Though Isabela had been in Highever for even less time than Amelle, her hotel bedroom was already tangle of dirty riding clothes, mud-crusted saddlebags, and clean dresses, complete with lacy, impractical, and impossible underthings strewn across the dresser's surface. After scant hours, the room looked like a hurricane had hit it, and yet… something about that surprised Amelle not in the least. She arched an eyebrow at Isabela as they walked into the room, the door closing solidly behind them.

Reading Amelle's incredulity loud and clear, Isabela arched an eyebrow right back at her, tossing her wrapped package carelessly at the foot of her bed. "What?"

"Really, Isabela?" Amelle cast about the room, sending a particularly pointed look at the underclothes hanging flirtatiously from the dresser. "You only just got here."

"And?" A second of silence ticked by. Then several more. Finally, with a great huff, Isabela rolled her eyes. "Oh, fine," she grumbled, sweeping the lacy items into a drawer and kicking the dirt-stained clothes into something resembling a pile. "Better?"

"Ever so much."

"I don't see why exactly I should be trying to impress anyone with my housekeeping skills," she groused. "We've all been sharing camp for days now. I say if the opportunity arises to let my hair down a bit—" with a flounce Isabela dropped on the bed so hard the springs squealed, "I think I've earned the right to let it down."

"I hadn't realized you ever didn't have your hair down."

"Metaphors, Hawke."

"Oh, believe me, I was speaking in metaphor, 'Bela."

Amelle turned away, then, rubbing at the back of her neck and pacing the length of the room. Really, Isabela wasn't… wrong. There'd been more than a few nights spent in close quarters, Kinloch Hold notwithstanding. It was a little silly, expecting Isabela to put on pretenses of neatness now. Amelle stopped in front of the window overlooking Highever's main street, appropriately named Main Street, and let out a deep breath before taking another circuit around the small room.

"You know, you aren't usually this… uptight," Isabela remarked, eyes narrowing as she watched Amelle pace. "I mean, I expected it in the dress shop, but… well, give me enough time and I'll beat that practical streak right out of you. You know I can do it, too. This, though…" She trailed off, thoughtfully. "You're wound tight, kitten. Hiding it well, I'll be the first to give you credit for that, but this is me we're talking about. I'll see through damn near every screen you throw up."

Amelle shot her a doubtful look. "You think so?"

"I do," she replied, sitting up, bracing her arms behind her as she crossed her legs. In fact, I think you're even now drawing breath to tell me the problem isn't Broody and you absolutely don't need a good roll in the hay to cure what ails you—because you're so sure that's what I'm going to say is your problem. But it isn't."

Amelle gave a little start, then stared.

"And while you'll never convince me otherwise that bedding that elf wouldn't do you—and him—a world of good," Isabela went on, "I also know that's not the root of your worry. Neither is it," she added, nudging the bulging saddlebags with the toe of her boot, "this little game we're about to play."

Rocking back on her heels, Amelle crossed her arms over her chest. "So, you think I'm not worried about pulling one over on the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium?"

"Oh, I think it's on your mind, but that's not what's making you so… tense."

Amelle let Isabela's words dangle in the silence for a moment, considering them from all angles before saying, with a shrug, "All right, I'll bite."

Isabela waggled her eyebrows at Amelle, affecting a leer. "Mmm, this little meeting's more interesting already."

But Amelle didn't rise to the verbal bait. "Tell me what you think it is," she countered, more patiently than she felt.

Looking at her for a long moment, Isabela gave a little shrug and said, "You're closer to your baby brother than you've been since he left, and you know we've come this far, and we can't turn back now, or at least you think we can't turn back now—but let me tell you, sweet thing, there's always time to tuck tail and run—and you don't know what to do with yourself. I'd wager part of you is looking forward to this little… diversion we're cooking up, because it's something you can focus on that isn't Kirkwall and isn't Carver. It's another day you don't have to wonder how you're going to find your brother and what you're going to say to him when you do. It's one last little bit of… naughtiness before you get back in the saddle and head off to be the good daughter again."

Amelle could do little else but stare. "When in all the Void did you become so damned insightful?" she asked once she recovered her voice.

This time the surprise belonged to Isabela. "You mean I'm right?"

Letting out an indelicate snort, Amelle crossed her arms and glared at her friend. "Oh, don't pretend like you didn't already know you're right."

Surprise melted into an unrepentant grin. "Don't let it get out, okay?"

"On my word I'll take it to the grave."

A sharp knock rattled the door in its frame, shattering the relative peace; Varric's voice came from the other side of the wood. "Open up, Rivaini."

"Open it yourself, Fuzzy," Isabela called back. "I've done enough today."

Varric and Fenris came into the room, the latter taking care to shut the door quietly behind them. Varric, however, dropped onto the bed with no ceremony, hard enough that it squealed. Fenris positioned himself by the window Amelle had been standing by earlier.

"So, what'd you get off the stiffs?" Varric asked.

"You should know better than to ask me a question like that in bed," came Isabela's mild retort. But she stood, taking a moment to groan and stretch before stooping to pick up the bulging saddlebag, the leather streaked with mud and clay. "But to answer your question, I found all sorts of interesting things," she drawled. "I found a lot more once I was able to take the time to loot properly."

Varric gave a low chortle. "Well, you know what they say—never rush an artist at work."

"No matter how… questionable the medium," Fenris added.

"Goes without saying," Varric agreed. "So? Don't leave us in suspense. What'd you find?"

With a grin, Isabela poured the saddlebag's contents across the coverlet. Gold glittered—watches on long chains, strange medallions and pendants, rings, a comb and hairbrush inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and countless other trinkets all cascaded out, followed lastly by an unwieldy item wrapped incongruously in plaid cloth, tumbling out and landing with a clumsy, heavy bounce.

But before Amelle could ask, Isabela flashed a grin and plucked up the little mystery, bouncing it gently in her palm. Though it looked to be roughly the size of a man's fist, it had obvious heft to it. "Anyone care to make a wager?"

"You want to take bets?" blurted Amelle. Of course Isabela wanted to take bets.

"Only to keep things interesting," she sniffed.

Fenris shot Isabela a dark look. "I hardly think we've been wanting for excitement as of late."

Amelle couldn't help but agree with that sentiment; all things considered, she could do with maybe just a little less excitement. Or, if nothing else, the sort of excitement they brought upon themselves. Isabela hadn't been entirely wrong on that account.

"Elf's got a point, Rivaini," Varric said with a shrug. "Considering you got the whatever-it-is off the bodies of Imperium agents who'd been trying to kill us at the time."

"Fair enough, I suppose," Isabela relented, sighing. Then, grasping one end of the cloth in which the item was wrapped, she let it fall to the bed, unraveling and revealing itself as it went. What landed with a solid bounce drew Amelle several steps closer, eyes going impossibly wide.

"Is that… is that what I think it is?" she asked, picking up the lavishly enameled handle and turning it over in her hands. It was heavier than it looked, which was saying something, since it looked plenty heavy already.

"That depends." Isabela replied with a grin. "Do you think it's a genuine, official chantry seal? Because if you do, that's exactly what you think it is."

"And you're certain it's…" Fenris tipped his head, moving closer to Amelle, staring hard at the seal. "It isn't from an Imperial chantry?"

"Good question," Amelle remarked, sending Fenris a quick, sidelong glance. "You sure it's legal?" Lifting it up to the light, she peered hard at the imprint on the base of the seal, examined it from every possible angle. Brass accents caught the light, glinting like amber starbursts with every turn. There was no way—no way this could be… even remotely possible. An official chantry seal, in her hands. And it hadn't burst into flame or anything. Mildly disappointing, that.

I guess I'm not as much of an anathema as I thought I was, she thought dryly, then turned an expectant look Isabela's way.

"It's real, kitten. And," she added, looking over to Fenris, "not Imperium-made."

Fenris frowned again at the seal. "How can you tell?"

"There's an Orlesian maker's mark imprinted into the brass around the base," answered Isabela with a languid stretch. "Anything out of Orlais has one. Orlesian crafters have incredibly high opinions of themselves."

Amelle squinted at the brass, turning the seal in her hand until she found an intricate little squiggle. "That little thing?"

"Yes, Hawke," Isabela replied on a chuckle. "That little thing. Andraste's tits, don't tell me you need a lecture on the relative importance of size at this late date."

Before Amelle could provide any reply beyond a blush and an indignant stammer, Varric broke in with ease. "Well, now we know how the Tevinters were going to push the faked documents through." Holding out one broad hand, Varric wiggled his fingers until Amelle handed the seal over to him. He paid it the same attention she had, though with far less wonder—as if Varric made a habit of handling items exceptionally hard-to-obtain and dangerously illegal if found in the hands of anyone not authorized to be holding it in the first place.

Then again, this was Varric.

"It's the real thing all right," he muttered with a little shake of his head. "Maker's mark and everything."

With a huff, Isabela shot him an exasperated look. "Didn't I already tell you that?"

"Nobody's casting aspersions on your ability to spot a fake, Ravaini," he soothed. "But let's be honest here—you don't exactly spend a lot of free time inside the chantry. Any chantry."

"And you do?"

He gave an evasive shrug. "I know people."

"Are we not at all concerned with how agents of the Imperium laid hands upon such a thing?" Fenris asked suddenly, crossing his arms, holding them tight against his chest. The sudden tension in his stance made Amelle blink; it coiled across his shoulders, up his neck and down his spine. His expression gave little away—the same taciturn look he often wore—but his body language practically delivered a monologue.

The traitorous thought curled up like smoke: And just when did you get to be such an expert in Fenris' body language?

"That's… actually an excellent question," Amelle said, shoving the errant thought aside as she sent Fenris a glance. "Because either they stole it, or it was given to them. And if it was given to them, we probably ought to be concerned with who'd do such a thing."

"Everybody's got a price," Isabela replied with a shrug. "Even stuffy chantry types."

"Not when the chantry controls the lyrium trade," Varric said thoughtfully. "I think by virtue of the fact that the seal was wrapped up in someone's dirty laundry is probably a pretty good indicator it was stolen."

"Which, let's be honest, was likely going to be our next step," Isabela chimed in. "Something I am, for the record, positively heartbroken over. Have any of you got any idea how long it's been since I've been able to steal anything fun?"

"Amaranthine," Amelle and Varric said as one.

A fond smile curled across Isabela's lips. "Oh, that's right. Good times. Good times."

#

With the discovery of the chantry seal, several more details of Varric's plan fell into place. For the most part, these developments assuaged Fenris' lingering concerns, but the appearance of the seal at all awoke a new worry.

Likely as it was the seal had simply been stolen, Fenris knew too well how the Imperium operated—through bribes and blackmail and machinations. In his estimation, the likelihood the seal had been stolen rivaled the possibility it had been procured through other means. But, as well he also knew, the chantry existed an entity the scope and size of which were almost beyond his imagining. They could only be certain the seal had been made in Orlais—a country as fond of covert political maneuvering as any.

Varric took possession of the seal and they dispersed—Varric had a few matters to attend to in town and Isabela wished to resume her window-shopping.

"Care to join me?" she asked Hawke, who lingered by the window, staring out at Highever.

"I don't think so," came Hawke's reply as she wrinkled her nose and gave a brief shake of her head. "I've done enough damage for one day."

That sounded… ominous. He looked more closely at Hawke, and though she appeared distracted, even troubled, she seemed none the worse for wear.

With a shrug, Isabela moved to the door, holding it open. "Suit yourself. What about you, Broody?"

"What about me?" he asked, taking no pains to hide his suspicion as they all moved to the hallway.

"Care to explore Highever's nooks and crannies with me?" she asked, shooting him a grin that did even more for the double entendre than her tone had.

In truth, Fenris had been considering exploring Highever; he'd never been to the city—that he knew of, anyway—but he'd thought to do it alone—

No, that wasn't entirely true, either.

"I have other matters to see to," he replied.

Shrugging one shoulder, Isabela let her door fall shut and locked it. "You're only depriving yourself."

Inclining his head, Fenris murmured, "Somehow, I believe I will persevere."

Isabela slanted them both a look—too knowing by half—that left Fenris rankled, but she didn't say another word, choosing instead to saunter to the staircase, offering them both a backwards wave.

"You should've gone with her," Hawke told him, once she was gone. "Isabela always finds the most interesting places when she goes exploring."

"Such as men's haberdasheries?" he asked, quietly surprised at his arch tone, and even more surprised at the sudden color warming Hawke's cheeks.

"Well, he did have the right fabric," she said lightly, though her tone came across as somehow… forced. "We needed green and he provided it." Strange, how she avoided his eyes.

"Hawke?"

This time she did meet his eyes. "Yes?"

"Are you…" Fenris stopped, biting back the words. It was none of his concern, and yet… "Are you—is anything… troubling you?"

She uttered a soft, hollow laugh, which surprised him. "First Isabela and now you? Maker, I must have something written all over my face."

"Forgive me. It was not my intent to intrude—"

Hawke shook her head and held up a hand, stopping him. "It's fine. Only, I… I don't think I quite expected us to make it this far. We'll be in Kirkwall soon enough, and I still haven't got the first idea what to say to my brother when I see him." Whatever she saw in his expression made her lips pull into a wan smile. "See? You forgot why we were headed there too."

"I had not forgotten," he protested. "I was only surprised you had."

"I think forgot is a bit too generous a term," she remarked, her smile warming. "Anyway, as you said—you have matters requiring your attention. Don't let me keep you." Hawke went still a moment, lips parting as she took a breath to speak, but some near inscrutable kin to uncertainty flashed across her face and she hesitated before finally asking, "See you at dinner?"

Fenris wasn't sure those were the words she'd meant to say, but then Hawke reached out in an abortive movement, pulling back at the last moment, and yet not soon enough to keep from brushing the top of his hand. Her fingertips were warm, pleasantly so, but it was a very clear end to the conversation—and Fenris was disinclined to push his way into a matter Hawke didn't want to discuss.

"Of course."

He saw Hawke to her door, and she vanished into her room with a brief backwards glance that left him peculiarly satisfied. But then the door closed, leaving him standing alone in the dim corridor, with nothing to do but make good on his pretense.

Highever remained as Fenris' first impressions had led him to believe. It was, as cities went, on the smaller side, but no less proud of its heritage. Heritage, however, hung low on Fenris' list of priorities. He walked along until the air, already sharp with salt, turned tangy—the port was as busy and bustling as the rest of the city, schooners, brigantines, and smaller crafts docked, their tall masts and broad white sails contrasting sharply against the blue sky, now cloudless, the drenching spring storms having been long blown out to sea. Some crafts took on passengers and cargo, but more people and things were delivered than were departing, all in preparation for the Cousland nameday fete.

Highever's port wasn't quite large enough to accommodate the vast luxury steamships in vogue among the upper class—ships such as those pulled into port at Amaranthine—but those disembarking passengers still looked happy enough to have arrived all the same.

A gust of cool wind came in off the water and as Fenris turned, it pushed at the brim of his hat, of his coat. He reached up to readjust his hat, nudging the brim down again, and continued his own tour of Highever, learning it, committing it to memory. This was not, surprisingly, a habit he'd picked up after escaping Danarius; on the contrary, he'd done the same when he'd been his master's bodyguard. Danarius possessed his fair share—some would say more than his share—of enemies, and knowing the quickest routes out of a city, and in which directions those roads led, were often Fenris' first priority upon reaching a new destination. He'd done then as he did now—walking the streets, noting which thoroughfares were nearest their lodgings, and which offered the most expedient routes away from danger.

Now, though, Fenris had far different reasons for wanting to keep Hawke safe from harm. They were not easily articulated reasons, but they were most definitely different.

Several hours later, he returned to the hotel, armed with an intimate knowledge of Highever's main roads and side streets. His room was as he left it—the hour was far too early for any of his clothing to have been laundered; normally he'd not have bothered with such a luxury, but almost every stitch he owned carried with it the faintly mildewy stench of the river. In light of his limited options, Fenris shucked his coat long enough to take up the clothes-brush off the dresser and set to removing the dust and dirt clinging to his coat, trousers, and boots. As he tidied himself, he turned over the town's layout in his mind.

If circumstances required they leave, he would be prepared.

By the time his clothing was mostly free of dirt, Fenris had conceived several potential escape routes. There were tertiary problems as well—they were meant to board a ship to Kirkwall in a few days, after all, and leaving the city would doubtless complicate those plans—but having such a contingency plan, even one so hastily cobbled together as this, was… if not comforting, then reassuring. He shrugged into his green waistcoat and wound a black cravat around his neck—items that were still mostly clean, and after a proper airing-out, didn't smell quite as bad as the rest of his belongings—and took a hard look in the mirror.

After a long moment, he arched an eyebrow at his reflection. "You might… almost fool someone into thinking you were something like a gentleman," he murmured. Then that arched eyebrow lowered, meeting the other in a dark slash across his forehead before he turned away, scowling at his own absurdity.

Fenris knew what he was. What he really was.

He left his room to find Hawke at the end of the hall, standing by the stairway railing, watching people mill about below. She still wore the yellow dress she'd been wearing earlier, only now with the addition of a sparkling pin in her hair and a yellow ribbon around her neck. When she turned, however, her face revealed a too-familiar sort of paleness despite her smile; expertly applied cosmetics aside, as he drew nearer to her, the shadows beneath her eyes became more evident.

It made sense, he supposed; Highever was hardly free from templars. Still, the more frequently she took doses of the magebane tincture, the less he liked it. Strange, considering he'd once thought this measure to be an incredibly sound, reasonable one.

"You've taken more," he said once he reached her side, taking care to keep his voice down.

She sighed a little, her smile dimming somewhat. "I have. I knew it couldn't last, but I'll admit I liked… not feeling this in my veins. But…" She trailed off with a shrug.

"It is necessary," he remarked, the words pulled from him, one by one.

"It is," she agreed. "Until it isn't."

"Will your supply last as long as you require?"

She wrinkled her nose, which said far more than words could. "Close enough, I suppose. I've had to adjust the dosage some since we left Lothering, but not much. It should last me through my spell in Kirkwall."

"Why have you needed to change the amount?"

"Damned if I know," she answered honestly, lifting her shoulders again. "I seemed to be coming out of it pretty effortlessly for a spell there. Adrenaline, maybe. Maybe luck, though whether that's good luck or bad I can't quite say."

Fenris had time only to blink once before comprehension dawned, bringing with it a rush of heat to his face. Of course. Of course Hawke questioned her reaction to the tincture. "…I see."

Tilting her head, Hawke stepped closer, green eyes sharp, and twice as observant as he wished. "You… see?"

He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. "Yes."

Puzzlement slid into concern as she reached up and put a hand to his forehead. "Fenris, you aren't looking terribly well right now."

What could he possibly tell her? The truth? He'd provided her with an infusion of lyrium to hasten her recovery and healing?

"Fenris?" Hawke said again, concern etching itself deeper on her features as she let her hand drop. "What is it?"

He glanced up and down the corridor. A scant few hotel patrons were making their way to the dining room, and of those few, none appeared to be paying either of them very much mind.

"I know why you… recovered so quickly from the magebane," he said, keeping his voice low.

"You do?"

Fenris nodded, hunching his shoulders beneath his coat and jamming his fists into his pockets. "Yes," he replied curtly after a too-long silence.

Hawke waited for him to elaborate; when he did not, she lifted her brows inquisitively. "Well?"

Insofar as Fenris had given this moment any thought at all, he'd always assumed he would reveal the truth to Hawke in his own time, patiently explaining to her the extent of his abilities. In these scenarios, his explanations had been prettily worded, including as little as possible of his servitude to Danarius and the other ways in which he'd provided lyrium to his master.

Now, though, no words came to him, pretty or otherwise. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I did it."

"You?" she breathed, brows knitting in confusions. "But how—?"

Before she could ask, Fenris held out one hand, palm up. Lines of lyrium stood out starkly against the darker skin. Hawke stared at his palm, but before he could snatch it away and clench it into a fist, she ran one questing fingertip across the centermost line. The light touch sent something buzzing pleasantly across his skin, and he at once resented and savored the sensation. But Hawke's confusion lasted only a second—two, at most—before her breath caught. "Oh," she whispered, eyes going wide with understanding. "Oh. Yes. That would make all the difference in the world, wouldn't it?"

He looked away, turning his gaze on the stairwell and counting each individual step. "You… required assistance."

"And you provided it." Ducking around, Hawke placed herself in Fenris' line of sight, giving him a sharply assessing look. After several seconds, she saw something that made her narrow her eyes at him. "You didn't want to tell me that."

"Not entirely," he admitted.

"Whyever not?"

"I thought you would be displeased I had taken such a liberty without notifying you first."

Surprise creased her features. "You thought I'd be… displeased? Fenris, I was half-drowned and had no way of healing myself. Lyrium potion wasn't enough, as bad off as I was. And we couldn't just camp out in a cave waiting for me to recover on my own."

"Then you are not—"

"Upset?" she finished for him. At his nod, Hawke breathed a soft chuckle, and before he could move aside, she'd leaned forward and brushed a brief kiss across his cheek; the buzz beneath his skin returned with a vengeance. "Quite the contrary," she said quietly, her breath warm against his ear before she pulled back again. "I'm grateful. Thank you."

That fleeting contact sent a rush of warmth through him, particularly to his face, and he swallowed with effort. "You do… not consider it a lie? A lie of omission, at the very least?"

At this, Hawke dipped her head, a gesture that seemed both curious and rueful. "Ought I to?"

"I should think so."

"You aren't an open book, Fenris. I understand that. And I… I don't see where I have any reason to get het up because you didn't tell me every single and last detail to do with your markings. Far as I see it, I'm just thankful you've let me flip through a few pages. There's plenty I don't know about you, but that goes both ways. There're things about me even my best friends don't know. Being someone's—" here Hawke stopped, licking her lips to cover her stammer "—someone's… friend isn't—it isn't about that, the things we don't tell each other. It's… making that choice to share the important things, and being able to choose when to share them."

Fenris prided himself on being the sort of person who didn't mince words, who didn't speak unnecessarily—but Hawke had left him as close to speechless as he could remember being.

Friends. She used the word so easily. So effortlessly.

It was with that same effortless ease that she read his expression. "You pulled my hide out of a flooding river," she said, the words spoken so softly he had to inch closer to hear her. "You proceeded to supply me—a mage—with lyrium out of your own skin to speed my recovery."

"And you healed my injuries after I attempted to kill you."

"See?" she said, offering him a bright, dimpled smile as she rested her hand on his forearm. Slowly, he relaxed under her touch. "Friends."

"This, then, is what it means to have one."

"If you like." A moment passed, her smile faltering as she drew her lower lip between her teeth. "Or…"

"…Or?"

A sudden—and surprising, considering the magebane—rush of color reached her cheeks and Hawke shook her head, reluctantly pulling her hand away. "N-never mind," she said quickly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. Her smile returned, warm as ever. "It's nothing. Nothing to worry about. We—probably ought to go downstairs. Isabela and Varric have probably started without us."

Approximately halfway down the grand stairway it occurred to Fenris that if Varric and Isabela were already at dinner, then Hawke had been waiting… for him.