Amidst the open cottages, the wounded gathered, and amongst them stood the Chantry cleric–the woman they had come to speak to. Amaryllis watched Ellana square her shoulders, as if bracing herself for the conversation to come. Though Amaryllis was unsure of what her sister's trainings entailed, as far as she knew neither of them were particularly well-versed in negotiating, especially when it came to Chantry officials, of which they knew little about. It was easy to understand Ellana's trepidation. Amaryllis attempted to follow her sister as she stepped closer to the woman, but before she could take a step, Cassandra stopped Amaryllis with a hand to her shoulder, motioning with a jerk of her head for Amaryllis to follow her instead.

Torn, Amaryllis glanced back at her sister, then toward Cassandra–the Seeker shook her head.

"Some things your sister will have to learn on her own. She cannot always lean on you for confidence; one day she will have to find it within herself," the Seeker said.

Amaryllis frowned slightly, one hand coming up to play with the end of her braid. Over the past week, they had grown to like each other, or Amaryllis assumed that Cassandra liked her, for Amaryllis had begun to truly enjoy the Seeker's presence, and hoped that the woman at least tolerated her in return. As it was, Cassandra was a tad more intuitive than Amaryllis had thought she would be, so it was no surprise to her that Cassandra had noticed how overprotective Amaryllis could be at times.

With one last look at her sister, she turned and followed Cassandra.

"She does have the confidence," Amaryllis insisted. "Ellana is our clan's First. She was always meant to become the next Keeper. She's trained for it for years. My sister is not shy, or quiet, nor does she hide herself from the world but… this is different. Anyone can see that." She paused briefly, pursing her lips. "We were your prisoners only a week ago–give her some time."

The Seeker's lips twisted into something wistful. Their pace was slow, though stilted: the discomfort between them palpable. "Time is not a privilege we can indulge in at the moment. But… you are right, I suspect."

"I am her sister." Amaryllis allowed herself to smile then, tipping her head in Cassandra's direction.

"That I no longer doubt." Up ahead stood a band of what looked to be more Inquisition soldiers–one seemingly in the garb of a higher-ranking officer, his arms crossed, his expression tight with exhaustion. Cassandra nodded. "Corporal Vale."

"Seeker," he began. "And…?"

"Amaryllis. I'm El–the Herald's sister."

The man dropped his arms, his stance losing its tension. "Amaryllis. I've heard of you as well. Thank you–for your help out there. We lost good men and women today and would have lost many more if your group hadn't arrived when they did. The rebel mages and Templars don't seem to care about who gets caught in their war."

"They're not my–well. Um. You're more than welcome. I'm sorry that we didn't arrive sooner."

Corporal Vale waved her apology away. "You're here, you helped, and you're going to continue to help, I assume. If anyone faults the Inquisition, let it be on their own heads. This is what we volunteered for. But the refugees–they're still in great need of aid. If the war doesn't kill them, cold or starvation will. I can't sit idly by while that happens, yet there's only so much me and my men can do."

"There isn't enough food?" Cassandra asked.

"Many of them brought food," he answered. "But none of them expected to be here quite as long as they have. We've taken to rationing, but what we have left is too little. We won't last another week like this. There's a hunter up the hill who had some ideas, but it's been too dangerous for us to leave the village long enough, and too risky to send out a large enough group, not knowing when we might be attacked. Our numbers have dwindled… vastly."

The misery of the people's predicament settled heavily in the pit of Amaryllis' stomach. All they needed was for someone to do a bit of hunting–something she and Ellana could perform with their eyes closed, really–and who would she be, to allow these people to suffer over easily laid traps, or a bit of wild ram? Surely they would soon have quests to fulfill, things much more important to do than a bit of hunting, but… a single day spent hunting, and the people would be set. At least until they had made the area safe again. That would surely prove to the innocent people that the Inquisition was worthy of their trust.

Though the same couldn't be said of the rebels.

Before Cassandra could think up an answer of her own, Amaryllis spoke, rushing to ease the Corporal's worries. "I'll talk to this hunter and see what he has in mind. You mentioned the cold…?"

Amaryllis had meant to go find her sister. Truly. But after speaking to the hunter about the rams, and Recruit Whittle about the supply caches, she had returned only to find no word nor sign of her. Mother Giselle hadn't so much as paused to glance in Amaryllis' direction, but she had been bent over a patient, cleaning their wounds, and lifted her right hand toward Amaryllis. And seeing the man in such pain, Amaryllis moved immediately to the woman's side. Together they redressed his injuries, and together they soothed his pain. When he stopped groaning–falling into a deep, hopefully restful sleep (if Amaryllis' sleep potion worked the way it was meant)–Mother Giselle had already moved on to her next patient. Then so did Amaryllis.

Another patient later, and she was overhearing a fellow healer discussing their low herb stores. Amaryllis made a note of it in her notebook, then rifled through her pack for what herbs she had collected during their journey, then those she had brought with her, and handed them to the healer. The woman thanked her rather brusquely, but Amaryllis did not care. It was obvious how overworked the people were, how desperate they had become–the only way to survive losing so many was to focus on the task at hand and pretend the losses didn't keep you awake at night.

There were more patients, more people to heal. Another, then another, and then just as Amaryllis stood, wiping her brow, an Elvhen man approached. He ran a shaking hand over his short hair, then twisted his hands together in front of him as if nervous. Though Amaryllis was more than exhausted now, she rushed forward, wanting to ease whatever plagued him.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you hurt?"

"Please, it's my wife." His shoulders seemed to curl inward as he spoke, his frown drooping even further. "I beg of you, help her. Please. She gets sick when the weather's foul. She can't seem to catch her breath, like there are cobwebs in her lungs. Our son, Hyndel, he used to make her a potion–the only thing that ever helped–but he's joined that damned cult in the hills, and we can't reach him."

"Did he leave any notes behind?"

"He did, a small notebook he used to take notes on her condition before, and his trials and errors but as far as I know he has the finished recipe on his person, if–if you could reach him? Tell him what's wrong? Tell him we need more of it. Without the potion, she'll die."

Amaryllis frowned. The boy knew his mother to be this sick and left, still? "Can you take me to her?"

"Yes, of course, please, if you know anything–"

They began walking toward his cottage, the elf taking long, quick strides, glancing back at her repeatedly over his shoulder as if to ensure she was still following; as if he were afraid she would run.

Entering the cottage, Amaryllis was immediately overtaken by the disarray–whatever available surface had been overtaken by book after book, papers messily stacked in corners, potions spilled across the tops–herbs and oils and anything she might need, strewn across the surfaces as if knocked over in desperation. Before the fire was a bed, and upon the bed was his wife.

Amaryllis ran to her. Placing her hand on her chest, she called forth her mana, hoping to take a look inside, but found her reserves too low. She would need lyrium, except she had given what she had had to the mages that had been working tirelessly on the injured… so she bent her ear toward the woman's mouth and listened, instead. With each wheezing breath, her chest caved inward, each inhalation shallow and wet. For a brief moment, it seemed she had stopped breathing entirely, but then she erupted into a coughing fit so severe her husband had to rush to roll her onto her side, holding a bucket beneath her as she vomited.

He gazed up at Amaryllis from where he crouched on the floor. His face was pale.

"I need his notes," Amaryllis said, rushing back toward the tables. She began rifling through them, taking a deep breath of her own to stop the shaking of her hands. "Is there anything you can recall? Anything at all?"

"Elfroot," the man said. He helped his wife lay back, gently wiping the sick from her pallid lips, then the sweat from her brow. "Embrium, distilled Foxite, dried Redmoss, but I–I don't know the exact measurements, Hyndel's the only one who does."

"Do you have the ingredients on hand?"

His expression turned fiercely proud. "Always."

Amaryllis didn't hesitate further. Pushing some of the mess aside to make room for herself, she began rifling through the jars and bags of herbs and oils strewn about and got to work making sense of them. Elfroot was most obvious–this plant, she knew by heart. In an open jar to her left it sat. Embrium took on an orange tint when dried properly, so this, too, was easy for Amaryllis to find–spilled across the table to her right out of an open cloth bag. Thankfully, there was more than enough left for her use.

She had never seen Redmoss, but assumed the jar that held the red, mossy substance to be what she was looking for–thank the Creators for whoever had named the substance something so apparent–but the Foxite... Distilled meant it would be one of the vials of oil, which were almost impossible to tell apart, as they tended to hold little to no scent when purified to the extent necessary for use as a concentrator agent. She knew Foxite to have distinctly serrated leaves that were fuzzy in texture. It had a deep, musky smell that permeated from its flowering purple buds when harvested. But she had never had the opportunity to distill it herself. There was no way for her to understand its subtleties.

"Fenedhis," she hissed. "Ir abelas, I'm not as familiar with Foxite–"

The man nodded in understanding. "Hold it up to the light. It's hard to tell, at first, but if you look deeply enough, you can see it turn prismatic."

So she did just that–rushing to the window and squinting into the vials, tapping her foot as she grew more restless listening to the poor woman wheeze her way through each stuttering breath. Finally, on the fourth vial, she saw it: a kaleidoscope of color, faint in the dying light of the sun, but still there. She rushed back to the table, to the mortar and pestle, and set her ingredients before her.

She paused briefly to watch the couple. The man had taken to pressing kisses to his wife's cheek, smoothing her hair away from her sweat-slick forehead. His wife had closed her eyes, her skin sallow, her hands trembling, but she pressed his hand tightly against her chest, and smiled when he bent to whisper in her ear.

Amaryllis couldn't fail them. She wouldn't. There would be no more senseless death, today.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep, steadying breath, and prayed for Sylaise's blessing.

Then, opening the nearest notebook, she got to work.

The man's name was Yevven, she learned. The woman's name was Syriannas. He had tried to stay silent, leaving Amaryllis to her work, but she had never been one for silence.

"Tell me a story," she asked. "Of how you two met?"

Yevven's answering smile was small, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he gazed back down at his wife. "We grew up together. In Denerim. She was my best friend's little sister, but she was never a nuisance. She was cunning, silly–always finding a way to get out of trouble with her pretty face and her big, bright eyes. She played innocent well, though her father knew her to be the mastermind behind the trouble we caused. Bossy, her father called her, fondly."

The notebook Amaryllis held was full of notes, of measurements–all crossed out. Outdated, then. She picked up the next one and began thumbing through.

"Confident, she was. But the sweetest, kindest person you would ever meet. She would give her lunch to the younger children when they were still hungry after already eating their share . Syri didn't mind going hungry, knowing she had an evening meal to look forward to, when others did not. I don't remember a time I didn't love her. And then we were of marrying age and–it just made sense. Our families were happy with our match. We were, too. And we had a good life. I worked with a merchant by the name of Dennison. He sold ore. It was a hard job, backbreaking labor, but my children were fed, and we were happy. Dennison liked that I worked hard, so he helped me move up, promoted me often, gave me a position in the world–enough so that we were able to leave the alienage. Hyndel is our youngest, so he never knew the alienage like his siblings did. He was the last to leave home, too. Though for a damned foolish reason. Still, I can't fault him entirely. With the sky falling apart in front of you, where are you going to turn?"

"I imagine you're at least a little angry with him," Amaryllis said, quickly biting into her lower lip, silently cursing herself for overstepping. Keeping her mouth shut was not always an easy task. "Ir abelas– I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's alright." His expression turned wistful. He brought Syriannas fingers to his lips, then kissed the back of them briefly, looking lost in thought. "I am, and I'm not. I may understand why he ran, but he left his poor mother alone, knowing he's the only one–the only one who knows how to help her. Took the damned recipe with him, for Andraste's sake. He couldn't have stopped to think for a moment about what this would do to us? To his mother?"

"Has Syriannas always been ill?" The book she held now was far more promising than the last, though each page held notes that filled the margins–the lettering small and quite difficult to read.

"Yes, ever since we were children." And again, his frown deepened, drawing his brows further in. "It grew worse a few years ago after some illness overcame the village. We suffered no losses, and most were quick to heal, but Syriannas took a dark turn and never seemed to recover. At times she seems alright. She can work and cook, though not like she used to. This is what hurts her most–but I don't mind doing the cooking, and Hyndel never seemed to mind doing the cleaning. He loves his mother. I know it. I know he does."

It was not her place to question it, though still, Amaryllis wondered how much a child could truly love their mother to leave them to suffer so. She said nothing, instead wiping the topic of his son from her mind. She turned another page, then another, her eyes scanning each paragraph, skipping over each crossed-out section until–

A hand of Elfroot

Three pinches of Embrium

A pinch of dried Redmoss

Two fingers of distilled Foxite

Grind Elfroot and Embrium until powdered

Rehydrate Redmoss in Foxite until soft to release oils

Add to powder, mix until paste-like

Can be eaten, dissolved into tea, or rubbed into the chest for faster results (shorter-lasting than if ingested)

"Here!" Amaryllis called, pointing toward the open notebook in front of her. She read the recipe out to Yevven, feeling hopeful. "Is this close to the current recipe, do you think?"

He grimaced. "I'm not sure, really, Hyndel took care of it all. I only watched a few times."

"So you'll be able to tell me if I'm doing something wrong," she said with a smile. "Perfect."

"You're the healer, miss–"

She held up a hand, stopping him short. "I may be a healer, but there is only so much that I know. I was taught using what we had available. I've never used Foxite before, and only once have I used Redmoss. You've more expertise than I. Besides, if we work together, you might not need your son for this in the future."

"...I could do it myself."

Amaryllis nodded. Taking a deep breath, Yevven bent toward Syriannas where she was now sleeping, albeit fitfully, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, he stood and strode up to the table.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get to work."

Amaryllis poured the distilled Foxite into a small bowl, sprinkling in the Redmoss. Yevven watched.

She ground the Elfroot and Embrium until the powder was fine. Yevven watched.

"...more Embrium," he said. "The color doesn't look quite right."

Amaryllis nodded and added more Embrium.

She peered into the bowl of Foxite. The Redmoss had plumped significantly. She reached for it–

Yevven shook his head. "Not yet. Hyndel only added it once the red seeped out and the plant became… jelly-like."

They waited. Amaryllis read through more of Hyndel's notes. Syriannas began to cough again, so Amaryllis quickly made her a simple tea. It seemed to soften her rasping, if only a little.

Yevven peered down into the bowl.

"Not yet," he said again. "Just a bit longer."

Syriannas broke into another coughing fit. This time, when she vomited, she seemed to choke for a moment, not breathing at all.

Amaryllis, without hesitation, encased her hand in blue and took a look inside. The woman's airway was clear, but her lungs–

When she pulled back, Amaryllis forced herself to sit, to focus on the divots in the floor, taking deep breaths as she fought back her own nausea. She had taken a risk, fully depleting her mana like this. Ellana would be angry again.

"Are you alright?"

Amaryllis smiled wanly up at Yevven. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"...No, I'm not," she finally agreed. "Has Syriannas seen a healer before?"

"One like you, you mean?"

"Yes–one who can peer in."

"She has," he admitted. "A blond man–Karl, something. He didn't say much past that she wouldn't live long." He took the seat beside her. "She's lived longer than he said she would."

"I don't know if it's worsened, I don't know what it looked like, before, I'm not sure–"

Yevven, a bit hesitant, placed his hand atop Amaryllis' and gave her a squeeze. He was smiling. "I know it's coming," he admitted. "One day, it'll be over. I don't want her to suffer."

She met his gaze. His shoulders were lax, his eyes tear-free, but his fingers–they trembled against the back of her hand.

If Syriannas had been her spouse, her sibling, her mother–Amaryllis closed her eyes, overtaken by that last image of her mother. But this time, she did not wish it away. Instead, she let the tears fall, and with compassion, flipped her hand to twine their fingers, squeezing Yevven back.

"We'll try," she said. "And if this doesn't work, I will personally track down your son and drag him back. I'll chain him to myself if I have to."

Yevven barked a sudden, surprised laugh. His expression turned fond. "I'll hold you to that."

Amaryllis pushed the bowl in front of Yevven, who swirled it around a bit, his brow furling until he slid the bowl back across the table toward her with a nod. "It should be ready now."

Into the mortar, she poured it. With the pestle she swirled and pressed, mixing. The Redmoss disintegrated quickly, turning the mixture into a sort of muddy maroon.

"That's it," Yevven said. "It looks perfect."

He scooped the bowl up and took it to his wife, loosening the buttons of her shirt, then spreading the concoction across her upper chest like a salve.

"Usually she takes a spoonful in tea," he admitted. "But I don't think that would be best right now."

Where her breathing had taken on an erratic pace, it now visibly calmed before them–her chest moved, rising up further and further, inhaling deeper and deeper until it fell again, more slowly than before. Her wheezing was gone.

Syriannas did not open her eyes, but her formerly tense form turned lax, and she seemed to drift off, finally, into what Amaryllis hoped would be a long, restful sleep.

Yevven turned to her. His gaze was teary, this time.

Amaryllis stepped forward, and wrapping her arms around him, allowed herself to cry, too.