They did not, as it happened, leave Kinloch Hold immediately. A number of wounded templars required immediate aid, and while the Circle healers had been sent for, there were men whose lives hung in the balance. As a result, Amelle, being both uninjured and knowing a thing or two about dealing with injuries, had been asked to see to the men most like to perish before the healers arrived. Baker, in particular, looked pretty bad off.

So, while Varric, Fenris, and a freshly-bandaged Isabela aided the remaining templars as they saw to their dead, Amelle set bones and wrapped tourniquets and applied pressure to deeper wounds, trying to staunch blood that, for a time at least, resisted her efforts to slow its flow. She did not think about them in terms of templars, not now. Now they were men who'd been attacked by an abomination that had once been a mage, and that was a tangle of thoughts she was better off not thinking about until much later, when they were miles away from Kinloch Hold.

Two healers, a dark-haired man and a blonde elven woman finally arrived from the Circle. Marshall Greagoir spoke briefly with them both before sending them to tend the wounded. Wasting no time about it, the woman found where Baker lay, his bleeding staunched for the time being. She knelt by his side, blue-white light flaring from her hands. The other healer, the man, stepped gingerly around the injured, and came to kneel by the templar Amelle was tending just then. Blood slicked her skin up to her elbows as she applied pressure to a particularly ugly gouge that ran diagonally from the man's ribcage nearly all the way down to his pelvis.

"That looks bad," he murmured, peeling back one of the towels that had been brought over from the hotel. It was soaked red, and beneath was torn and ruined skin, flesh and muscle. "Mm. Very bad."

Amelle exhaled a mirthless laugh. "It was worse earlier, if you can believe it. I had to put his intestines back."

He huffed a short laugh of his own, equally humorless. "I do believe it."

When Amelle looked up, she met an angular face with eyes as green as her own, slightly magnified by a pair of wire spectacles. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her he was perhaps a few years older than she was, but that he was not a stranger to smiles, which was not an altogether bad trait for a healer to have, in her opinion.

"Amell!" Greagoir called sharply from where he was helping a bandaged templar to his feet. "Can you do anything for him?"

Amelle's head jerked up to answer, when she realized belatedly that she'd never told the marshall her given name. And then, just as surprisingly, the man kneeling across from her answered.

"Yes, Marshall," he replied, hands flaring with sudden light. "He ought to pull through fine."

Sitting back on her heels, Amelle wiped her hands with a mostly clean towel. "I'm sorry, but what… what did he call you?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"My name," he replied, sounding amused as he glanced up briefly and then down at his work again. "Daylen Amell, at your… rather bloody service."

"Amell," she murmured, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. "That… was my mother's name before she married my father. Leandra Amell."

The healer, Daylen, glanced up and blinked twice. "My mother was Revka. She… had a cousin by the name Leandra."

"Was?"

"I imagine it still is, if she's still alive." His smile went slightly wry. "Sadly, I don't know. Well. Not that sadly." At her quizzical look, he shrugged. "When you're accused of being the downfall of an entire family line, it tends not to be the sort of thing that inspires one to feel particularly tender feelings towards one's mother."

"I'm… I'm very sorry."

"Don't be. I'm mostly over it." He looked back down at the templar, whose injury was ever so slowly knitting itself back together. "I… remember my parents talking about one of Mother's cousins," he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear. "She'd run off with a Fereldan some years before, and the family was still scandalized down to the ground over it. His name was… Hawke, I think? I was very young at the time." A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead as he looked up at her, scarcely lifting his head. "I could be mistaken."

"Maybe not that mistaken."

Daylen kept looking at her, peering over his spectacles. "That would explain it," he said, so quietly that Amelle had to bend her head closer to hear him.

"Explain what?"

"They said he was an apostate," he murmured, somewhat pointedly. The templar they were working on was well and truly unconscious, and everyone around them was far too busy to listen in on a conversation between two healers most likely discussing the odds of death over survival on the man they were tending. All the same, Daylen kept his voice down. "So I'd say it explains a great deal, except why I'm doing this and you're not."

The softly spoken words were like ice down her spine, and Amelle's sharp inhale was far too close to a gasp. "Wh-what?" she stammered, trying to sound like she didn't know exactly what he was talking about, trying not to twist her fingers even more tightly into the towel she held. How could he—how could he possibly

"Forgive me," he replied hastily. "I… imagine whatever you're doing is quite effective." When he looked up again to find her all but gaping at him, Daylen shook his head and concentrated anew on the gradually healing injury. "You've nothing to fear from me. The Circle is… for some, it's true, the Circle chafes. Not quite so for me, or Nadiah," he said, indicating the elven woman, still hunched over Baker, "but… it chafes for some." He chanced another brief look up, narrowing now eerily familiar green eyes at her. "As it would for you, I imagine."

Amelle went very, very still. There seemed no point in attempting to dissemble. The next question, however, was one she didn't want to ask at all. "How… do you know?"

"Spirit healer," he said, nodding again at his hands. "But I suspect you were already aware of that." He waited for her to say something, anything, but Amelle's voice—and breath—were well and truly gone. "I can… sense your spirit," he explained. "The one connected to you. It's… it's a part of you, but not—it's strange." His frown deepened in concentration. "As if you've disconnected yourself from it—no, not disconnected. You've… you've distanced yourself from it. I… I can tell."

For as much as this made sense, the news was still surprising. "You can?"

"It's like… hearing a song being sung through a closed door, or watching a sunrise through drawn curtains. I doubt anyone else could sense it, and definitely not at any sort of distance. But you must admit our kind are a bit more… sensitive than most." The light around his hands went a little brighter. "Don't tell me how you managed it. I… I'd rather not know, if it's all the same to you. I imagine whatever it is you've done has crossed my mind at one time or another. I will say that I would… caution you. Whatever is is you've done—or are doing—is… our spirits are a part of us, in a way. Not… not the same as what Analie—she was… she was the mage that… well. You… met Analie. Anyway, I'm sorry. You probably know this already."

The admission that, no, she did not know a great deal about what she was beyond what her father had taught her stuck on her tongue. Amelle swallowed it to loosen the words, but to no avail.

What she did manage to say was, "Would you please— I… please, tell me."

Something about her tone made the light at Daylen's hands dim for a heartbeat of time, as if her words had surprised him. "We are what we are because we have gained a spirit's trust—you know that part, I'm sure." He spoke… hesitantly, as if he were afraid to insult her by sharing information too… common. "But by distancing yourself so from your spirit, I…at the risk of sounding impertinent, I would caution you. Too much distance may make that connection more tenuous. Be careful."

Whether it was the words themselves, spoken so earnestly, or the fact that they came from another spirit healer, another mage she—possibly?—shared blood with, Amelle felt the weight of Daylen's warning settle heavily on her heart. Amelle had been so very certain she'd thought through all the possible outcomes, and yet this one—so obvious and yet so detrimental—hadn't occurred to her. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "I will."

"I'm glad."

They knelt in silence for several long moments as Amelle watched healing magic rippling up like heat from the wound, turning his words over in her head. Finally, she cleared her throat. "You said… you said that mage's name was Analie?"

"Analie Caddell. She… yes, it was fair to say she chafed. She came late—fifteen or so—and her family'd shipped her to Ferelden from Starkhaven."

"Did you… know her?"

"Not well," Daylen admitted. "There were rumors she was planning to leave when she discovered the beau she'd been secretly writing to—not so secretly, as it turned out—was planning to marry another woman. Beyond that, I only knew she came from Starkhaven, and that she vastly preferred it to Ferelden." His voice took on a faintly bitter strain, and he gave himself a little shake. "Forgive me. Again. I oughtn't speak ill of the dead. All I meant to say was that some of us have significant difficulties adjusting, and some… don't. Nadiah over there got picked up when she was the only survivor after a bout of Antivan flu took out her whole alienage. We apprenticed together with the apothecary for a time." Daylen shifted his hands against the templar's stomach, changing the angle of his healing spell slightly.

"And do you… chafe?"

He furrowed his brow and pulled his bloodied hands away from the templar's abdomen, now pink with new skin. "No," he said, wiping his hands on the mostly-clean towel Amelle handed him. "Not exactly. But I think—well. I'm inclined to ask you the same thing."

"Do… I?"

He nodded. "It must be difficult, being alone as you are. I confess I can't imagine it."

"I'm not alone," she protested, and such protests were second nature to her now. She had people in her life, people who cared about her, who watched out for her as she did for them. "I have—"

"Family. Yes, of course. My apologies. I only meant… you've been without a guide. A mentor. No one to answer your questions."

"I… well, yes," Amelle relented. "I suppose I've had to learn a few things on my own. My father was—he passed away some years ago, but he'd never been a particularly deft hand at healing."

"I'm sorry. It must have been lonely."

It was, at times. Especially now. Amelle shrugged. "Sometimes. It was… less so when my sister was alive. She… was a mage as well."

Daylen looked up sharply, his expression caught somewhere between dread and curiosity. "…Was?"

As Amelle explained what had happened to Bethany, from her own training on Falcon and Bethany's on Annie, all the way to her fateful attempt to ride Marius, Daylen's expression turned sorrowful as he gave condolences that were, by his own admission, years too late.

"Listen," he said after several awkward seconds ticked past, folding the towel he still held once across, then twice. "I… you want to be on your way, and I don't blame you for it. But I… well. I—I'd like the chance to… to talk to you, if I could, before you go. We've got a lot of work ahead of us here. You… clearly know what you're doing, even without the, ah, help—so if you wouldn't mind staying a bit until after this mess is more under control…"

The moans of the injured raised like ghosts all around them. Amelle gave a tiny nod. There were still things she could do, even without the "help," as Daylen had put it. She wanted to help—for that matter, she wanted to be more of a help, but if they needed extra hands, she'd provide them. As long as they crossed the River Dane by sunset, they'd probably be able to make up the lost time along the way. And it wasn't as if her mana was due to return anytime soon.

"I think we… I think we can spare some time."

"Good. Once things are a little more… settled, come find me in the apothecary shop. We can speak more freely there."

Amelle looked hard at her cousin, wondering if he was younger than she'd taken him for. "I thought you said you apprenticed with the apothecary?"

This question appeared to amuse Daylen more than anything else. "I apprenticed with him when I was a boy," he told her with a chuckle. "Now I am the apothecary."

#

Later, after the wounded were healed and the dead were tended—pyres would wait until after a wake, to allow telegraphs time to reach the dead templars' families—Fenris stood alone in the town square. Sunlight spilled down as if in defiance to the morning's ordeal, bathing the bloodstained street. The patch of grass where the abomination had fallen—those remains were still burning; foul, black smoke rose beyond the town's southernmost boundary—was dead and withered, dry blades of ruined grass sticking up through the blackened ground.

The sooner they left this place, the better.

Soft footfalls against grit caught his ear and Fenris turned a fraction. Amelle Hawke stood in his peripheral vision, her shirtsleeves still rolled up to the elbows, her hands scrubbed free of blood. He'd been surprised when she had announced her intention to remain and help the healers. It would have made more sense for Hawke to depart at the first opportunity, he thought—these were still templars, after all, and if Hawke were to be discovered now… it didn't bear thinking about.

Fenris didn't know what to make of her. Still.

"You look like you're deep in thought."

Fenris turned to face her fully, the cavalry sword she'd pulled off the dead templar swinging gently at his hip. Marshall Greagoir had insisted he keep it as a gesture of appreciation, and though it felt… strange to have such a weapon there, he did not entirely mind the addition. "I suppose I am."

"I imagine it's too much to ask whether they're pleasant thoughts?" she asked. "After a morning like this one?"

The entire course of his thoughts were too broad and varied to answer such a question easily. He settled for saying, "You managed to navigate today's… events without telling a single falsehood."

But rather than looking pleased or proud, Hawke's expression turned to one of consternation. "Besides the obvious lie of omission, you mean," she said, lowering her voice as she drew closer.

"No," he answered honestly, meeting her eyes for a defiant moment. "I do not begrudge you your need to protect yourself. I was only… surprised you managed to do so without… lying."

"Well, there's a good reason for that," replied Hawke, a grin playing at her lips. "I'm a rotten liar."

Crossing his arms, Fenris arched an eyebrow at Hawke. "I have seen theatrics to the contrary."

The grin widened, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. "And did I lie to you?"

"No," Fenris countered. "But I doubt your promises regarding your Empress Elixir were even remotely accurate."

"You remembered any of that?" she replied, dimpling at him. "Maker, I think I'm flattered. Tell me, would it help if I warned people it causes blindness?" She paused, tapping her chin. "That might be a point in its favor—after all, it's been said on more than one occasion love is blind."

"Hawke," Fenris said heavily, leveling a stern look her way. It lasted several seconds, then she shrugged, shedding her lightheartedness like a skin.

"That's… different, Fenris," she said, shaking her head. The breeze had kicked up, turning slightly damp. Hawke's hair blew across her forehead and she impatiently flicked it away. "That's… theatre. Drama. It's… fibbing with style." She turned her head to look at the patch of black, dead grass, her expression turning to something he could not easily read. Sorrow. Regret. Resignation, perhaps. Seconds passed and she turned, crossing her arms over herself, eyes never tearing from that spot. "What happened today was… something else entirely. Theatrics wouldn't have saved me today. I'm not sure anything could have saved me, had things gone differently."

Fenris agreed, though he did not give voice to the other thoughts battling in his head, the thoughts that had wondered what if Hawke had been found out? Would Isabela and Varric have stood by and watched her be led away? Would he? Fenris had no love for mages and never had, but in all their dealings, Hawke had never treated him as anything less than a friend.

He remembered, suddenly and incongruously, the night before, when they'd stood together in the stables, when he'd handed her his handkerchief to wipe away the trail of horse saliva from her palm. He remembered how grateful she'd been for such a foolish little gesture, and how she'd folded away the hay-smeared spittle before returning the item to him, as if she hadn't wanted him to dirty his hands. Hawke was… unlike any mage he'd ever known, and yet she was still a mage. Instinct dictated she was untrustworthy, that she could—and would—turn on him at the first opportunity.

And yet she had shared her home with him, had shared the food at her table, had shared the very power he railed against, and used it to mend his bones.

Could he have watched her be led away? Could he have done nothing?

Hawke spoke again, interrupting Fenris' thoughts and leaving him suddenly grateful for the interrupting. "I think I saw it, you know," she said, still looking at the dead, brown grass. "The moment when she gave in. She was so afraid—"

"The mage gave herself over to a demon," Fenris snapped. "Do not pity her."

"Shouldn't I?" Stepping closer to the patch, Hawke, scuffed the heel of her boot over the dead earth. "Everyone has their limits. Seeing this happen makes me wonder what mine is." She lifted her head and looked at him squarely, light burnishing her hair and catching the green in her eyes. "What are my limits? I was afraid today—maybe more afraid than I'd ever been. Couldn't the same thing happen to me?" Her expression twisted into something wry. "You don't have to say anything—I know it could. And maybe knowing it could is the thing that keeps it from happening. I don't know."

Shaking his head, Fenris closed the distance between them, standing by her shoulder. "You respect your own power. You maintain control over yourself. You did not know that mage, her proclivities, her habits, her weaknesses. You cannot begin to hold yourself to another's successes or failures without knowing the truth of what they are."

Hawke looked at him a moment—several moments—before tipping her head at an angle and giving him a shrewd look. "I don't know how much—or if—I agree with any of that, but… you may have a point."

"A single one," he drawled.

Shrewdness melted into another dimpled smile. "Maybe two."

"I shall wait with bated breath for you to decide." He turned, tilting his head toward the stables. "Come. I believe we have lingered long enough. We should move on."

"…Shortly," Hawke replied, glancing over her shoulder. "I need to stop in at the apothecary's shop briefly."

"I did not realize you were low on supplies."

The sun vanished behind a cloud as Hawke's expression turned unreadable. She wrestled with something for a moment or two, then shook off whatever it was, and when she turned to him, her brows drawn together, her lips pressed into a line, he realized what she'd meant about being a horrible liar, for Fenris was nearly certain he'd seen the moment Hawke decided not to tell an untruth now.

"One of the healers," she said, "has my mother's name. Amell."

"Do you suspect you are… kin?"

"No room for suspicion anymore—I'm certain of it." She looked over her shoulder and sighed. "I'd like to speak with him. Just for a few moments—I know we need to leave and we need to leave soon if we're going to cross the River Dane by sunset, but…"

A frown settled on his features almost immediately. They had already lost most of the morning, and after such a morning, it only made sense Hawke would wish to distance herself from Kinloch Hold as swiftly as possible; that she evidently did not wish to leave immediately sparked a flame of irritation beneath his breast. It was imperative they leave, and Hawke ought to have been the last one contriving reasons to stay, kin or no. He knew the importance of never remaining in one location too long, of avoiding suspicion, of moving.

But Hawke wished to stay some time longer. Such a prospect fairly screamed in the face of his instincts, which were urging him to go, go, go; leave, leave, leave, and it took every ounce of Fenris' self-control not to snap at Hawke, to insist they leave immediately, to the Void with whatever kin she may have unearthed in this place. Every moment they lingered was another moment they were at risk, another moment Hawke was at risk.

The remonstrations and demands sat poised on his tongue—no, they did not have time; no, doing so would jeopardize reaching the River Dane by sunset; no, he would not sit idly by while her own self-preservation remained silent. No.

Drawing in a breath, possibly even to voice these thoughts, Fenris took a closer look at Hawke. The magebane still coursed through her blood—he knew that to be true, could tell it simply by looking at her. She thought of her demeanor that morning, how she'd met her accusers with righteous indignation rather than tearful pleas, how she had acted, despite having no magic to act with.

She would not endanger herself—or the rest of them—knowingly.

"And you are certain this kin of yours is trustworthy?" he asked, making no effort whatsoever to hide the suspicion in his own tone.

Blowing out a breath, Hawke looked down at her hands—on closer inspection, though they were freshly scrubbed, dark residue remained under her nails, blood that would not be scrubbed away with bristles and soap. "He could tell what I was when the templars couldn't," she said, the words scarcely audible. "He's a spirit healer, like me. I… I can't even explain it, Fenris. I'd just really like to talk to him."

Fenris inhaled slowly and exhaled through his nose. "Then go," he said shortly. "But be on your guard. I will tell Varric and Isabela we expect to be underway soon."

Hawke's smile was bright and pleased as she reached out to grasp his hand, giving it a sudden, impulsive squeeze. "I won't dawdle. I swear it."

The touch—so casual, so unaffected—lingered against his skin as he watched her meander across the square in search of the apothecary shop. Fenris shook out his hand until the sensation passed and turned on his heel in search of Varric and Isabela.

They could not leave Kinloch Hold soon enough.

#

It took no more than two steps into Daylen's shop for Amelle to see just how different it was from the one in Lothering, and nearly everywhere else she'd visited in Ferelden. She'd been expecting something more along the lines of Mathers' ancient specimens on cluttered shelves, herbs drying from the ceiling, as if the old man had created the model from which every other apothecary shop in Ferelden worked. Maker knew he'd been around long enough.

But such was not the case in Daylen Amell's shop. It was free of dust, thick glass jars fairly sparkling as Amelle peered in them, roots and herbs distorted by the thick, curved glass; the polished wood floor gleamed as morning light poured through the windows. The space was not quite so cramped as Mathers' place either, with high ceilings and plenty of room to move about and examine ingredients and potions, tinctures and teas.

"I have heard it said," drawled Amelle as she approached the man who was her cousin—her cousin, Maker's blood, if that wasn't the last thing she'd expected to find here, of all places—as he stood behind the counter, watching her with the same kind of bemusement she'd been wrestling with since he'd first introduced himself. "You can tell a busy apothecary from an idle one by how tidily he keeps his shop."

Daylen laughed, and something about the tilt of his head, or perhaps the way one corner of his mouth tilted higher than the other, reminded Amelle powerfully of her mother.

She had a cousin. And he was a mage. More than that, he was a spirit healer. Amelle's earlier dread at the prospect of having to remain in Kinloch Hold was replaced by vague disappointment she wasn't going to get more than a few minutes with a newfound family member.

"I wouldn't call myself idle," he replied, leaning forward and resting his forearms against the scarred wood—but they were marks of natural wear, and lent character to the countertop. "Though not all mornings are as… exciting as this one was." Her cousin's forehead creased in thought. "Busy, though—I suppose it is. Busy enough, anyway, with steady, repeat orders throughout the town." He shrugged, nodding at the shelves. "Among other things, I supply the hotel with whatever herb blends it needs." He laughed at the confusion on her face. "Ah." He coughed. "Not… culinary herbs."

She thought of the embrium in the bath. "The bath salts?"

"My very own recipe," he said, proudly. "The hotel staff know how to blend it now, but… yes, the original concoction was my own. Also teas if they need them—medicinal, rejuvenating, sleep-inducing. The farrier's another regular customer. Last winter I came up with a brew for colicky horses that—ah," Daylen stopped suddenly, reining in the tumble of words, faintly embarrassed by his enthusiasm. "You probably don't want to hear about—"

"Don't be so sure about that," Amelle replied, grinning.

He smiled in turn, clearly thinking she was just being polite, going on to say, "In any event, things fall into a pattern and once you find that rhythm, it's easy to keep up, unless there's an outbreak of flu or an incident like this morning's…" he trailed off, brow furrowing. "Oh. But I've said something to upset you."

Amelle blinked. It was true, she supposed— she'd only been thinking of how nice it would be to have the opportunity to grow accustomed to a rhythm somewhere. "It's nothing," she assured him. "You just sound as if you… like it here. I… confess I'm surprised"

"It isn't perfect," he admitted, straightening and moving to a small glassed cabinet, carefully opening the doors and pulling out a tall oblong tin. "I'd like very much to travel, someday. A futile wish, I know. All the same, I… I like the work I'm doing. I can't pretend I don't enjoy it. And I'm good at it." He eased open the tin's lid and the warm, bright scent of ginger wafted up; Amelle breathed in a little more deeply. "I know you're meant to be on your way, but—"

"If you're offering me tea, cousin, the answer is yes. I can stay for a cup of anything that smells that heavenly."

Brightening, Daylen pulled a battered kettle from somewhere behind the counter and set about filling it. Amelle watched as he worked, measuring tea into an old scratched teapot and holding the kettle in his hands before mana stretched out to heat the water within. "So," she asked, resting one hip against the counter, "you… even being the town's apothecary, you can't…"

Daylen made a face. "Sometimes I can. If a nearby mining camp or one of the smaller towns badly need a healer, Nadiah—she's the Circle's private healer—or I will be sent out. But I did tell you it's more of a difficulty for some of us more than others. I imagine it chafes more for anyone who had a… happier life before coming here." Steam coiled from the kettle's spout.

"Ah, yes," murmured Amelle as Daylen poured water into the pot. "Downfall of the proud Amell name."

"Even before that," he said with a dry laugh. "I can't say that my life and experience is representative of all, but… I am able to do good work here."

"I think I envy you that," she said, a little wistfully as the scent of ginger and spice curled up around them. "Doing good work."

"What is it you do, then?"

Pulling a wry face, Amelle told him. By the time she was finished, the tea had steeped to a deep red. Daylen looked thoughtful as he poured the tea into two waiting cups. "It certainly doesn't sound boring."

Laughing despite herself, she took the teacup into both hands. "Oh, it's seldom that."

"Then it could be worse, couldn't it?" he asked, gesturing with the cup before taking a sip. Amelle followed suit, breathing in the ginger and spice; the warmth, the scent, even the steam conspired to loosen the tension that had coiled at the base of her skull since the alarm bell had cut through the morning stillness.

"Things can always get worse," Amelle replied, smirking at Daylen from behind her cup. "Anyone who says otherwise is just lacking imagination."

"Well said." Then he started a little and set down the cup. "Which reminds me…"

"Things having the capacity to get worse reminded you of something?"

"No," he answered patiently, "but discussing your… unique vocation reminded me of something I meant to do earlier." Taking another sip from his cup, Daylen moved to the far end of the counter, crouching down a moment. The slide of a drawer being pulled open and closed followed, and soon Daylen stood; in his hands he held several small potion bottles that glinted with liquid as deeply orange as any sunset. He pushed the bottles across the counter to her. "Here."

Amelle picked up one vial, turning it this way and that, marveling at its color as she held it to a beam of sunlight. "It's beautiful. What is it?"

"I heard what you did—blinding the abomination."

She exhaled in a snort. "I was desperate."

"It was quick thinking. And it worked, which is even more important."

"A charlatan's love potion's all it was. The gin's probably what stung the worst."

"Even so. I'd like you to have these. It's not much—a rejuvenation potion I blended. It might help you and your friends—and the horses—a few extra hours of travel time in, wherever it is you're headed." He paused, tilting his head. "Where are you headed?"

The potion glinted gold in her hand. "To see my brother. We haven't said a word to each other since my sister's death, and my mother's asked me to… attempt a reconciliation."

"Oh." He blinked, as if this news were somehow unexpected. Or maybe he'd assumed her family to be happier than it really was. "Well, it's good of you to—"

"He's a templar in Kirkwall."

Her cousin blinked again. Twice. "I'm sorry, what? You—you're—" Daylen sputtered, planting his hands on the counter and staring at Amelle. Some of the color had drained from his face, and she realized he looked almost as if he were gripping the counter for support. "You're going to Kirkwall? Kirkwall?"

"I realize it's not the most flattering path, all things considered," she conceded. "And there are stories about Meredith Stannard—"

"Oh, to the Void with Stannard," he spat, waving a dismissive hand. "It's true she's bad, but she's not the worst thing in Kirkwall, not by a long shot. That city's so soaked in blood, the Veil's started to tear."

Amelle stared at him. Oh, she knew enough about Kirkwall's history—it had been a territory of the Tevinter Imperium until the Free Marches had started expanding. There were rumors, too, of the magisters murdering slaves that did not fit on the ships, rather than leaving them behind and free. But that's all they were—rumors and stories. Nobody believed them. "You're… not serious."

"I am," he replied gravely. "Very. I thank the Maker every day my parents couldn't stand the sight of me, else they might've sent me to Kirkwall's Circle." He sighed. "I apologize. I've… got no real proof beyond the experiences of having lived there and the perspective provided by time and distance. But, I promise you, Kirkwall is a mad place. Be wary, cousin. I have scarce little family as it is; I should hate to lose one of the more interesting members to such a hellhole as that."

Shocked at Daylen's vehemence, Amelle could only nod. "I— of course, I promise." Very gently, she set her satchel on the counter and began tucking the bottles of the deeply colored potion in among the others, adding, "It's doubtful Carver will even want to speak to me, but I've got to make the attempt. I suspect it'll be a short visit."

Daylen didn't say anything right away. He was frowning, running one finger along her satchel's bent buckle thoughtfully.

"One of the templars did that this morning," she sighed. "Marshall Greagoir suggested I take it to the blacksmith, but I should be able to fix it myself later."

And then, with the tip of one finger and a sharp pulse of mana, the warmth of which Amelle could feel across the counter, Daylen very carefully bent the twisted buckle back into place. "There. Good as new." As the glow off the heated metal dimmed, he tapped his fingers restlessly against the wood. "I… this is probably impertinent, but, I—if you… I'm not saying you will, but if you find you… need someone to… to talk to. Who might understand your… your skills, then…" Another moment's hesitation and Daylen pulled free a sheet of paper and pen from another drawer, hastily scribbling on it. "If you need to—what I'm trying to say is… write, cousin. If you need anything. Don't… obviously don't speak… too plainly. Templars are still templars, after all. Even when you're the apothecary. But if there is any way I can—I should like to assist you, if it's at all in my power. Even if it is from a distance."

Amelle took the slip of paper. The ink was already drying.

"You're that concerned about Kirkwall."

A long pause filled the space between them before Daylen nodded slowly. "I am."