*Author's Notes: This story is meant to explore a slightly different ending to the animated series and to further develop the characters in the absence of a Season 2. It will also explore an interesting and unexpected pairing in Tassia / Miriam - two characters that have a lot of complexity that just wasn't fully fleshed out in the show. Everything is 100% canon up until the end of Episode 5, right after Miriam kills (for lack of a better word) Neb. Lastly, I'm not a Dragon Age lore expert. I've played three of the games, but my knowledge of magic, The Fade, darkspawn, etc is limited to only what is presented there. I'm bound to make some mistakes in the small lore details, and I may take some liberties and/or make some assumptions for the sake of the plot - just a fair warning. Hope you enjoy!**


Chapter 1 – Extra Baggage

How many people had to kill their brother twice?

The incredulity, the outrageous unfairness of it, suffocated her mind in a blanket of fog even as she ran. Only the pounding of her feet on the meticulously cobbled floor kept her grounded to reality, each step taking her deeper into the Palace and further away from her brother's headless corpse laying in the courtyard.

It should have been easier this time, she thought. It had been years since her twin had been the warm, thoughtful, brother she had grown up with. She had no delusions about what he was now – a lifeless husk animated by some faceless, voiceless demon. The real Neb had been dead since she killed him the first time.

But somehow that didn't matter. Just knowing didn't change how it felt, no matter how badly she wanted it to.

Miriam was at a full sprint now. Thin, salty tracks cut across her cheekbones, edging toward her hairline as she hurtled down another corridor. The blood, intermingled cords of red and black, congealed on her hands and tunic, drying in her self-induced jetstream.

The sharp prick of a pebble on her forearm alerted her to another imminent chunk of dislodged ceiling. Leaping deftly to her right, she narrowly dodged the boulder as it slammed down into the ground in a cloud of dust and plaster. The Palace was crumbling around her, the captive dragon underneath its foundation finally freed from its chains and creating havoc in its attempts to claw toward daylight. Qwydion had come through, succeeding in releasing the dragon, which in turn meant Roland and Lacklon had also held up their end – distracting the resident templars long enough to get the qunari mage inside. Miriam swallowed a sudden swell of gratitude for this strange menagerie of mercenaries that had somehow become her friends.

All that remained now was for her to execute her part of the plan: rescue Hira and get out of this cursed place – for good this time. She was done with Nessum forever and, while this wasn't her first time vowing so, her conviction was tenfold stronger now. Only pain and death existed here.

But first…

A glint of gold and cadet grey flashed across her periphery, and she pivoted just quickly enough to glimpse the whip of an auburn braid disappear behind the colonnade.

Knight-Commander Tassia, she growled through gritted teeth.

Tassia. Rezaren's right-hand and clandestine lover, catering to his every bidding and helping him along in his incessant quest for power. Complicit in Neb's desecration and in Hira's capture, probably torturing her with her own hands for information Hira would never give…

…Miriam was sure Hira wouldn't mind waiting just a moment longer.

She took off at a dead sprint, her pace only marginally dampened by the quaking floor and increasingly frequent falling stones. Searing hot anger coursed through her veins. If she couldn't have Rezaren, then his pet templar would be a sufficient consolation.

She was almost on her now – the clang of the templar's heavy metallic footsteps just around the corner resonated even over the raucous falling debris. Miriam reached itching fingers into her cloak, the two twin daggers sliding easily into her palms. Tucking herself into a ball, she apexed the turn in a forward roll, right arm poised to loose the first blade as she smoothly glided to her knees.

But her wrist wavered in mid-air, confusion usurping her anger as her brows knitted together at the scene unfolding before her.

A mass of panicked elven bodies in tattered beige tunics streamed past a thick metal door and into the wide corridor. Towering at least a foot above their heads, Knight-Commander Tassia stood out among them, a ring of bronze keys and a heavy padlock clutched in her hand.

"Go!" she bellowed, her commanding bark cutting through the cacophony of terrified shrieks and cracking stonework. "The Palace is collapsing. Get out! Now!"

Encouraged by her urgency, the Palace slaves finally began to run, even as the human woman was already turning her attentions to the final door, dexterous fingers working another key into the padlock. The second group of slaves reacted much like the first, confusion and fear edging out the instinct to survive even as pieces of masonry peppered the ground at their feet and columns began to buckle around them. She yelled again, urging them to flee.

Perplexed, Miriam lowered her arm. The unexpected scene had not only disturbed the narrative, but had interfered with her attack rhythm and left her vulnerable out in the open. She needed to regroup and refocus. With an assassin's signature stealth, she began to pick her way back toward the safety of the shadows to think.

She was a mere arm's-length away from cover when a massive tremor pulsed through the floor, pitching her wildly forward and into the sunbathed corridor. One of her daggers skittered unceremoniously out of her hand and across the marble floor.

She felt the weight of the Knight-Commander's gaze like an anvil as it snapped instantly to her. For a split moment, both women locked eyes, identical expressions of hate reflecting off one another. Then they were both struggling to regain their footing among the rippling aftershocks.

Tassia steadied herself first, the shaft of her hulking Warhammer moonlighting as a counterbalance. She wasted no time in her attack. No sooner had the ground ceased its final shudder than she swept up her hammer in a graceful arc and charged toward Miriam's prone form. With two quick pulls of her elbows, Miriam propelled herself forward on her belly until the tips of her fingers brushed the hilt of the dislodged dagger. She would be well within the hammer's striking range in moments, she knew, and she rolled herself immediately into a crouch, positioning both daggers in a parrying cross above her head. Squeezing her eyes shut and tucking her chin, she braced for the crushing blow.

But it never came.

Instead, she cracked one dubious eyelid just in time to see the deserted hilt of the Knight-Commander's Warhammer impact the ground just feet from where she knelt, with the owner's rapidly retreating backside just beyond. She stood, dropping her daggers to her side in confusion for the second time since she had started this side errand.

What in the name of the Maker…

Then she saw her – a little girl, probably no more than seven years old, her pointed ears peeking out of a muss of brown hair as she choked back terrified sobs and quaked in fear. And directly above her, a rapidly widening crevice spidering across the ceiling and dropping sections of tile and crumbled stonework at her bare feet.

Tassia reached the girl just as the ceiling gave way. A slab of masonry the size of an oxcart dislodged with a sharp crack, and Miriam watched in slow motion as the boulder hurtled mercilessly toward the pair. With the athleticism of a career swordsman, the woman looped an arm around the child's waist, pivoted clockwise, and tossed the girl across her hip and clear from the path of instant death. The momentum, however, was not enough for them both. The slab's jagged edge clipped the knight-commander's armored right side with a sickening crunch of stone on metal, the impact's force shoving her backward and across the floor in a crumpled heap.

Miriam's attentions remained on the child as she hastened to her side. A sigh of relief rushed past her lips as she knelt down next to the alive, and visually uninjured, girl. "Are you alright, da'len?"

The girl nodded meekly, shell-shocked into speechlessness, eyes wide and red rimmed as they darted between her and the motionless body several lengths away. Miriam helped the girl to her feet, dusting the film of white mortar from her skin and clothing as practiced eyes scanned for any sign of internal injuries.

"Effie!" A high-pitched cry echoed within the chamber and arrested Miriam's attention. The same brown hair, the identical almond eyes, the barely-contained hysteria of a parent who has lost a child – one glance was all it took to identify the girl's mother as she sprinted toward them. "Thank the Maker! Effie!"

"Go with your mother," Miriam instructed. The girl tore from Miriam's grasp and staggered deliriously into the safety of her mother's tearful embrace. Then, addressing the mother, "Get her out of here. Quickly," she added as an echoed rumble announced the fall of another large piece of ceiling in a chamber nearby. The elven woman nodded, scooping her daughter into her arms without hesitation and running back the way she had come.

Another crash resounded in the distance, the Palace's condition deteriorating at a quickening pace, her pulse along with it. Hira. She needed to get to Hira. She shook her head in disgust, suddenly ashamed that she had allowed herself to waste this much time on a secondary agenda. No more distractions, Miriam resolved, setting her jaw grimly. She needed to stick to the plan: find Hira, rescue Hira, link up with the others, and get the hell out of there. She hadn't even managed to complete the first part yet.

It took only a few steps forward to test her resolve. Her eyes, unbidden, tracked from the gold and steel of the Warhammer laying across her path to the matching armored figure, who's prone form had yet to stir. Assassin doctrine dictates to physically confirm that your enemy is dead, she reasoned to herself, even as her feet were already padding to the human woman's side.

Tassia lay on her right side, curled against several large segments of split stone, her right arm obscured up to the mid-bicep under a mound of rubble. The visible half of her appeared largely unscathed, but Miriam spotted a stain of red jutting from underneath her obscured temple in branching rivulets, bright crimson against the white marble floor. Curling wary fingers around the daggers at her back, she extended a careful boot tip, nudging the body once, then twice, almost a kick the third time. The Knight-Commander remained lifeless through it all. And perhaps she was. Sheathing her daggers, Miriam knelt, swiping the woman's long braid aside and pressing two fingers firmly against her neck. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was weak, but a pulse was certainly there.

Now what? She stood quickly, taking an uneasy step back. Tassia may be alive now, but there was no question that she would perish here. Even if she regained consciousness, she was pinned. Miriam worried her bottom lip between her teeth, brows furrowed. The certainty of her impending death should have settled her, made her happy even. And ten minutes ago, it probably would have. But the anger that had so invigorated her before had evaporated on the shoulders of the escaping slaves – slaves saved by the very person in question.

No, her rationality countered. She shook her head forcefully, as if she could physically banish her intrusive former thoughts. What was she thinking? This is Knight-Commander Tassia, she reminded herself. This is the enemy. And, there was a logical explanation for her actions even; elven slaves were currency in Tevinter. Of course she released them – how much easier to just hunt them down again afterwards than to pay to replace them if they died in the palace? For all she knew, Tassia was acting on the direct orders of Rezaren, and yet here she was, baptizing her as an elven sympathizer.

"Get your head back in the game," she berated herself under her breath. No more distractions. She repeated the plan for good measure: find Hira, rescue Hira, link up with the others, and get the hell out of there. With renewed determination, she turned sharply on her heel and jogged back down the corridor.

But the girl…

Her jog slackened to a walk, then to an outright halt as her mind rebelled, rewinding events against her will. Tassia had the clear offensive advantage in their aborted duel, yet she abandoned it when she saw the girl. She was a seasoned warrior; she had to know that she would not have the speed or momentum to avoid being struck herself by the falling boulder. Still, she had accepted the risk to save the girl – a slave, an elf. Miriam allowed her logic a long moment for rebuttal, but none came. Try as she might, she could not rationalize THAT action away.

Against her better judgement, she craned her neck and squinted behind her. She could hardly see her now, the crumpled silhouette barely visible through the dust and smoke. Somewhere beyond the Veil, a clock hand was ticking down in time with the cracking stonework.

She willed herself not to care. She willed herself to forget that she too was a slave, an elf. Her eyes slid closed as she inhaled a long breath. No distractions. Find Hira, rescue Hira, link up with the others, and get the hell out of there.

Her eyes opened to the clear corridor ahead of her. One foot, heavier than she remembered, began to shuffle forward followed by the other. Yet something deep in the pit of her festered, gnawing and worming its way up with every footfall until it clouded her mind and nested there. Something like regret. Something like guilt.

Again, she halted. Frustration at her own vulnerability funneled into a multi-lingual stream of curses. "KAFFAR! FENEDHIS! FUCK!" she shouted, fist balled at her sides.

The empty hallway, predictably, had no reply, but she was already running back toward the chamber in begrudging acceptance.

Her first attempt to free the woman failed miserably. Threading one hand through the human's waist belt and the other underneath the steel gorget at her collar, she committed every straining ounce of her bodyweight into a powerful backward yank that succeeded only in lost footing and a burgeoning bruise on her backside. The second attempt faired little better, though it did manage to budge the woman's body just enough to create access space to the trapped appendage. Stones ranging in size from apples to dragon eggs massed atop her right arm. Miriam surveyed the pile skeptically. The smaller rocks she could manipulate, but the larger would require some creativity. As she debated, another shudder rippled through the floor, adding several more jagged shards to the growing mound and an increased urgency to her planning. She hefted the first stone with an exasperated grunt and got to work.

"Miriam?"

Raw fingertips had just closed around another fractured edge when a welcome voice wafted from across the chamber. She sprang quickly to her feet, a flush of relief giving her tired limbs new life as she wiped the layer of sweat and white dust from her brow. Across the hall, a familiar figure emerged from the opposing corridor. The white hair and patina skin were barely distinguishable through the cloak of swirling dust, but the silhouetted twin horns protruding from the top of a sizeable frame left no doubt. "Qwydion!"

The qunari mage crossed the distance at a jog, greeting her with a wide smile and open arms. Miriam let her fatigued body fall into the embrace, returning the hug in a quick moment of respite. "I thought the dragon might have gotten you," she admitted softly, verbalizing the buried fear that had been tugging on her conscience. This rescue mission had been her plan, and with it, her responsibility to ensure they all made it through. No easy task when a palace full of templars, a demon-possessed assassin, a powerful magister, and a high dragon made up the opposition. Seeing Qwydion alive and unscathed released a wave of dammed anxieties even she herself hadn't been prepared for.

"Me? No! Not after I freed it. They aren't mindless killing machines," the mage assured with a casual shrug, as if suggesting such a thing of an enraged, wild dragon was an absurd assumption.

Miriam raised a skeptical eyebrow, unconvinced, before turning her attentions to the other half of their team. "Have you seen the others?"

Her head bobbed enthusiastically. "Roland and Lacklon are waiting at the rendezvous site," she replied, throwing her thumb behind her shoulder in the direction of the palace's terrace courtyard. "And we saw Hira, too."

Shock, relief and glee hit her in quick succession. "Hira escaped?!" she gasped, incredulous. It seemed almost an impossible stroke of luck. The palace, she knew, was designed just as much to keep people in as it was to keep them out. "How?"

"I have no idea," she replied with a shake of her head. "We tried calling out to her, but she must not have heard us…" Her brow furrowed, pausing briefly in thought, then with another quick shake of her head added, "It looked like she was headed toward the safe house."

Miriam exhaled a long sigh, eyes sliding closed as she basked in the moment. Against all odds, even in spite of her own dawdling, everything and everybody that she cared about was safe. Such a spate of luck, in Nessum of all places? Unexpected was an understatement. Truly, she had steeled herself for casualties. Such was the legacy of Nessum.

Another lurch beneath their feet and the accompanying crash of nearby stonework had Qwydion reaching for her wrist, urging her toward the exit with a gentle pull. "Alright, what do you say we get out of here before we both become drastically different-sized pancakes?" she rushed over her shoulder, already turning away.

Her steps faltered when she felt Miriam's resistance against her palm, eyes confused and questioning as she looked back at the elf. "Um, Miriam?"

"Just, uh, one last thing…" she replied slowly, almost sheepishly. Stepping to the side, she directed the qunari's attention to the scene behind her with a sweep of her arm.

Yellow eyes narrowed in a squint, followed immediately by a loud gasp. "Is that…?"

Miriam nodded soberly. "Knight-Commander Tassia. And I need your help to save her."

It was biologically impossible for the qunari's eyes to have gotten any wider or jaw drop any lower. "You nee...to save…?" she stuttered in bewilderment, eyes darting between the human and the elf, the enemy and the ally. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?" she finally managed to sputter.

Qwydion's skepticism was both valid and expected. Hell, Miriam was skeptical of herself. Just last night, their heads had been huddled over palace schematics devising the most effective and efficient methods to eliminate Tassia and her templars. A chance encounter with a boulder had not been part of the plan, but it certainly met the criteria. And now, without any predication, she was proposing not only sparing the life of the right-hand of their greatest foe, but actively interfering to save it. It seemed a daunting task to explain such a vicious pivot.

Still, she had to try. Qwydion's expectant expression left no other option. She sighed heavily. "Tassia was the one freeing all the palace slaves. I saw her letting them go," she explained, shrugging. "I figure – she saves their lives, I save her life. Then we're even." It was the best summary she could muster given the time-limited circumstances.

Qwydion remained silent, though her dubious demeanor tempered slightly as she absorbed Miriam's words. She recalled seeing the elven slaves running past her while she made her way deeper into the palace – not just one or two, but large groups of them. At least fifty men, women, and children had passed her by, all likely to have faced painful deaths as their locked cells collapsed around them. Still fresh in her memory, too, how close their confinement had brought them to slaughter just days before, when she stumbled upon a group of them trying to fend off a horde of undead with no more than blunted landscaping tools and sharpened table legs. Her heart had gone out to them then, so she could only imagine how Miriam felt about their plight, given her own past. But for a Tevinter like Tassia, though? Freeing them was uncharacteristically merciful.

"Listen," Miriam sighed, choosing to interpret the mage's silence as indecision. "After what I saw….I just can't leave her here, alright?"

Irrational, foolish, nonsensical – her final appeal sounded pathetically lame even to her own ears, and she cringed as the words left her mouth.

But somehow it was enough. Without a moment more of thought, the qunari gave a curt nod of acquiescence. "Okay then. How can I help?"

Miriam blinked in momentary surprise before her lips tipped up in a grateful smile. Together, the pair approached the heaped rubble. The piled fruits of Miriam's labor dwarfed pitifully a short distance away and, between them, the injured woman remained motionless on her right side, the pristine shine of her armor dulled by a dusting of fine limestone. Qwydion knelt, assessing the patient with the practiced eyes of a spirit healer and pressing her fingers into the inner wrist of the human's free arm. She pursed her lips in a frown, and for a wildly illogical moment, Miriam was consumed with dread that this stranger she had intended to make dead might actually BE dead.

"Well, she's hanging in there," the mage reported finally, and Miriam released the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

Recovering quickly, Miriam indicated with her index finger two large slabs leaning against one another. "Her arm is wedged in between those two stones," she pointed out, redirecting Qwydion's attention. "They were too big for me to move, but if you can lift them up with your magic, I'm sure I can pull her free. Then, just a quick healing spell to get her conscious and she can figure out the rest on her own."

It seemed like a straightforward plan, but she could sense the pending complications in the stiffening of Qwydion's shoulders even as the words left her mouth.

"Love the plan…" she drawled out slowly.

Miriam let out an exasperated sigh. "…but?"

Qwydion grimaced. "But, I'm fresh out of magic." She held out a flattened palm in demonstration, the tips of her digits glowing faintly for a moment before unceremoniously fading out into nothing. "I used up all my mana dealing with the dragon. I've got a stash of lyrium potions back at the safehouse, but until then, all I can offer is my personality," she shrugged. "Oh, and these bad boys," she added, standing and patting the tops of her sizable quad muscles with a lopsided smirk.

Miriam rested her chin in the purlicue of her left hand, tapping absently along her jaw as she contemplated the change in circumstance. The lack of magic certainly wasn't ideal, but Miriam couldn't deny that a qunari frame and its accompanying raw strength was the best alternative that fate could have thrown her for such a situation.

"Alright, change of plans then," she resolved. "Let's get her out. Then we can drop her in the terrace on our way out of here. She'll be safe from the collapse out there, and somebody is bound to find her quickly."

Qwydion's smirk widened into a smile, relieved her services could still be utilized in some way. Despite what the Qun might preach, her magic wasn't the only thing she had to offer. Any day she could confute the Qun was a good day in her book. "Good with me! I'll lift and you pull."

Strategy solidified, each woman moved into position. Qwydion picked her way through the scattered rubble until she reached the offending wedged slabs, selecting the smaller of the two to focus her efforts. She waited until Miriam was crouched beside the knight-commander, her forearms threaded through the armored human's belt for leverage, before nestling her back against the cool stone. Her fingers probed the irregularities in the shorn masonry behind until finally alighting on a perfectly rounded lip around which to curl her grip. Widening her stance into a squat, she caught Miriam's expectant gaze and nodded.

"On three. One…two…three!"

Qwydion drove her heels into the ground, bracing her back against the stone and engaging every sinew in her legs and core. There was a short pause where gravity resisted power until slowly, surely, the rock began to submit, lifting up ever so slightly.

"Just a little more!" Miriam encouraged through gritted teeth. She could see the gap widening, each tug on Tassia's belt dislodging more of the trapped appendage from its prison.

With a guttural growl, the mage amassed her remaining strength into a final forceful assault.

And just like that, the knight-commander was free, the sudden absence of resistance sending both the rescued and her rescuer toppling backwards across the floor.

Puffing out a celebratory whoop, Qwydion let the stone slip from her fingers with an unceremonious crash and hurried toward the prone pair. "I can't believe that worked!" she exclaimed, a large grin splitting her face as she approached.

Miriam flashed her a grateful smile, genuinely impressed, before returning her attention to extricating her entangled leg from the front of Tassia's flowing tabard.

Qwydion knelt down beside her, eyes running the length of the knight-commander's newly exposed right side, the full extent of external damage visible for the first time. She exhaled a low, breathy whistle. "She's lucky she's not conscious for this mess."

Unwinding the final length of templar livery from her newly liberated bootheel, Meriam joined Qwydion in her survey. The mage was right – Tassia's right arm was a disaster. Clearly broken, the mid-forearm bowed upward in an unnatural curve, the abnormal angle accented by the dark scarlet track oozing from wrist to elbow beneath the shattered remnants of her bracer. The pronounced slouch in her shoulder signaled dislocation, and several fingers sported crush trauma. Further up, a sizeable gash along her hairline fed narrow paths of blood that cut like tree branches across her forehead, nose, and cheek. Perhaps most impressive, however, was the large dent in her cuirass, where a crater of concave metal larger than Miriam's open palm pitted against her ribcage. A Tevinter knight-commander's armor used only the highest quality metals; Miriam could only guess the force needed to generate such damage.

Another tremor reverberated from deep below, rattling the pebbled shale around them. Miriam eyed their surroundings warily, her voice fighting for dominance against the echoed rumble. "We should get her, and us, out of here!"

Qwydion immediately endorsed her recommendation with a series of enthusiastic nods.

"I'll find something to use as a litter," Miriam volunteered. Resourceful eyes scanned the corridor briefly before alighting on the set of thick fabric curtains that flanked the chamber's solitary window. Her dagger was already in hand, ready to shear, when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

"There's no time," Qwydion said with a rough shake of her head, urgent gaze flicking to the crumbling ceiling high above. As if to prove a point, a new splinter etched across the plaster, raining a layer of dust and earthen shards down on them like shrapnel. "I think I can carry her," Qwydion rasped through a fit of coughs. "Just help me get some of this armor off."

Having just witnessed the Qunari quite literally lift a boulder moments before, Miriam had no doubt she indeed could. She knelt across from the mage without hesitation. Two pairs of hands probed and prodded along the warped armor, unbuckling fasteners and yanking off plating, sacrificing finesse for speed as they discarded the meticulously buffed metallurgy into a hapless heap on the cracked tile, their frenetic pace only slowing marginally to carefully extract the pauldron from around her injured arm and the damaged cuirass from her chest. Within moments, she was a knight-commander no more, all evidence of her profession and status strewn carelessly among the rubble of her own liege's palace.

To Miriam, the metamorphosis was striking. Pale and injured, garbed in a simple black tunic and leggings – the shucked woman seeped vulnerability. It was hard to reconcile the image with the fierce warhammer-wielding foe that could have killed her earlier.

"Huh. She looks so much smaller now…," mused Qwydion, voicing Miriam's own thoughts as she roughly slid one forearm under the human woman's knees and scooped another under her shoulders. In one fluid motion, the mage stood, curling the knight-commander's non-injured side against her torso and blinking down at the most unexpected cargo now cradled in her arms.

"The boys are never going to believe this," she breathed.

And then they were running, urgent footsteps hastening to leave what was left of Nessum's Summer Palace behind.


"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!" Lacklon was livid, fists clenched stiffly against his thighs and face flushed an angry purple. "You did WHAT?!"

The twin expressions of relief on the men's faces at the reunion had been short-lived. In a miraculous combination of skill and luck, Lacklon and Roland had managed to keep the rendezvous site clear, alternating between hiding from and fighting the roaming templars that happened through the terrace. The scattered armored corpses and the thick mask of blood and grime coating the two warriors' hands clearly indicated that the latter was the more common choice. So it was easy to understand, as such, why the abrupt realization that the women had some extra baggage in tow incited such potent disapproval.

Miriam winced, raising her hands in acquiescence and retreating several steps as Lacklon closed the distance with an accusatory finger. "Listen," her voice placating, "it's a long story and now is not the time to—"

"Oh, NOW you care about time?" he roared, throwing burly hands in the air theatrically as he paced a circle around her. "While Roland and I are out here getting our asses kicked by a horde of templars and dodging castle chunks, wondering if you were ever going to show up or if you were captured or if you were even still alive?! But no, you're out saving the commander of the fucking templars who, by the way, broke my nose like an hour ago!" He thrust a quivering finger toward the victimized body part, taking a step toward the elf and rocking up on his toes until he was nearly eye level, the swollen and crooked feature on full display.

She swallowed dryly. He was right, of course, and his anger justified. It had been her crazy plan in the first place, her idea to rescue Hira, and everybody had held up their end of the bargain except her. But here and now was simply not the place nor the time. If it wasn't enough to stand exposed in an outdoor terrace with a collapsing palace on one side, an enraged dragon underneath, and an army of templars behind, now they were having a very ill-timed, and very loud argument to top it off. Warning bells buzzed in the back of her mind, all too hyperaware of their vulnerable position. They needed to get out of this place.

She slid her eyes from the dwarf's bloodied nostrils, seeking out her best friend in a silent plea for reinforcements. If anyone could temper Lacklon's fire, it was Roland.

For his part, Roland, up until now, had been content to merely gape. Eyes wide and jaw slack, his gaze continued to flit from the motionless bundle in Qwydion's arms back to Miriam in disbelief. The moment he first glimpsed that unmistakable auburn braid swaying from the crook of Qwydion's elbow, his initial assumption was Miriam had killed her and they were bringing her back as some sort of…collateral? But when Miriam divulged she had saved her, on purpose, because she 'owed her one' – he honestly just couldn't wrap his mind around it. There was no place for mercy in Nessum; not for Miriam.

An exaggerated throat-clearing arrested his attention, and he drug his gaze away from Tassia for at least the tenth time to find Miriam shooting him a pointed look. It didn't take long to decipher the message, what with Lacklon snarling in her face like a wild dog with its hackles raised. Still, for the briefest of moment he hesitated, sharing in the emotion rolling off the dwarf. The anger, the confusion – he felt it too. Stronger still, however, was the unease pricking at the nape of his neck reminding him of their susceptibility out in the open terrace. There would be time for all of this later.

Laying a gloved palm on Lacklon's shoulder, he tugged evenly, catching the man's eyes with an understanding glance and a soft, "Later." There was a brief moment that the dwarf resisted his touch, but the flames soon cooled to embers under the steady palm. Anger now only a simmer, he backed down with an annoyed huff.

Miriam tossed Roland a thankful nod as she too took a step back and enjoyed a gulp of personal space. "Relax," she assured, heaving a relieved sigh. "We're just going to drop her out here for one of her people to find. She's not our problem anymore."

"Um, guys?"

In the intensity of the moment with Lacklon, Qwydion had all but been forgotten in the periphery, despite carrying the very source of the discord in her arms. Now she hovered uncertainly in the limelight, her nose and upper lip scrunched up in a troubled grimace as she focused intently on the patch of grass by her feet. Dark red, stark against the green blades, puddled by her feet. "It's not mine," she quickly clarified as three concerned faces snapped to her.

Miriam visually traced a path upwards as she approached. "No," she echoed, "not from you..." Her eyes fell to Tassia's tunic where the black fabric, while adept at hiding the discoloration, could not hide the obvious wetness against her ribcage. With two fingers, she pinched the garment's hem and gingerly pulled up, revealing a wound gruesome enough to make even the assassin take pause. "From her," she finally asserted, stepping aside to let the others see.

An angry, elongated gash ran from sternum to pelvis, seeping dark red blood that coalesced at her hip and dribbled onto the grass. But it wasn't the source of the blood that caught attention. Instead, it was the patchy deep purple that radiated outwards and spread along the side of her abdomen. For all its rare metals and enchantments, the knight-commander's cuirass had clearly done little to allay the boulder's destructive blunt force on impact.

Qwydion caught Miriam's eyes in an even, knowing look. "She's not going to last much longer without help. If we leave her out here…"

Pursing her lips, Miriam inhaled a long, measured breath. Averted eyes landed unbidden on the limp body draped in Qwydion's arms. A thin sheen of sweat glossed the pale woman's brow and each shallow breath now tapered off into a feeble rasp – one that had not been there before.

Qwydion's trailing thought was easy to complete. "…she'll probably die before she's found," Miriam finished flatly.

"And here I thought this day couldn't get any better," grunted Lacklon as he shrugged his battleaxe up over his shoulder and turned toward their exit expectantly. Roland too began to secure his shield on his back in preparation for their departure, while Qwydion shuffled her weight uncertainly from foot to foot, yellow eyes shifting between their elven companion and the nearest grassy clearing best suited to deposit her cargo.

Miriam, however, still hadn't moved. Instead, she stood hunched with one arm crossed over her torso, the other slowing massaging her temple between a thumb and index finger. Her eyes slid closed and her brow furrowed, an expression of frustration on her taut features.

Her hesitation and inner struggle were not lost on Lacklon, and he connected the dots quickly. "Oh, no, no, no," he gritted, shaking his head from side to side in indignant disbelief. "You're not actually considering –"

But Roland was already approaching her side, quelling Lacklon's dissent for a second time with a raised palm opened in his direction.

Broad hands alighted on Miriam's shoulders and he bent down to level with her, eyebrows raised incredulously. "You know I love you like a sister," his voice low, serious and urgent, "but what the hell are you thinking?"

Indeed, he was simply parroting the same question she had been asking herself over and over. The logical solution was, had always been, to treat the knight-commander like the glaring, dangerous liability she was. But every time the thought gained traction, the terrified face of the little elven girl danced across her vision – a little cherub on her shoulder whispering her disappointment. Or maybe a little demon, she thought wryly, if this goes to shit. Ultimately, regardless of how supremely idiotic it might be, they had already poured so much effort into saving the woman's life at this point that it almost seemed like defeat not to see it through.

She returned Roland's gaze with a tired sigh, but her eyes burned resolute. "We have the circulum. We have Hira. Now is the time to leave. We don't need the safe house anymore. We'll swing by to pick up Hira, and Qwydion can get her potions. We'll give the commander quick heal and leave her there on our way out."

If possible, Roland managed to look even more confounded. Mir, I don't…why – ?"

"I need to do this. Just…trust me."

For a long moment, he studied her, watching the peculiar mélange of frustration, guilt, anxiety, obstinance and resolve swirl across her face. The Summer Palace was the last place in the world Miriam wanted to return, the most painful memory for her to relive. Yet, here she was, voluntarily risking it all for this mission and, as an extension, for the rest of them. So, if in some inexplicable, unconscionable way, saving the knight-commander of the very palace they just destroyed would help her excise some of her past, then he couldn't in good conscience deny her that closure.

"Okay," he assented with a curt nod. Then, for Lacklon's benefit, who's jaw was currently hanging slack in shock, "Besides, I suppose she could be useful collateral if we run into trouble trying to get out of here."

Miriam's relieved sigh followed the others as they slipped out of the palace grounds and into the streets of Nessum. Stealing once last look behind her at the smoking parapets, she swore that this was the last time she would ever lay eyes on this place. Of course, she had said that once before.