed from the road before them. "Why is that?" he asked.

"I don't have to explain why I need to go to Kirkwall. Only that I do."

"You have decided, then."

"Yes," Hawke replied with a nod. Then her expression turned doubtful. "I think so. It depends."

"On?"

"On whether I can perfect that magebane tincture. I've got three vials I have to test. With luck, one of them will work like it should."

They walked on in silence that was, on Fenris' part at least, contemplative. Birdsong twittered around them, and the trees rustled with wind that pushed puffy clouds across the sky above. After nearly a full minute, he said, "How do you expect to… test these potions?"

There was a check in her step as she looked over, blinking once, then twice. "I test it, of course. Every mage is different; I'm making this for myself, so… I need to be the one to test it."

"And if it is successful?"

"A successful tincture will suppress my powers without…" she trailed off, looking as though the next words she was about to say were truly distasteful. "Without affecting me adversely."

Fenris suspected there was much she wasn't saying. "And by 'adversely,' you mean…"

"I don't want it to leave me insensible," she replied, kicking a rock in her path. "I need to be able to function. It won't do me any good if I'm entirely defenseless. At the very least I have to be able to draw, aim, and shoot a gun."

He nodded. Those were all reasonable, practical conditions; he sent her a sidelong glance as he asked, "Do you expect those results, or do you hope for them?"

Hawke shifted her package in her arms, pursing her lips in thought before answering. "A little of both. But that's why I've got to test them." She hesitated, awkwardly, pursed lips screwing to the side, changing the tone of her expression. "I know you said you'd… help. When it came time to test them."

"I did."

Several more steps in silence. Her throat worked as she swallowed once. "The first—I… when we get back to the farm, I'll be ready for the first trial."

"What, then, are your plans once your tests are complete?"

Shrugging slim shoulders, Hawke frowned at the road. "I suppose… Kirkwall. Isabela's all for a trip, and Varric's originally from Kirkwall—from what I remember, he has a brother living there."

"It is a long journey."

"Maker, tell me about it," she agreed, making a face. "I think the best route's up through Highever, though. Catch a boat from there and it's a straight journey to the Free Marches."

Fenris considered this. Her reasoning was sound—if Hawke was interested in keeping the journey as short as possible, sailing out of Highever was the obvious choice. Highever, though, was an expensive port. "Highever and not Amaranthine?" he asked.

"The shorter I can make the trip, the better."

He nodded. "You wish to waste no time. I understand."

Hawke startled slightly, then looked at him. "No. No, time… well, time's got a little to do with it, but…" She grimaced then, and shook her head. "Trust me. The less time I spend on a boat, the better." Once she was satisfied he took her meaning, she nodded once. The road before them forked, and when Hawke took the path that led to the right, Fenris followed.

"In any case," she went on, "I told you you were welcome to stay as long as you needed. This… still stands, of course. If you'd rather stay behind on the farm and move on at your leisure, you're more than welcome to do just that. Nobody's kicking you out. Wanted to make sure you knew that. You can stay or you can leave. That part's entirely up to you."

"I… appreciate the sentiment," he replied. The Hawke farm was in sight now, the farmhouse nestled comfortably in a sea of green. Few places, in his experience, were truly as peaceful as they appeared, but the Hawke farm was a notable exception. Fenris did not look forward to leaving it, but staying was not an option and never had been. "It so happens I was en route to Kirkwall when you… happened upon me."

Hawke stopped and looked at him a moment, brows raised. "Well that's… a happy coincidence." Surprise melted away with a grimace and she shook her head, adding, "Maybe not happy, no, but… a coincidence. If you're traveling that way anyway…" As if to punctuate her statement, she stepped off the main road and onto the crest of a grassy hill on the edge of the Hawke property.

"You are thinking we might make such a journey in each other's company," he remarked, following her.

Hawke shrugged and the smile she sent him was tinged with self deprecation. "I was actually thinking safety in numbers, but that's just about the same thing." She took a few more steps then sat, setting her parcel aside. "Working under the assumption I can get the potion straightened out sooner rather than later, it should take a little less than a week to get enough supplies together."

"So long?"

Her expression turned thoughtful. "That also gives Varric enough time to bail Isabela out of jail." At Fenris' expression, Hawke smiled and shrugged. "It's practically tradition by now. I think whatever she does that gets her caught, she does on purpose. She probably thinks she's helping to give Aveline's—she's Lothering's sheriff—life more meaning." After a pause, she added, "I… doubt Aveline agrees."

"Probably not."

They continued together down the hilly terrain, barn and farmhouse growing larger with each stride. "Well," Hawke said, "I suppose that settles it. No putting off preparation longer than we have to, right?" Her expression turned troubled as she looked inward, but before Fenris could comment, Hawke gave herself a shake and smiled, though it looked strangely brittle around the edges. "Besides, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can come back."

"That is one way of looking at it, I suppose." He looked behind Hawke, to the barn. "Do you wish to test the potion this afternoon, then?"

With a brief glance back at the barn and an even briefer one at the house, she nodded. "Yes, I… yes. Let me get these things put away and I'll meet you in the hayloft. If we're very lucky, I'll get it right on the first try."

"Does that happen often?"

"Fenris," Hawke said with a snort as they both turned and started for the house, "if I had luck on my side, I wouldn't need this potion to begin with."

Having only replaced what he'd lost to damage, it hadn't taken long for Fenris to put away his purchases, and the barn was quiet as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. It was an easy spot to miss, the ramshackle table and shelves pushed against the far wall, hidden almost entirely by stacked hay bales. Dried bunches of elfroot and other herbs he did not recognize and could not identify hung from one of the lowest rafters, swaying gently in the breeze blowing through the open hatch, which let in light as well as air. Suddenly the table's placement made a great deal more sense. A lantern hung from a hook, unlit; the smudged, dark glass left him to wonder how many late nights Hawke had sat at this table, crafting and testing the potions she eventually sold.

He approached the table to find it was, in actuality, a door, propped up on either end by sawhorses, the surface riddled with scratches and scorch marks. To one side was a leatherbound notebook, blown open by the breeze, revealing page after page of scribbled notes and drawings entirely foreign to him. The desk was weighted down with brass scales and a mortar and pestle and heavy bottles as well as smaller, lighter vials. He did not touch anything, because these things were not his to touch, and yet he found himself unwillingly fascinated by this tiny corner, so very different from what he'd seen of the farm. Even the scent of it was different; mingling with the sweet smell of hay there was the sharper, more medicinal scent of… something bitter, something beyond the herbs hanging from the rafters. Something—

"Somehow I'm not surprised you beat me up here."

He turned to find Hawke pulling herself up the ladder. Gone was the dress from earlier; she was once again clad in trousers and a shirt he was beginning to suspect had once belonged to her brother.

"It is… an interesting area."

"Interesting," she echoed, brushing the hay from her pants as she stood up straight. "That's an improvement from Isabela's 'creepy' and Varric's 'inspiring.'"

"Dare I ask what he found inspiring?"

Shrugging, Hawke pulled a stool from the shadows beneath the table and sat upon it. "He's a writer. Damned near everything's inspiring. The fact Isabela called it creepy first just made the inspiration twice as potent."

"I fail to see what is 'creepy' about such a workspace."

Hawke shook her head, pulling three blue vials closer. "She said it reminded her of the sort of thing a mad scientist might set up for himself." Fenris knew his expression was skeptical; when Hawke looked up and met his gaze, she gave a short laugh and nodded. "My reaction was much the same." She sighed, then, holding the bottles so they clinked quietly together. "Then again, I'm about to run a series of experiments on myself, so maybe Isabela's description wasn't that far off."

Fenris sat on the edge of a nearby hay bale. "You have told me little of what to expect."

"I'm… not entirely sure what to expect," she admitted, drawing one leg up to rest her heel on the stool and wrapping her arms around her knee. "Still. I know what I want the potion to do. It might do what I need, or it might do more or less than I need." She looked up from the vials she held, meeting his eyes for a tense moment before looking down again. "I suspect you're interested in hearing the worst case scenario."

"That would be a help."

"I gather you know a bit about magebane already. You said it's illegal in the Imperium?" At his nod, she went on. "So you know it'll inhibit spellcasting. The problem is, at least for spirit healers, our magic extends beyond basic spells. It's… it's a state of mind, almost. I'm—well, I won't say I'm never sick, but I am very, very rarely ill. Can't remember the last time I was, in fact. It's because spirit healers heal themselves constantly—it's second nature to us. If you inhibit our magic, we're more than just cut off from our mana; we can't protect ourselves on the most basic level. It takes away our immunity entirely, so poisons like magebane pack even more of a punch."

"This is why you are concerned with the strength of the tincture."

"Partially," she replied. "Yes." Hawke looked at each vial for a long moment before choosing one and setting the other two aside. "But also, because magebane does inhibit a spirit healer's ability to heal, the corruptor agent in magebane… affects us—or me, at least—a little differently than other mages." At his curious look, Hawke grimaced down to the vial she held. "Let's put it this way: if you're very fond of your boots, you might want to keep your distance."

He sent her a long, considering look before asking, "Are you sure it is wise to attempt this in a hayloft."

Hawke snatched up another tiny bottle before pushing to her feet. "I'm damn certain it's not, since you're asking." She reached the ladder and sent him a grim smile, lightly tossing the second vial. It sailed end over end, and the bluish sheen it gave off couldn't have been anything other than lyrium potion. "You're going to need that."

Once their feet were again on solid ground, and before Fenris could ask anything more, Hawke freed the cork and put the vial to her lips. She grimaced, letting out an inarticulate noise of disgust as she corked the bottle and shoved it into the pocket of her trousers.

"Maker, that's foul," she choked, eyes clenched shut. "That may be the foulest, vilest thing I've ever tasted in the whole of my life."

"Did you expect otherwise?" he asked, cautiously.

"I didn't expect it to taste good, if that's what you're asking. But that was something else entirely." She spat once on the hay-strewn floor and coughed again. Then, eyes watering as she wiped one hand across her mouth, her look of disgust never abating, Hawke called a ball of flickering blue flame to the palm of her other hand and began to count.

By the count of eight, the flames she'd called forth began struggling.

By the time she reached a count of fifteen, the floundering globe started to shrink.

By twenty-three, the fireball had dwindled to a single, flickering flame.

In thirty seconds, Hawke could manage no magic at all. Her brow creased in concentration as she tried, but no manifestation of mana showed itself.

"Is it done?" he asked quietly.

Hawke swallowed hard and leaned against a support post. Her complexion had gone strangely pale and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. "We'll see. Still plenty of time for things to go sideways. And on that note, if I pass out, get that lyrium potion into me and bring me into the house." Despite her jesting tone, Hawke's condition worsened with every second that ticked past. Her pallid face was soon slick with sweat, her shirt damp and dark with it, despite the mildness of the day.

"Enough," he said, finally, striding forward as he pulled the stopper off the bottle of lyrium potion, handing it to her.

"Not yet," Hawke replied weakly, sinking to the ground. She ran a hand through her sweaty hair, pushing it away from her forehead.

"Not yet?" Fenris retorted, incredulous. "Did you not say you wished to develop a tincture that would not incapacitate you?"

"Yes, but—" Whatever Hawke was going to say, the words died in her throat as a peculiar expression came over her face. Scrambling to her feet, she lurched desperately to a bucket by the barn door where she proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach. Once the wave had passed, she coughed and spat, shoulders trembling as she gulped in greedy breaths.

He'd never seen anything quite like it.

Then Hawke flung out her hand. "Lyrium," she croaked. Wordlessly he handed over the vial. Spitting once more, she downed the bottle's contents and sank back to sit on the cold dirt floor.

#

Amelle hated magebane.

Amelle really hated magebane.

She wasn't terribly fond of laudanum right now, either. Didn't seem possible something could taste just as bad coming up as it did going down, but that was life for you: brand new learning experiences waiting around every corner. And then the whole mess got followed by a lyrium chaser, which tasted like nothing so much as licorice gone horribly wrong.

She didn't care to think too much about the taste in her mouth right now. It was too important to keep that lyrium down.

"Thanks," she managed, rubbing at her streaming eyes.

Then the elf crouched down, the better to look her in the eye. "That was your test?" he asked, his voice a low growl as he enunciated every word with infinite care.

"That was my test."

"And yet you don't seem bothered by the outcome."

"I'll feel a lot better about the outcome after a good night's sleep. We'll try again tomorrow." She winced, rubbing the back of her head where a headache was beginning to throb. Magebane worked quickly—it didn't matter a damn bit how much her stomach rebelled, the poison was already well into her system by that point. Lyrium stopped the poison, but only time alleviated its effects.

His dark brows lowered and drew together into a scowl, his jaw tightening. "I take it that was not what you'd consider a 'worst-case scenario.'"

"Nope."

"Dare I ask what is?"

Amelle considered this, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. "Magebane's fatal in large enough doses. That would've been a lot worse than this."

He ground out a swear between clenched teeth. "You are foolish."

"I'm not foolish," she replied, sending him a doleful look. "I know I need an even lower dose in the tincture. This is how the process works. Trial and error. And error. And error. And error again."

"You would do yourself such harm?"

The headache pounded worse, a steady tattoo inside her skull that tensed and pushed in a rhythm Amelle was certain would never stop. With numb, clumsy fingers she tucked the empty lyrium bottle into her shirt pocket before shooting a narrow glare at Fenris. "You didn't seem too put off by the idea when I asked. In fact you commended me on wanting to control my powers. Well, guess what, Fenris? This," she said, flinging her arm out, "is the price I have to pay if I want to control my powers. If I want to remain undetected. If I don't want to be found out by the templars. I'm not doing this for fun." She spat out the word as she heaved herself forward and began pushing resolutely—if unsteadily—to her feet, leaning heavily on the post for support. "I'm doing this because what I'm trying to avoid is worse."

Fenris said nothing. He said nothing for so long that the other sounds of the farm swelled to fill the quiet. The wind pushed through the pines. Chickens clucked. Sheep bleated. Tomas and Kellen shouted cheerfully to each other as they hitched a pair of horses to the wagon. Still, Fenris said nothing. He only stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and couldn't quite figure her out.

Finally, he raised his chin—either in defiance or stubbornness; Amelle didn't know which—and said, "What now?"

"Now I take myself to bed and sleep this off." But as Amelle pushed away from the support beam, she took a few stumbling steps when her momentum stopped abruptly as a warm hand gripped her elbow, taking her weight. He guided her arm around his shoulders, wrapping his arm around her middle, supporting her.

"You don't have to—"

A muscle flexed in his jaw, but Fenris kept looking straight ahead. "I said I would assist you. If this is what you require, then that is what I will do."

Without another word on the matter, he steered her out of the barn and up to the house. Mama was doing some pruning in the garden, much to Amelle's endless relief, allowing them entry without comment. She'd explain to Mama she'd been testing a potion—but later.

Later, when her head wasn't pounding and she didn't feel as weak and uncoordinated as a baby kitten.

Once inside, Amelle squinted up at the stairs. "Right. I think we can do this. I'll grab the bannister and you can—" But her words cut off with a yelp as Fenris slid an arm behind her knees and scooped her up instead.

At her baffled look, he only shrugged his shoulders. "This is quicker," he said tersely.

It was, indeed. Quicker, true, but awkward and strange and warm and solid. And what if his collarbone wasn't healed to support such extra weight? What if his knee gave out halfway up the stairs? What if he misstepped? What if—

"Hawke," he said, his low voice snapping into her thoughts and, apparently, reading them. "I am fine."

They reached the topmost stair before Amelle could think to reply, and before she could argue, Fenris shouldered open the door to her room. Setting her carefully on her two feet, he remained on the threshold, watching silently as she took several trudging steps to sit heavily on the edge of her bed.

"Thank you," she said quietly, resting her elbows on her knees and cradling her head in her hands.

Fenris gave a single nod and then, with only a hint of hesitation, crossed into the room and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table, pressing it into her hands.

"And thank you again," she murmured before taking a long, deep drink.

"Is there anything else you require assistance with?"

"No, I…" but the words died out. Amelle shook her head. "No. Sleep's the only thing that will help me now."

"Very well. Do you expect to continue your trials tomorrow?"

Setting her water aside to unlace her boots, Amelle nodded. "I promise, nothing will be quite as bad as today was. Each dosage here on out will have less and less magebane in it. The first test is always the worst one." She pulled off one boot, then the other, dropping them. They landed with a hollow knock against the floor.

Fenris looked a moment like he was going to say something, but his brows furrowed in a frown and he gave a minute shake of his head. Then, afterwards, he asked, "And you are certain you will be recovered tomorrow."

She nodded. "I am."

"And you are continuing your trials tomorrow."

Again, Amelle nodded. "You know I am."

He fell strangely silent then. "And you will not be dissuaded."

"No, Fenris. I will not be dissuaded."

He looked down, a pensive frown creasing his forehead. A second ticked by. Then two. Three.

"Then I will continue to assist you."