Fenris stared uncomprehendingly at the churning water. Hawke had been there—right there—and then she wasn't.

No, it hadn't happened as quickly as that; indeed, every second Hawke's horse refused to calm stretched into hours as inch by inch the water crept up her legs. It had been Varric who'd handed him the rope to tie about his waist, and he'd been close—so close.

Then the water surged up, a frothing wall of dirt and rock and broken off bits of tree limbs and roots, and carried her away with it as if she were no more than another storm-ravaged bough.

In that instant before she'd been swept away, Hawke's eyes, trained on his, widened until the whites of her eyes showed around green irises. She flung one arm out, grasping for him even as the current's pull dragged her over the bridge, until the dark water swallowed Hawke entirely.

There was no time. No time.

"Get all the rope you can," Fenris barked, pulling the rope free from around his waist as he clambered back onto the bank. He broke into a run and freeing Agrippa from the tree where she'd been tethered.

"Right behind you, elf," Varric answered, looping a coil of rope across his body. "Rivaini—"

"Catching up the second this beast is calmed down," came Isabela's terse reply as Falcon snorted and stamped the wet ground. "Go."

Hoisting himself upon Agrippa, Fenris pushed the mare off. From the corner of his eye he spied Varric upon Cedric, keeping pace. The two followed the river's flow, shouting Hawke's name as they rode. Agrippa's hoofbeats thundered through him as they wove through trees, but still Fenris kept an eye on the river, an eye out for Hawke. He strained his ears for the sound of her voice, calling her name again. She was not lost, would not be lost until—

A sliver of sound came up from his left, something that wasn't the river's rush or the pounding of Agrippa's hooves, or every rasping breath in his lungs. Turning his body and pulling Agrippa's reins, Fenris wheeled to the left, closer to the riverbank, eyes scanning the brown water rushing so furiously, when he spied Hawke amid the churning current. A smooth dome of rock jutted up from the surface—Hawke had wrapped one arm around it, but the other flailed, as if she were trying desperately to tread water and failing. Dark water lapped at her face as she tilted her head back further and further, fighting the current that threatened to swallow her.

He reined Agrippa to a stop and leapt off as Varric caught up. "Find her?"

Fenris gave a terse nod and held his arms out, catching the coil of rope Varric threw. He began winding the rope all around Agrippa's saddle, under the billet straps and around the horn, crossing it over her chest and around her girth, crafting a makeshift harness.

"Take her around that tree," he snapped, yanking the other end of the rope free. Fenris shucked his coat and twisted the length around his arm from shoulder to palm, the rope biting through the thin material of his shirt. Wordlessly, Varric took Agrippa's reins and took her around the other side of the pine and tethered her there. "It should distribute the weight better. When I have Hawke—"

"Pull," the dwarf said, taking up a length of rope. "Got it."

There came the pound of hoofbeats—Isabela on Tango, leading a much steadier Falcon. She dismounted smoothly and took no time securing both horses. Looking from Fenris to Varric and nodding once, Isabela took up the same length of rope Varric held.

"Lowering you down, then?" she asked. At Fenris' nod, she looped the length around her hands; when she looked up again, her lips had curled into a confident smirk that left her jaw too tight and didn't quite reach her eyes. "Careful then, sweet thing. And hurry—this isn't Hawke's idea of a relaxing bath."

Fenris stood upon the bank and when Hawke looked up, when she saw him, fear ebbed in favor of relief for the span of half a heartbeat. But the water continued rising. Isabela and Varric fed Fenris rope and he began his descent.

The bank was steep and, worst of all, slick. Thick black mud sucked and pulled at his boots, offering no purchase as he fought and slid his way down the bank. One misstep sent him slipping forward with such force the rope pulled taut and bit hard into his arm, burning him. The snap of pain bored through the sodden, aching chill that had by that point soaked into him, clearing his mind well enough for the moment that he managed to step more carefully.

It was not a gradual, gentle slope into shallow and then deeper waters. Fenris waded in up to the waist, the river's biting cold pulsing even deeper than the chill rain that had soaked into his skin. Holding tight to the rope, he reached out to her—she was an arm's length away, maybe more. Even with the current, if she pushed off the rock he could reach her. He could catch her. He would.

"Take my hand!"

Before she could answer, before she could move, the current pulsed and twisted; the water sucked Hawke under in a flurry of bubbles.

Fenris went cold. Colder. "Hawke!"

But one pale hand and then another reached up and, gripping the smooth rock face, Hawke pulled herself above the current again, sputtering and coughing. And Fenris breathed again.

"I'm caught!" The water that had only been up to her chin before now danced beneath her lower lip and she strained to keep her head above the churning surface. She tipped her head back and yelled through blue lips and chattering teeth, "Something's—I'm caught!"

Caught.

Caught.

"More rope!" Fenris snarled over his shoulder.

Another rush of water coursed over Hawke's head. She sputtered and spat, then shouted again over the roar of the flood. "What are you doing?"

No time to think, to deliberate. There was only the knowledge, the certainty he would not let her drown; he would not fail her. Perhaps Hawke saw him looking hard at the rope, wondering if the idea spawned in the wake of this new development was mad enough to work, or if it would only serve to get them both killed. Perhaps she already knew she might die if he tried, but would most certainly die if he didn't.

"You are not drowning here today," he shouted, as if saying the words aloud made them fact.

Unwinding the rope from his arm, Fenris met Hawke's eyes and held her gaze, not looking too hard at the tint of blue at her lips. He threw the rope once, but she was too late, too clumsy grabbing for it, and the river pulled the end out of her reach. Fenris pulled in the length again, threw it again. Again. Again.

And then her hands closed around the length. Hawke wrapped the slack around her hands, holding tight to the rope, using it to keep her head above water.

Fenris lowered himself fully into the river—the chill of it stole his breath—and, gripping the rope, he slowly, hand over hand, pulled himself to Hawke. The force of the current pushed and pulled at him, battering his body with rocks, with twigs, with the force of the water itself, pulling, pulling until his fingers grew raw and cramped around the rope. But at the other end was Hawke, face pale and eyes wide and disbelieving, the twine biting hard into her hands.

Water slapped Hawke's face as she spoke, and she coughed hard, then glared, yelling at him through blue-tinged lips. "What in the Void are you doing?"

What was he doing? It would have been far easier to claim ignorance in answer to such a question, but Fenris knew precisely what he was doing. And it was madness.

"You are not," he all but snarled, "drowning today."

"Neither are you!" she shouted back, eyes snapping with sharp defiance, even though her voice as raw as his hands. "I didn't—" Water surged over her head and she pulled anew on the rope, fighting to keep her head above the current. "I didn't pour all that energy into saving your life to have you throw it away now, you idiot!"

Hawke's words rang in his ears as Fenris breathed in, filling his lungs and lowering himself beneath the churning water. She would not die here today.

Silt and rock swirled all around; Fenris dared not open his eyes beneath the water's surface. In the darkness, rocks and tree limbs battered his back; pebbles like tiny bullets struck his arms, his back, shoulders, head, the backs of his legs as he held tight to Hawke's waist, blindly seeking out what had ensnared her.

Something sharp struck him between the shoulder blades as he followed Hawke's calf down to her ankle, the shock of the blow forcing air past his lips. Shaking off the sensation, Fenris sent one hand out searching—abruptly he realized the rock Hawke been clinging to was part of a larger piece that had split down the middle, forming a V. Her foot was lodged in the narrow base, pinned in place by a heavy bough that had been wedged there by the strength of the current.

More air fought past Fenris' closed lips as he pulled at the tree limb, thick enough that he could barely wrap a hand around it. He fought with the limb, twisting it as he pulled. Likewise, he fought against the current as it pushed him off balance. He tightened his grip on Hawke

Fenris lost yet more precious air; it streamed out his nose, past his gritted teeth.

Leaves rasped his face as he grappled with the bough, pulling and twisting and fighting the force of the river behind him. It was too large, too unwieldy; its bark scraped and caught at him. But when Fenris' fingers slid across the jagged end where the bough had split from the tree, he pulled. The air was all but gone from his lungs, but still he pulled—

The limb twisted sharply in his grip, hitting him hard as the current caught the leafy end like a boat's sail and carried it away

His fingers found Hawke's ankle, wedged between the rock—badly twisted, he could tell even with closed eyes and frantic, searching fingers.

She had the rope in her hands, but freeing her had the potential to push her—them—further along the current, away from the thing that was both her prison and sanctuary.

There was no time.

Fenris' lungs burned and lyrium flared beneath his skin in response, both to his determination and his body craving, screaming for air. Pulling her foot free—no time to be gentle, no time to be careful—Fenris did not relinquish his hold on Hawke, even as the river buffeted them both, trying to claim them.

When Fenris broke the water's surface, it was with a gasp. One arm remained locked around Hawke, as much to keep her from being lost again to the current as to keep from being swept away himself. His other hand found the rope, fingers curling tightly around it; above, Varric barely waited for them to get a full grip on the tether before shouting "Now!" back at Isabela. After a moment, they began the slow trek across the river.

The current still plucked and pulled at them, still battered them with tiny projectiles, but Hawke's two-handed grip showed no indication of loosening and though her face was pale, determination had settled in the line of her jaw.

They neither of them would die this day.

A long, slow process, Agrippa, Varric, and Isabela pulled them up to the safety of the bank, where the river—though still rising— was now well below them. Fenris released Hawke in time for her to lurch to her hands and knees. He bent double, breathing hard, spitting out the silt that felt as if it lined his mouth. Hawke's hands fisted in the grass as she spasmed through a series of hoarse, ragged coughs—water came forth in spurts and mouthfuls until the tenor of the cough changed and Hawke began to retch, shoulders hunching as she vomited forth filthy, dark water, coughing until her body shook with the force of it.

She stayed like that a moment or more, trembling with each labored, rasping breath. Perhaps magebane had saved her life that morning, but the poison had in no way proved beneficial since then. Hawke was still without her healing abilities, and would be for several more hours, by his count.

With a sigh, Hawke bowed her head to rest upon her forearms. "Thanks," she mumbled, though her voice sounded nothing at all like her voice—ragged and battered and hoarse. She took a deep, rattling breath, her body tensing suddenly before she exhaled in a slow wheeze. Another breath, just as loud, just as troubling.

But she was breathing. Fenris shifted his weight—the cold had sunk down deep into his bones to create an ache rivaled only by the numerous spots on his body that had been a target for countless rocks and jagged tree limbs and other things probably best not thought about. But his relief alleviated that ache—relief they'd both lived, relief he'd not failed despite such a mad endeavor.

But in the shadow of that relief, a tiny sprout of something else, something uncomfortable grew.

Would he have done such a thing, made such an attempt, took such a risk had it not been Hawke in the river? He… wasn't sure. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He could not remember a time when mere indebtedness had pushed him to act so recklessly and to his own detriment.

Hawke breathed again, coughed again, and again spat more water out. And in the pit of his stomach, that uncomfortable realization unfurled tiny leaves, stretched out tiny roots. She pushed herself to her knees, wet, bedraggled, and looking like the Void itself—but alive. The determination in her jaw hadn't faded, either. "We've got to move."

Frowning, Varric nodded, then jerked his chin at Isabela. "Rivaini found a cave on the map—it's not far from here."

"It's lacking in feather beds and running water," said Isabela, "but it looks to be on higher ground and has to be a damn sight dryer than any of us are right now."

Varric crouched and peered into Hawke's face. Where she'd been only pale before, her skin had now taken on a grey cast. "You think you can make it?"

"I can make it just fine," she said, gritting the words out through clenched teeth as she attempted to stand. Fenris stepped forward, catching her elbow before she could attempt to place weight on her injured ankle—shifting her position was enough to make Hawke suck in a breath and swear, even as that breath resulted in an explosion of choking coughs; she bent double, coughing hard as her icy fingers scythed into Fenris' forearm.

Varric and Isabela exchanged a dubious look.

"Agrippa can carry us both," Fenris said. "Tether Falcon to Tango and we will be on our way."

Isabela looked back at Falcon, then to Agrippa, standing placidly despite the rain still pouring down, despite the thunder, despite everything that had transpired since that morning. "She's a big, sturdy girl. What do you say, Hawke? Not the worst idea I've heard all day."

Hawke… did not argue. Still gripping his arm with surprising force, she stood perfectly still, head bowed; after several long moments, she gave the briefest, most imperceptible nod and released her hold on his arm. With that, Fenris heaved himself into Agrippa's saddle, pulling Hawke up as Varric and Isabela, ever mindful of her injured foot, helped her settle in behind him.

Linking her arms about his waist, Hawke leant against Fenris' back and rested her head upon his shoulder. And though they were both soaked to the skin, cold, and redolent of mud and filthy river water, Fenris found he felt nothing but relief at Hawke's weight pressed to his spine. He did not care that her arms gripped him tighter than absolutely necessary, given Agrippa's cautious pace. Hawke's wheezing breath was warm against his neck, and her wet, rattling coughs rumbled against his back; she had never been so close to him before—he never would have permitted it before—but now that proximity only served to remind him she was alive.

Isabela, armed with the map, led them through the driving rain, away from the river and onward toward higher ground.

#

The cave was precisely where the map stated, dry and, more importantly, uninhabited. The cramped entrance—Fenris dismounted and walked Agrippa through the narrow channel of rock, though Hawke remained on the mare's back—opened up to a wide, high-ceilinged cave that would provide more than adequate shelter for the night. Watery daylight illuminated the cave just enough to reveal soot-dark smudges across the ceiling marking the travelers who had sought shelter and warmth before them; the skeletal remains of a fire long cold stood sentry below.

It took little time to collect dried detritus along the cave floor to start a fire, fed—after some convincing on Isabela's part—by several dry crossbow bolts and a tangle of ivy found crawling along one of the cave's interior walls. Throughout these preparations, Hawke had sat quietly upon her damp bedroll. She shivered in front of the little fire, her wheezing breaths made louder in the cavernous space.

When Fenris and Varric ventured back into the storm to find wood to dry for the fire later, two of the bolts that had not been sacrificed for firewood killed dinner. He and the dwarf returned with two rabbits and a pheasant in addition to the mostly dry tinder they'd recovered from beneath the thickest pines, protected from the rain beneath a bed of needles.

Thunder still pounded and lightning flashed outside and the rain was unforgiving as ever, a steady rush of water punctuated by wet drips at the mouth of the cave. Even the horses seemed mostly content; soft nickers and low sighs bounced off the stone walls, echoing in the firelit darkness. Before long, game roasted over the newly-fed fire and Hawke, having taken a dose of lyrium potion, was resting fitfully on her bedroll in somewhat drier clothes Isabela had likely assisted with during their absence; she'd done the same for herself, and their rain-soaked, mud-streaked clothes were draped across rocks jutting out from the wall. Fenris and Varric followed their example; though the mud's sharp peaty scent still clung to his skin, changing into dry clothes was a marked improvement.

Hawke's ankle was well and truly broken—something Isabela had also seen to it in the meantime, but beneath the white strips of bandage the joint was swollen, purple, and hot to the touch.

"I don't get it," murmured Isabela as Varric turned the makeshift spit; fat from the pheasant dripped down into the fire, spitting and hissing. "She's taken the lyrium. Shouldn't that—" she jerked her chin at Hawke's injury "—have gone down a bit by now?"

Fenris shook his head. "When she was testing the magebane, even after taking the lyrium potion, it took time for her mana to fully replenish itself." Her color was marginally better, but every breath still wheezed and rattled beneath the crackle of the fire. "It took time for my injuries to heal; it will likely take less time for Hawke to recover, but it will still take time."

Isabela frowned, then exhaled on a sigh. "I suppose it's lucky that's the worst to happen to her after a scrape like that."

Fenris silently agreed.

The night wore on. Although Hawke refused food when she roused—never for very long—Varric set aside a small portion of roasted meat for her later. Isabela dozed while Varric fed pine into the fire. The dwarf yawned widely, rubbing wearily at his eyes.

"I will take first watch," Fenris said.

"You're kidding me, elf," he scoffed. "After a day like today?"

Especially after a day like today.

Fenris only shook his head in reply. What could he tell him? That he was accustomed to long flights on little sleep? That the lyrium in his skin had particular advantages? That he had no wish to sleep just now? These were all things he had no desire to explain.

"I will take first watch," he said again, firmly.

Though Varric looked inclined to argue, after a moment he shrugged and lay back on his rumpled bedroll. In minutes his low, rumbling snores drowned out even Hawke's labored breaths.

In the relative silence, if silence were the right word considering the horses' muted, content sounds and Varric's snoring, Fenris frowned down at Hawke. Her lips were pale and parted as she breathed. Her fingers twitched against the bedroll as her eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids—in the Fade, perhaps.

He owed her much. He knew this. And yet. And yet. With only the sounds of the storm outside, a crackling fire, and sleeping companions to ease away the stark silence of the cave, Fenris found it far more difficult to explain his earlier actions as… repayment. He had not risked his own life—and it was folly to pretend that wasn't precisely what he'd done—for the sake of an… obligation. It had not been duty spurring his actions, but worry. Even fear.

There were few of his acquaintance he'd have acted so recklessly to save. Fenris knew this to be true; it was a truth he disliked confronting.

Fenris breathed in, willing the lyrium in his skin to shift and waken; it flared without a stutter, bathing Hawke's face in blue-white light, an echo of the power that had poured forth from her hands more than once.

Without stopping to worry about the wisdom of the act, he rested his fingertips upon the top of Hawke's wrist.

She had saved his life without compunction.

She had taken him into her home while he healed.

They did not have time to waste while she recovered, even with the aid of her magic.

With his exhale, Fenris sent lyrium trickling into Hawke, watching her face until the color returned to her cheeks, her lips, until her breathing was not quite so labored. Fenris knew little enough about a spirit healer's abilities beyond what Hawke had explained to him—she would doubtless have to tend to her own ankle when she woke, but he would offer what assistance he could now, and they would move on come first light.

For now, though, they were all exhausted and drained from the day's events. It was time to rest, to recover.

Fenris cast another glance at Hawke while she slept. Her brow creased in what was very likely discomfort as her fingers twitched against the blanket spread over her. Moving silently, he freed his own bedroll from his pack and unrolled it near the fire—near Hawke.

She would yet be well. He knew this. And yet, Fenris still found reassurance in every slow, wheezing breath.

#

Amelle dreamed.

Water, cold and dark, forced its way into her mouth, up her nose, past her eyelids, into her ears. It pressed upon her, crushed her, forced precious air past her lips, streaming out like a string of priceless silver beads—

It held her—

Held her down. Pushed her down. Deeper and deeper, it clawed at her, pulling and pulling and pulling and when she opened her mouth to scream it pushed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her lungs—

Killing her.

Beneath the water's roar, beneath the pounding of her own heartbeat, there came a whisper of taunting laughter. But when she opened her eyes to look, gritty water pushed past her eyes. When she lifted her hands she found herself fighting the current. She tried to swim, swim up—up, up to the surface, up to the air, up.

A clawed hand held her fast, dragged her down.

No.

No, please.

"Poor little mageling," a voice whispered, crooned in her waterlogged ears. Long fingers tightened around her ankle until bones snapped, still pulling her down, forever pulling her down—

"I can end this," it breathed in her ears, in her head, all around. "Only I can end this. Give yourself to me, for I am your strength, your salva—"

Beyond the edge of her senses, white light pulsed, pushed back the dark, drove back the choking press of water, silenced the whispers. She breathed in air, clean and sweet, breathed in light, let it warm her. She breathed in and found her mana, bright and alive as it swirled and sparked inside her, a balm over the memory of feeling too hollowed out and scratched over, too empty, too dry. Color joined white light, flares of healing blue, of flame-bright orange, all tangling and twisting together, warming her skin without burning it, sinking into her, pushing away the foul water and filling her lungs with breath.

Phantom hands over hers. Warm. Gentle. They held, but did not grasp.

"Be careful, spirit healer. You must be more careful."

When she woke it was with a start and a gasp—to darkness. For a mad, terrifying moment, dream and reality intertwined and the tangle of shadows was too like the dark water that had tried to claim her in the Fade. The memory of that voice in her head, whispering to her, promising her—that thing feeding off her fear and making a meal of it, of her. But with every breath—every painful breath—her mind cleared, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness the shadows ebbed away until she made out the craggy ceiling above, lit by the jumping, shuddering flames of a dying campfire.

She tried to sit up and immediately wished she hadn't.

A bolt of white-hot pain lanced up her right leg, eclipsing the scraped over ache in her lungs, the throbbing rawness in her throat. With another gasp and barely smothered curse, Amelle sat up—this time, carefully—and prodded curiously at her quite-possibly-broken foot.

After a few moments, "quite-possibly-broken" became "most-definitely-broken" and Amelle drew in another healing breath; her mana, bright and renewed, surged and crashed like ocean waves beneath her breast and when she channeled and twisted the energy, blue-white light pulsed hard from her hands as she set them upon her—

"Hawke."

As quickly as the energy pushed forward, it died with a stutter as she glanced up to find Fenris, looking rumpled and… angry? She blinked, looking closer. No. No, this wasn't anger, this was… concern, perhaps. He sat upon his bedroll, which had been pulled close to hers. And then she realized he was close—so close the low-burning fire lit his eyes as shadows danced across his face. She glanced down at his bedroll, and then up again. As she did, some close kin to comprehension settled like mist upon his features and he sat up straighter, subtly increasing the distance between them.

He cleared his throat and looked into the fire. "You were… unwell." He furrowed his brow as Amelle laid a hand upon her chest. "Your breathing was…"

"It hurt." The words made her stop—her voice sounded so very wrong to her own ears. Rough and hoarse, as if she'd been screaming for years.

"I am not surprised." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Are you… at all recovered?" He cast a glance at Isabela and Varric, sound asleep. "You've only slept a few hours."

"Better," she replied, taking one slow breath after another. Mana swirled, vibrant and alive, in that place deep within her, so warm and bright it almost erased the memory of how scraped-over and hollowed-out she'd felt. "Definitely bet—" But the word died in her throat. Her disorientation upon waking had twisted and tangled hopelessly with the dream she'd woken from. But that muddiness cleared into focus so sharp it made her stomach lurch. The dream of drowning fell away, leaving only the memory of the event, furious green eyes and hoarse shouts forbidding her what had seemed inevitable at the moment.

She brought her head up and turned to stare at Fenris. "…You."

Confusion skittered across his face, dark brows rising a fraction. "I?"

"You… saved my life."

The expression did not change. "As you have mine."

Amelle opened her mouth to protest, but Fenris cut her off with a slicing gesture and a brisk shake of his head. "We will not discuss it further. You must rest and recover."

"…Thank you." She nearly grimaced. Those words were insufficient, paltry, pale. But no other words, no better ones, would form. She swallowed against her aching throat and said them again, as if repeating the sentiment might lend it more weight, might mean more.

Fenris blinked, as if those were the very last words he'd expected to come out of her mouth. "You… are welcome. But you will do better to thank me by healing your injuries. Your ankle—"

"Fenris." She pushed his name past the rawness in her throat, reaching out to clasp her hand around his.

He stared at her hand for several long seconds. Long enough for the warmth in his fingers to ease away the chill in hers. Then a muscle jumped in his jaw and Fenris carefully eased his hand away, pushing to his knees and tending the fire until a shuddering flames flickered up from the embers. He set thin pine branches atop the little blaze; the long green needles snapped and curled, thin twists of smoke floating upward.

"Thank me by healing yourself, Hawke," Fenris said evenly, once the fire was tended, flames jumping warmly to chase away the encroaching chill. "If you wish to show me your gratitude, that is the best way to do it."