Archive of Our Own

    "That's three," said Isabela.

    "Nope," said Varric, without looking up from his writing. "That's only two."

    "I'm sure it's three."

    "Two," he said cheerfully, and finished the chapter with a flourish. The advantage to writing by a roaring campfire was that his ink dried fast on the page, without needing to be blotted. The disadvantage was that the ink sometimes clotted in his pen. Oh, well; one had to take the good with the bad.

    "It's only two," Merrill chimed in. "But why does it always sound like they're hurting each other?"

    "Because they are," said Isabela. She examined one of her daggers in the firelight, pulled a small whetstone from—where in the world had she gotten it?—and began to sweep the blade over it.

    "I don't understand," Merrill said, as she paced between Varric and Isabela. "I thought they were, you know—" She blushed. "Wooing."

    Isabela snorted rudely and did not look up. "Wooing," she repeated. "That's a nice word for it, Kitten. But yes, they are doing that."

    "I don't understand why they would hurt one another," Merrill persisted. "It should be intimate and pleasurable."

    "Sometimes it's better when it hurts." Isabela examined the blade again, flicked the pad of her thumb over the edge, sheathed the dagger and began to work on the other one.

    "I don't—"

    "Hush, Kitten," Isabela said.

    "But—"

    "He's paying his penance, Daisy," Varric interrupted, "and that's rarely done without pain."

    "Penance," Merrill repeated thoughtfully. "Isn't that what they do in the Chantry?"

    "Not the way they're doing it," Isabela chortled.

    "The point of it is the same," Varric explained. He folded his pages together and began to clean his pen. "You get punished until you've suffered enough for the sins you've committed, and when that's done, you're forgiven."

    "But they do this every night."

    "He killed a lot of innocent people for a selfish reason," Fenris growled across the fire at Merrill. "There will be no forgiveness."

    "Lucky Hawke," Isabela said with a wry smile. Her second blade sharpened and sheathed, she wiped the whetstone and before Varric could see where she put it, it was gone. "Or maybe, lucky Anders."

    "Lucky both of them, I guess," Varric mused.

    "It doesn't sound lucky," Merrill said, and folded her arms. "I still don't understand."

    "Kitten, let's hope you never have to, all right? Come sit next to me and tell me some stories." Isabela patted the grass next to her and Merrill dropped obediently to sit cross-legged there.

    "What would you like to hear?" she asked.

    "Tell a happy story. And tell it loudly, so we don't hear them again."

    Varric carefully placed his things into his satchel. "Good luck with that," he said, but sat back to listen to Merrill anyway.

    Before Merrill had finished her tale of Shartan helping Andraste to free the elven slaves of Tevinter—a favourite of Fenris', Varric knew—an anguished cry sounded in the distance, silenced every living thing in the woods. Merrill made a face, and Isabela patted her knee, comforting.

    "Her," Isabela said, when the echoes had faded.

    "No, definitely him," Varric shook his head.

    "I guess we'll see when they get back," she retorted. "Twenty-five again?"

    "You're on," Varric agreed, amiable.

    "Must you play this game every night?" Fenris asked with a sigh. "It's repellent."

    "Passes the time, Elf." Varric grinned.

    "I'm an elf too, you know," Merrill complained.

    "Yes, but you're Daisy."

    "I've told you before, Varric, I'm not a flower."

    "Don't be insulted, Kitten," Isabela said. "Go on with your story."

    "It seems rather spoiled now," said Merrill, forlornly.

    "Indeed." Fenris stared at the fire.

    "Oh, Fenris," said Isabela with a grin. "Will you never be able to think of Shartan again, without imagining Hawke on her knees—"

    "Shut up," Fenris said.

    "—with Anders behind her—"

    "I said shut up."

    "—pulling on her hair while he—"

    Fenris jumped to his feet, stared down at Isabela a moment, then turned and paced the campsite restlessly. Isabela chuckled, and gave Merrill a little squeeze. Merrill allowed herself to be cuddled, but watched Fenris move back and forth.

    Varric was sure it wasn't just that Hawke and Anders were going at it like animals. They'd been doing that for years now, albeit in Hawke's comfortable home rather than out in the wilderness. It was that Hawke was still with Anders, after all he'd done, that bothered Fenris. Whether or not she would ever forgive him, she'd stuck by him. She'd let him live, had left Kirkwall to stay with him, even knowing what he'd done. Even knowing that he'd lied to her, had made her complicit in his actions. That bothered Fenris because Fenris respected Hawke, and he couldn't reconcile his respect for his friend with her seeming lack of self-respect.

    There was a good story in that. There was a marvellous story in that.

    Varric pulled out the little notebook and pencil he carried always in his coat for just such moments. He jotted down a few ideas in his own private code and tucked the book and pencil away. He watched Fenris pacing, and waited to see if he would win twenty-five silver. So far he was up nearly seven sovereigns, and they'd only been gone from Kirkwall less than a month.

    Of course money was useless to them out in the wilds, but they were due to reach a town soon.

    Isabela murmured something to Merrill, in a tone unlike her usual sarcastic one, and Merrill nodded. Isabela swept the little elf against her, kept a strong arm around her, and they sat silently—

    "Hold on just one minute," Hawke said. "What is it you were counting at the beginning?"

    Varric grinned. "You know. Each time."

    She narrowed her eyes at him. "There is no way you were counting that."

    Varric tried to look insulted. "My dear Hawke," he said. "Whatever do you mean?"

    "She means," said Anders, with a shrug, "that if there's the slightest chance anyone might hear her, she holds her breath." Hawke punched his shoulder. "Ow," he complained. "It's true." He grinned at Varric. "All those years of trysts with farm boys in the haylofts right above their hard-working fathers, you know." Hawke rolled her eyes, shook her head. Anders chuckled.

    "Go on, Varric," Hawke said sternly.

    "Now I'm interested in these farm boy trysts."

    "I was young, it was Lothering, summers were hot and otherwise boring. Go on with your story, Varric," she said, with a typically reproachful Hawke look.

    He cleared his throat and resumed.

    Isabela murmured something to Merrill, in a tone unlike her usual sarcastic one, and Merrill nodded. Isabela swept the little elf against her, kept a strong arm around her, and they sat silently watching the fire.

    It was another half hour before Hawke and Anders returned to the campsite. Hawke was composed as always, her armour pristine, her hair perfectly untidy. Anders' hair had been pulled out of its tie and though he kept running his hands through it to push it back, it fell around his face and into his eyes. Additionally, he was favouring one leg, ever so slightly. Isabela glowered at Varric; he shrugged and smiled. The twenty-five was his.

    "Welcome back, Hawke," he said.

    Hawke sat down near the fire, leaned back on her hands. "Anything exciting happen while we were gone?" she wondered. Anders sat next to her, his knees drawn up and his elbows on them. He thrust his hands into his hair to hold it off his face.

    "Not here," Varric assured her. "Daisy was just telling us a story." Hawke turned her attention to Merrill, who had rested her head on Isabela's shoulder. She lifted it quickly when she realised Hawke was waiting.

    "Oh," she exclaimed. "But I stopped. Because of Anders pulling your hair—" She was cut off when Isabela clamped a panicked hand over her mouth.

    Anders' hands slid down to cover his eyes.

    Hawke's expression did not change. "I'm sorry, Merrill," she said, "what story was that?"

    Merrill shook her head and mumbled something behind Isabela's hand.

    "You know how she gets things mixed up," Isabela said with an unconvincing laugh. Merrill frowned. She mumbled something else, and Isabela tightened her grip. "Two different conversations, you understand."

    "Whether or not Anders pulls my hair," Hawke said drily, "should never come up in a casual conversation."

    "I don't, for the record," Anders sighed, his eyes still covered.

    "There is information we need to know," Fenris said, irritably, "and a great deal more we do not." He walked another circuit of the campsite, peering out at the woods around them. Hawke glanced at him, then looked into the fire.

    Isabela released Merrill, who was genuinely annoyed, and spent a great deal of time apologising with caresses and gentle kisses. That was most interesting to Varric; it was rare for Isabela to care about anyone's feelings, even if she'd been the one to damage them. But she'd always been a little protective of Merrill...

    He pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few more lines.

    "Who's on watch tonight?" Hawke asked at last.

    "I am," Fenris said tersely, still looking out at the forest.

    She looked up at him. "Have you slept?"

    "More than you have in the last week." Varric wasn't sure if this was a dig at Hawke and Anders, or if Fenris had genuinely noticed that Hawke slept very little these days. He decided on the latter; Fenris wasn't given to antagonising Hawke, no matter his opinion on any subject.

    "If you're sure," Hawke said.

    "I said I have slept, and it is my turn to watch." Fenris looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming in the flickering firelight. Hawke watched him a moment, then nodded, and sat forward.

    "We should all get some rest," she said, and looked at Anders. He lifted his hands and looked at her, and Varric wasn't sure he didn't look a little sad. Or maybe he was just in pain.

    Odd, that; one would think that between two mages they'd be able to heal one another.

    Or maybe...

    ...maybe part of the penance was that he wasn't allowed to heal whatever she hurt.

    Varric's mind raced. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled furiously. When he finally looked up again, Fenris was circling the campsite again with his springy, silent step, ever alert. Isabela had spooned behind Merrill, and had covered them both with the heavy cloak she had brought with her from Kirkwall; the two of them were sound asleep. Anders and Hawke lay curled together, facing one another, with Anders' coat over them for warmth. Hawke's eyes were closed, but Anders lay awake, watching her. He reached up and smoothed her hair away from her face, slid his hand back beneath the coat. Hawke shifted a little closer to him but did not wake, and Anders at last closed his eyes.

    Varric put away his notes again, stretched his arms, patted Bianca's stock affectionately. She would wake him if anything untoward happened. He kept a hand on her, ready to go in a heartbeat, and allowed himself to sleep.

    Bianca did wake him with a soft note; not an alarm, just a nudge. Varric opened his eyes. The sun was not yet up but the sky was promising light soon. Anders was awake, had sat up but left his coat over Hawke, who slept on. Varric cleared his throat softly, and Anders turned his head to see him.

    "Good morning," Varric said.

    "Is it," Anders replied.

    "So far, it hasn't been bad. What's on your mind?"

    Anders looked back down at Hawke. "She should be in her own bed. Safe and comfortable and warm."

    "Uh-huh."

    "Not this."

    "It's strange," Varric went on, "that she's suddenly sleeping so soundly." Anders did not react. "It's almost like someone used magic on her when she wasn't looking, to make sure she got some rest."

    "Someone would risk death, putting a spell on her and hoping she wouldn't notice," Anders said quietly.

    "Yet someone has apparently done it," Varric noted. "And to what end, I wonder?"

    "I can't possibly imagine."

    "I can."

    "Oh?"

    "Someone planned to sneak out of camp while she was sleeping, so he could run off to play moody martyred loner." Anders' head whipped around to look at him, and Varric smiled to himself. He rolled his shoulders to stretch them but did not stand. "Listen, Blondie," he said, quietly, "if you take off, you know what will happen? She'll chase after you. And we'll have to go with her. And that won't win you any friendship points from any of us, even Daisy."

    "What are you talking about, Varric?"

    "I'm just saying, Hawke knows her own mind. She made her choices with her eyes open."

    "I'm not sure she did."

    "Did you enchant her somehow, to make her jump you the way she did? I mean, come on. You were pushing her away from the start, but Hawke wouldn't take no for an answer." Anders' face twitched at that. Was it amusement? Or guilt? Probably both. "Or are you saying she's too stupid to know what she's gotten into?"

    "I have never thought that."

    "Then don't question her," Varric advised him. "And don't risk her wrath by trying to run away again. She hurts you bad enough these days as it is, imagine if she was even madder."

    Anders flushed and glared down at his hands. "Don't say things like that," he muttered.

    "Please, Blondie, all of Thedas can hear you two going at it every night."

    Anders sighed, looked up at the sky. "Yes, well," he said, and fell silent.

    "I suppose it's a good thing you won't go anywhere without your coat," said Varric.

    "It gets cold sometimes."

    "That it does."

    Anders sighed again, lowered himself to rest on one elbow, facing Hawke. He stroked her hair out of her eyes, leaned down to kiss her forehead, and Varric thought he saw a soft greenish light between them. Hawke stretched her whole body, opened her eyes and looked up at Anders. She blinked and sat up, looked around, puzzled. Across the campsite Fenris glanced in their direction but said nothing. Varric waggled his fingers at her.

    "Morning, Hawke," he said.

    "I think I slept," she said.

    "I think you did, too," Anders said quietly.

    "I shouldn't have slept so long," she exclaimed—

    "Did you use magic to put me to sleep?" Hawke glared at Anders.

    "Just a couple of times," he said, apologetically. "You weren't sleeping very well in those days. But that whole thing with him waking up and finding me planning to leave you, that never happened." They both looked at Varric.

    "Romantic intrigue," Varric explained. "Look, if you're going to interrupt me every few lines—"

    "No, no, Maker forfend."

    "Hawke said sarcastically."

    "I've told you not to do that, Varric."

    He grinned, straightened his pages, and resumed.

    "I shouldn't have slept so long," she exclaimed, and jumped up to pull on her chestplate and gloves. Anders stood with her, caught his coat and slid his arms into it. "We should be already on the road. We've got a long way to go." Anders fastened his coat while Hawke strode around the campfire to nudge Isabela's bottom with her booted toe. "Get up, lazybones," she said.

    "As soon as I see water," Isabela complained with a sigh, "I'm taking off. All right? I'll jump on the shittiest piece of anything that floats, to get away from you, just to get some proper sleep in a proper bloody bed."

    Merrill sat up and looked down at her, eyes wide. "There are proper beds on a boat?"

    Isabela sat up and sighed. "Yes, Kitten, there are on a ship, for the captain and sometimes for the first mate." She stretched, reached up to fix her hair, took the cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. "This isn't a time of day," she said. "It's a torture device." She shot a dark look at Hawke, who had turned her attention to Fenris. Fenris talked quietly to her for a moment, Hawke nodded, and she turned to face the group.

    "Let's go," she said. "We'll eat on the way."

    Anders put a hand into the fire and doused it, shook ash and sparks from his skin. He and Fenris scattered the remaining ashes and unburnt wood, everyone picked up their belongings, few as they were, and they were on their way.

    They ate dried fruit and hard biscuits as they walked, and Merrill entertained them with her birdlike chirrupy observations—the animals she saw, strange cloud formations, unusual types of trees and flowers. By noon they had left the forest behind and there was almost nothing around them but grass, and the Vimmark mountains to their left.

    Anders paused and his face twitched a little. Hawke turned to see him, quizzical, just as Justice took over; he straightened, glared out of Anders' face at her. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded.

    "I'm not taking you anywhere," Hawke informed him coldly. "So you can just settle back down and let Anders out."

    "This place," snarled Justice. "In the middle of nowhere—it would be a convenient place to dispose of a body." He turned and looked at them all, then swung back to face Hawke. "This is why you brought the others. You cannot fight me alone, and you—" Hawke moved faster than Varric had ever seen her, and her fist connected with Anders' jaw. Justice staggered, startled, and then pulled Anders' staff angrily. "You think to take me like this?" he snapped. "I will not allow it!"

    "Shit," Isabela said, and drew her blades. "This again." Merrill readied her staff, and Fenris swept his massive sword from his back.

    Bianca hummed and Varric obligingly pointed her in Anders' direction. "Nothing fatal," he murmured. "The inside's crazy, but we still like the outside of him."

    Hawke was tense, held her staff between herself and Anders; she shot a look at Varric, shook her head, waved them all off joining the fight. He frowned and raised Bianca, motioned to the others to hold back. "I have no qualms about hurting him," Hawke snapped at Justice, "as long as it makes you go away."

    "Harlot," Justice accused her. "You think I don't know what you do?" He held out a hand and shot a stone fist at Hawke; she dodged and it sailed harmlessly into the distance. "You seduce him to keep me at bay. You are his weakness—you keep him from doing what needs to be done."

    Hawke remained unfazed, her eyes locked on him. "I do what needs to be done, to keep you from destroying Anders. And that's what you really fear, isn't it? That I'll ultimately succeed, and you'll die."

    "I will not die. I will continue to bring justice to this world—"
    
    "You know nothing of justice," Hawke said sharply.

    "The mages deserve it," he snarled. "You of all people should see that."

    "Destroying the Chantry did nothing but kill innocents and start a war."

    "It was a necessary thing—"

    "Necessary? When are the deaths of innocent people ever necessary? What you have made Anders do was not necessary."

    "You say I have made him do these things. Are you saying his ideals are not his own?"

    "I'm saying that your methods are nothing less than cruel vengeance, a perversion of justice, and utterly selfish."

    He roared at her and attacked in earnest, slammed her with several elemental spells in quick succession. Hawke was thrown back and lay where she was, winded. Justice leaped on her, raised Anders' staff high, brought it down it hard toward her chest. The blade skidded on Hawke's armour and instead of her chest it pierced her shoulder; Hawke cried out with the pain, and Justice kicked her head, hard.

    Hawke fell silent.

    Before any of the rest of them could act Merrill had leaped forward, vanished into the earth and reappeared behind Justice; a misty cloud of blood escaped from every pore on Anders' body. He stood immobilised; the blue glow that signified Justice's dominance flickered and went out. Anders collapsed to the grass, every inch of him slick with his own blood.

    Merrill stood over him a moment, breathing hard, and turned her attention to Hawke, who lay unconscious, bleeding from several wounds, including a split on her scalp. Merrill grasped Anders' staff and pulled it free of Hawke's shoulder, tossed it aside; she fumbled in her pouch for bandages, pressed them to the wound, muttered repeated apologies in the common tongue and in her Dalish dialect. Fenris broke the seal on a potion vial, knelt and tilted Hawke's head up to pour it into her mouth. She groaned and her body spasmed, but her eyes opened.

    "Maker, that's bitter," she said, and coughed. "Anders?" Fenris' face tightened but he did not speak. He glanced up at Isabela.

    "Merrill—may have killed him," Isabela said gravely. She sheathed her daggers.

    "I didn't," Merrill said quickly. "But I couldn't let him keep hurting you like that."

    Hawke struggled to get up, winced when her injured arm—still healing with the potion's help—would not support her weight, and pushed Merrill's hands away. She staggered to Anders' side. "Andraste's flaming ass," she swore. "What did you do, Merrill?"

    "I'm so sorry," Merrill said. "I needed to stop him. I needed to do it quickly. He was trying to kill you."

    "Anders wouldn't have let him." Hawke leaned over Anders' blood-soaked body, rolled him to his back, smoothed his wet hair away from his face. She put her ear to his mouth, closed her eyes. "He's breathing," she said.

    "I told you I didn't kill him." Merrill folded her arms.

    "I shit you not, Hawke," Varric informed her, as he let Bianca rest against his back. "I thought you were both dead for a minute there. It was going to be a dull walk home without you."

    A shadow passed over the sun and they all looked up to see the silhouette of some large bird. It circled slowly. "What now?" Isabela wondered.

    "Vulture," Fenris suggested.

    "That's bigger than any vulture I've seen," Varric noted. As the bird circled it descended, and Varric's stomach twisted with unease. It was nearly as big as himself. Simir, he thought; but weren't they mostly found in Tevinter?

    The bird descended, talons outstretched, wings spread to slow itself; its feathers began to glow faintly gold, and its body changed, stretched, reformed. By the time it landed, it had become a lithe young woman with red-gold hair. Varric's fingers twitched, but Bianca sensed nothing untoward.

    She was tall and slim and pale, her hair long and untidy; she wore revealing robes pinned here and there with simir feathers and strips of fur. She looked haughtily at each of them in turn, her clear pale eyes missing nothing. "Hm," she said. "'Tis gone, now, what I thought I saw." She frowned, looked at Varric. "Dwarf," she said.

    "At your service," Varric responded automatically, and bowed a little.

    "I saw something from above and I want to know what it was."

    "What did you see, Pumpkin?"

    "Do not address me so." She narrowed her eyes at Merrill. "Dalish mage," she murmured, and turned her attention to Fenris. "Not a mage, nor Dalish. Your markings are magical, but you are not. Were you born with them?"

    "No," Fenris spoke through his teeth.

    She nodded, apparently requiring no further explanation. "Ordinary human," she labelled Isabela, who bristled at the insult, "and two human apostates. A strange company."

    "Yes, we're apostates," Hawke said, eyeing her cautiously. "So are you."

    "How clever of you," said the woman, "to state the obvious." She pointed at Anders. "Did you bleed him like that?"

    "I did it," Merrill said, with a step forward. "To stop him from hurting our friend."

    "But you did not kill him." She moved to crouch near Anders, made a face at the blood all over the grass, and prodded him with a finger. "This is it," she mused. "This is what I saw."

    "You saw him," Hawke said, "from up in the sky?"

    "Not this human," the woman said thoughtfully, and reached for the fastenings of Anders' coat. "The demon inside him." Hawke reached out and caught her wrist, which earned her a glare.

    "What are you doing?" Hawke asked gently.

    The woman pulled her hand free of Hawke's. "He is an abomination," she said, "and abominations cannot be permitted to roam free."

    Hawke stared at her. "What are you going to do?"

    The red-haired woman yanked open Anders' coat and pushed aside his robes—

    "Hey," Anders said. "You never told me this part. It sounds rather exciting."

    Hawke shook her head. "She was a little girl," she said, with a dark look at Varric. "Maybe six years old. And her mother was with her, and it was her mother who said most of that."

    "Six!" Anders made a face. "Varric!"

    "To avoid any hint of impropriety," Varric said haughtily, "and to protect the identity of the innocent, I conflated the girl and her mother into a single character. It's my right as the author to take such liberties."

    "But a child had me all—exposed like that?"

    "You had your trousers on," Hawke reminded him. "And she wasn't going there, anyway."

    Anders shook his head. "I'm still a little bothered by it," he said, and eyed Varric suspiciously.

    "Some things you need to know, some things you don't. Should I tell you about the fact that you also pissed yourself when Merrill took you down?

    "What?"

    "See? You'd have been happier not knowing."

    "He's joking," Hawke said. "Even if you had, there was so much blood we wouldn't have known."

    "Artistic license," Varric said firmly. "May I get on with it?"

    "Oh, please do."

    The red-haired woman yanked open Anders' coat and pushed aside his robes, let her hand pass through his flesh into his abdomen and Hawke fell silent, staring. Isabela inhaled; Merrill stepped closer to see. Varric wrinkled his nose, and Fenris took several swift steps backward.

    Anders' eyes flew open and glowed bright blue. Justice turned his head and glared at her. "Get away, witch," he hissed, but without his usual force.

    "You do not belong here," said the woman, calmly, and pushed her other hand inside Anders.

    "This is nevertheless where I am," Justice snapped. "I have a mission—"

    "You are an abomination," she said. "You cannot stay." A soft white glow emanated from her whole body and her arms were inside Anders almost up to the elbows. Justice howled, arched upward and grasped her throat with Anders' sticky hand, but he lacked the strength to harm her. Hawke gripped his shoulders and forced him down; he swung his arms at her, ineffectually. The white glow intensified as the woman fished about with her hands and at last began to tug; Justice screamed and shouted curses at her, thrashed helplessly. She threw her whole weight back and Varric stared as a shimmering blue mass was slowly drawn away, pulled out of Anders' body by the slender magical hands. It clung to him, dragged Anders with it, but Hawke knelt on his shoulders and the woman wrestled it free. Anders' body collapsed on the grass. The woman held the blue mass firmly between her hands, crushed it into a tiny ball, and stuffed it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, licked her fingers thoughtfully. The glow around her faded and was gone.

    "What in the name of Andraste's cleanest knickers," Varric muttered. The woman shot him a look. "What did you just do?"

    "I have destroyed it," she informed him. "It should not have been here." She made a face. "It was sour. Turned from its original purpose, I think." She stood and stretched, ran her hands through her untidy hair, and stalked away from them.

    "Hey," Varric called. "Does this mean he'll be—all right? He'll be just himself?"

    The woman cast him a deprecatory look, turned away once more, transformed swiftly into a bird and leaped into the air. Varric stared after her until she was a speck in the sky, and then she was gone. He turned and looked at Hawke, then at Anders, then at Isabela, who stood with her hands on her hips, looking bewildered.

    "Shit!" she exclaimed at last. "What was that?"

    Merrill moved to her side and touched her elbow. "That was a shapeshifter," she said gently.

    "I got that part," Isabela snapped. "What did she do?"

    "I think," Merrill said, hesitating. "I think she exorcised Justice."

    Isabela shook her head. "I wish we'd met her years ago, then," she said. "We'd have gotten rid of that stick-in-the-mud before he made Anders do anything, and we'd still be living it up in Kirkwall, instead of out here in the middle of nowhere."

    Hawke stroked Anders' face gently, but he did not react. "Wake up," she murmured, and massaged his chest hard with her fingertips.

    "I should never have thought to witness such a thing," Fenris said, uneasily.

    "What," Varric said, "an exorcism?"

    "I have seen the work of many mages and magisters in my time, dwarf, and none of them had the power to remove a demon without killing the body it possessed."

    "I guess she's more powerful than a magister."

    "It frightens me greatly that someone with such power even exists, much less is permitted to roam free."

    "What a day," Isabela sighed. Merrill patted her shoulder, let Isabela loop an arm around her.

    "We need to take him somewhere," Hawke said. She held Anders' wrist and stood, swung his body up over her shoulders, hooked her other arm around his leg. She bounced a little to shift his weight. "We need to get to an inn, wash him up, let him rest."

    No one said anything for a minute.

    Hawke stared at them all. "What?" she demanded.

    "You're getting his blood all over you," Isabela said.

    "Yeah, be careful it doesn't get in your mouth, Hawke," Varric chimed in.

    "Wouldn't be the first time," Hawke informed him. "Let's go." She turned and started walking. Varric shrugged and headed after her.

    Isabela fell into step with him. "Now that's interesting," she said in a low voice. "Biting, you think?"

    "Oh, definitely," he said. "But he should know better than to let her bite him that hard. He's got tainted blood."

    "Wouldn't she get sick from it, if she swallowed it?"

    "As I understand it, that's how it works."

    "I can hear you," Hawke said.

    "Everyone can hear them," intoned Fenris.

    "I wasn't listening," Merrill said. "What did I miss?" She sighed. "The dirty talk again? I really need to pay more attention."

    "Why bother?" Fenris asked.

    "It would be nice to learn these things, that's all."

    "To what end?"

    "So people like you don't tell me I'm stupid, when I've simply not experienced something."

    "Experience or no, witch, you're still stupid."

    "I can learn new things. You will always be intolerably rude."

    "The traits are not analogous."

    "Don't make me come back there," Hawke warned them.

    "Come walk with me, Kitten," Isabela said. "We'll talk about nicer things than blood and stupidity."

    Merrill moved happily to walk beside Isabela. "I'm not stupid," she said. "I'm ignorant of many things, but I'm not stupid."

    "Stupid is just what men call women when they can't think of anything worse. That, or 'slut', and variants of it."

    "I can think of plenty worse," Fenris assured her.

    "Quiet," Hawke snapped. "When we get somewhere we can rest, you can all bitch at one another however much you like. But I am not in the mood for it right now."

    "Sorry, Hawke," Varric said.

    "You haven't said anything," she grumbled, and looked sideways at him. "And why not?"

    "You know I don't judge. I find business is best when one is neutral." He shrugged.

    "You may not say anything, but you have opinions."

    "You know my opinion of opinions."

    Hawke sighed. "You think she really took Justice out?"

    Varric shook his head. "I can't say she didn't, Hawke. She took something out of him, and it didn't want to go. How are you handling it?"

    "Like shit," she said. "What if he never wakes up?"

    "What if he doesn't? What'll you do?"

    "I don't know," she said softly, and she didn't look at him.

    "I have faith in you, Hawke. I can absolutely see you stomping into the Fade to drag his sorry ass back, just to be able to give him hell for all this."

    That almost brought a smile to her lips. Varric smiled privately; it was good to know one's audience.

    The afternoon was late when they finally reached the outskirts of a small town. Hawke walked straight up the high street and through the front doors of a brightly lit tavern. Varric had long admired Hawke's nerve, but there were times when even he might prefer a subtler approach. He sighed and followed her in.

    "—and a bath," Hawke was saying to the dwarven tavern owner. Varric kept his face from showing it, but he recognised the woman. Her name was Fannar, and they'd crossed paths before. A long time before.

    "Is he dead?" Fannar asked, and peered into Anders' slack face.

    "Just unconscious. Did you hear me? I am going to need a lot of water."

    "Yes, you said so." Fannar glanced at Varric, gave no sign that she recognised him, and her eyes swept over Isabela and Merrill and Fenris. "Are these your—"

    "Friends," Hawke said sternly.

    "Entourage, I was about to say."

    "The room?"

    "We've a room at the back," said Fannar, "that has a bath in it. Water is extra, of course."

    "That's fine." Hawke followed her through the busy tavern, ignoring the stares of the other patrons. She paused before she left the dining room, glanced over her shoulder at Varric. "Have something to eat," she said.

    "And drink," Isabela muttered. "Lots to drink."

    "Absolutely," Varric agreed, as he watched Hawke vanish with Anders.

    The four of them sat down and Varric ordered supper and a round of ale. "Next round's on you, Rivaini."

    "I've lost all my money to you, Varric," she noted drily. "How should I pay for it?"

    "I'm sure you can figure out something." He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes.

    They ate quietly for several minutes. Merrill touched each bite with her tongue, tasting before she put it into her mouth; Fenris ate swiftly, neatly, and his eyes were constantly darting about the place, checking for threats, for exits.

    "So," Isabela said, around a mouthful of potatoes, "shitty day, huh?"

    "Mine wasn't too bad," Varric replied.

    "Seriously," she said, "did we not just have the same day? Anders going all glowy and trying to kill Hawke, and Merrill going all blood magey and trying to kill Anders, and a crazy bird woman coming down out of the sky to rip something out of Anders' stomach, and then a forced march to this pissant town?"

    He chewed thoughtfully on a tender piece of beef. It had been a while since he'd had good meat, and he wanted to savour it. "Well, Rivaini," he said, when he had swallowed, "since I met Hawke six years ago, the things I've seen makes what we saw today just..."

    "Tuesday," Merrill said cheerfully.

    "That's it, Daisy, thank you."

    "I really couldn't think of any other way to stop him," she went on. "I suppose if I'd been thinking—" Fenris made a rude sound but did not speak.

    "No, you did the right thing,'" Varric assured her. "Otherwise, he might've hurt Hawke worse than he did."

    "She said that Anders would stop Justice from killing her," Merrill continued. "But he didn't come out at all. Anders, I mean."

    "Justice has been getting mad in there, by the sound of it," Varric said quietly. "Maybe Blondie couldn't stop him this time."

    She licked a piece of carrot, considered it. "I wonder if he'll be nicer to me, now."

    "Time will tell, Daisy. We've never known him without his extra passenger. Maybe he was a real prick before Justice."

    "He wasn't," Isabela assured them. "I only met him the once, but he was a perfect doll. And fantastic in bed."

    "You know," Merrill said, "he's so good to Hawke."

    "It helps that they're sleeping together, Daisy."

    "Nonsense, they love one another. But I think that part, the part of him that's good to her, is really Anders, like Isabela says. Justice said that the—" She flushed. "It's not really sleeping together, is it? It should be called—"

    "Sex," Isabela said flatly.

    "Well, yes, I suppose we can be prosaic. Justice said it keeps him from coming out. It keeps Anders—Anders."

    Varric washed his food back with a swig of ale. It was something he hadn't considered, that Hawke had been dragging Anders off every night for purposes that weren't as selfish or superficial as they seemed—that she might have been reinforcing Anders' dominance each time. It put a whole different spin on things. He wondered how to broach the topic with her. He looked sideways at Merrill. "You've got a good point there, Daisy," he said.

    "I don't often," she said. "But it seemed important enough to him, to Justice I mean, to bring it up when he was fighting with her. Obviously it bothered him. A lot."

    "It did seem to make him pretty mad."

    "Spirits don't share very well, do they?"

    "As I understand it, and I might be wrong, there aren't material possessions in the Fade, so I guess spirits don't need to learn to share." He shrugged.

    "The Dalish share everything," Merrill told him thoughtfully. "It's the only way we learn to remember what we lost."

    "A lot of people could learn from that."

    "I'll share with you, Kitten." Isabela held up a forkful of food and offered it to her. Merrill blushed and smiled and took it with obvious pleasure.

    Varric bought another round of drinks when they had finished their meals, and sat back to enjoy his ale. "It's not bad," he said. "Much better than the horse piss they serve at the Hanged Man."

    "Whatever gets you drunk," Isabela replied.

    "It is pleasant," Fenris spoke at last, "to drink something that's been made with a bit of care."

    "It makes you all warm inside," Merrill burbled. "Like eating cloves. Have you ever eaten cloves?"

    "No, Kitten, I've never eaten cloves."

    "They make you warm."

    "They make you piss," Varric said with a chuckle. "My mother used to give us clove tea before bed, whenever we had to wake up early."

    Merrill gasped. "What an interesting idea!"

    "Think about it again when you're sober, Daisy."

    She sighed. "I want to talk to Hawke. She's the only one who calls me by my name. You say Daisy, she says Kitten, and he—" She glared at Fenris. "Calls me so many things I've lost count."

    "I have only stated the facts," Fenris said mildly.

    "It's too bad you're a blood mage," Isabela said in a stage whisper. "Because he actually thinks you're cute."

    Merrill's wide eyes opened wider. "He does not."

    "The blood magic is the only thing that's stopping him from jumping you right now." Fenris drained his mug and set it hard on the table, and eyed her grimly, and Isabela laughed.

    "I need to talk to Hawke." Merrill stood and swayed. Isabela caught her about the waist and pulled Merrill to sit on her knee.

    "Hawke is busy with Anders," Isabela told her. "And you're a little drunk. Two mages in a room is enough, don't you think?" Merrill allowed herself to be cuddled again, and before long she had passed out on Isabela's shoulder. "I guess it is better than what you get at the Hanged Man," Isabela said with a wink at Varric.

    They drank, and Varric took out his cards and the three of them played a few games of diamondback; even with one hand occupied supporting Merrill, Isabela was a marvellous cheater. The tavern began to empty out, and soon they were the only patrons left in the dining room. Fannar leaned on the door frame, arms folded, and watched them play.

    "I'll call it a night," Fenris said at last, and stood. He threw some coins at Varric to cover his losses, and looked up at Fannar. "I need a room," he said. "It need not be fancy."

    "Twenty," she said without emotion. Fenris dropped twenty silver into her outstretched palm. She withdrew a key from her apron pocket and gave it to him.

    "First on the left, up the stairs," she said.

    "I should take this one to bed," Isabela grinned, and kissed Merrill's pointy ear.

    "Thirty for two," Fannar told her. "Second on the right."

    "Gouger," Isabela sighed. She pulled thirty silver from somewhere—Varric wasn't sure she hadn't taken it from Merrill—accepted the key Fannar gave her, and headed upstairs with Merrill held comfortably against her hip, like a sleeping child.

    Fannar looked at Varric. He gathered his cards together and put them away. "Varric," she said. "Been a long time."

    "That it has," he said. She said no more, only waited for him to be done. Varric stood and stretched, finished his ale and sauntered to the back of the tavern, to the room where Hawke had been led. He knocked softly and waited until Hawke invited him in.

    The air in the room was humid but the bath was empty; Anders lay in the room's large bed with the covers drawn up to his chin, his fair hair spread over the pillow. Only a slight movement of the blankets with each breath gave away that he was alive. Hawke had stripped down to her undershirt and trousers, and sat on a chair beside the bed, her bare feet braced against the bed frame. "Hi," she said. Her face was rather haggard in the dim candlelight.

    "You missed supper," Varric told her.

    "Not hungry."

    "How's he doing?"

    She shrugged. "He's clean, anyway. And I washed our clothes." She glanced across the room, where Anders' clothes and bits of her own armour had been hung, dripping.

    "So he's starkers under there." Varric grinned.

    "As the day he was born." She smiled faintly, too tired to joke with him.

    "You need to get some rest, too, Hawke."

    She shook her head, ran a hand through her hair. "I'll wait for him to wake up, first."

    "He might sleep until morning. Let me watch for a bit, while you catch up. You won't do anyone any good if you've got no energy."

    "Stop being sensible."

    "Sensible is the last thing I am—but I am practical. Did you know the elf apparently has the hots for Daisy?"

    "Mm." Hawke stood and stretched. "Explains why he's so violently angry at her all the time."

    "No shit. That would be something to see, though."

    "Won't happen. He's spent longer hating blood mages than she's even been one." She climbed over Anders to lie next to him, atop the blankets. "Promise you'll wake me up if anything happens?"

    "You have my word, Hawke."

    Hawke rested her cheek on her arm, closed her eyes, and was out. He supposed a month of not sleeping well did catch up with a person.

    Varric sat down on the chair Hawke had vacated, rested his ankle on one knee, and pulled out his notebook. He watched the two of them sleep for a few minutes and then began to add notes to his notes.

    The candle's flame flickered, and Varric glanced at it; it had burned low. He slid out of the chair and prowled the room in search of another, found one on the dresser, and lit it. He carried it back to the bedside table and peered at Anders, who hadn't moved at all except to breathe.

    He wondered, as Merrill had, how this would affect Anders' personality, if it did at all. Had Anders' anger at blood mages been his own? Been Justice's? Been his own but amplified by Justice? This sort of thing was why Varric had stuck to Hawke from the moment he'd talked to her in the Merchant's Guild. He'd suspected she'd lead him to fantastic stories, and she hadn't disappointed. Now he had the chance to observe someone who'd actually survived an exorcism, and he would get to witness the aftermath.

    He was a lucky dwarf.

    Varric smiled to himself, sat down again and wrote some more.

    Sometime near dawn he glanced up to see Anders staring at the ceiling. "You awake?" Varric asked cautiously.

    "I'm not sure," Anders said. "The last thing I remember was a lousy breakfast, and more bloody walking." He turned his head to see Varric. "Did I miss something?"

    "Did you ever." He closed his notebook and tucked it away, sat forward on the chair. "How are you feeling?"

    Anders considered a minute. "My teeth hurt," he said. "Everything hurts. And I feel—really weak."

    "Well, you've had a little adventure over the last day or so."

    Anders struggled to sit up, looked down at Hawke. "Who knocked her out?" he wondered. "She's actually drooling."

    "All natural this time, Blondie. She's wiped out, thanks to you."

    "Thanks to me?" He pushed his hair out of his face, leaned back against the headboard and sighed, then froze. He lifted the blankets and looked down at himself. "I'm—naked," he said.

    "That you are."

    Anders pulled the blankets a little higher over his hips, though he was hampered by Hawke's weight. "If she's tired because of me and I'm naked, why are you in the room?"

    "Because your having nothing on and her being tired are only indirectly related."

    Anders sighed again, looked down at Hawke, then up at Varric. "I can sense you want to tell a story, Varric, so go ahead."

    "Are you kidding?" He stretched his legs, rested his heels on the rung of the chair. "If she wakes up and I'm in the middle of a story, she'll make sure I never have the chance to continue the Tethras line. You nudge her awake nicely, and I'll wait."

    Anders stretched out his arm and stroked Hawke's hair. She did not respond, so he began to smooth it in the wrong direction. Hawke snorted, lifted her hand to pull her hair back into place, and Anders caught her fingers in his own. She was immediately alert, and moved to kneel beside him. "You're awake," she murmured, and cupped his face with her hands. "I didn't know if you actually would wake up, ever." She kissed him gently. "How are you feeling?"

    "Like death," he told her. "But—" He leaned toward her, kissed her again, thoughtful. "Weird," he said.

    "Weird, is it?" she said humorously. "Not enough tongue?"

    "No, it's weird," Anders said, and turned to take Hawke in his arms; he kissed her more deeply, then looked up. "Very weird," he said. "Usually I have to—" He frowned, looked at her face, stroked her cheek. "I'm dead, aren't I?" he said sadly. "I'm dead, and you're just a Fade memory."

    Hawke reached under the blankets and did something that caused Anders to yelp and recoil. "I am very real," she informed him sternly.

    Varric cleared his throat. "If the lovebirds would like to get on with what Daisy calls 'wooing', the dwarf will take his leave, rather than sit and try to tell a story."

    "He's hardly got enough blood in him to run his brain, much less any other part of him."

    "Plus," Anders said weakly, "that really hurt."

    "It was supposed to," she said. "Thinking I'm a Fade memory." She settled next to him on the bed, crossed her ankles, and watched Varric expectantly.

    Varric cleared his throat again, settled comfortably on the chair, and leaned slightly forward as he began to tell the story of the last day's events. Hawke and Anders were silent during the telling; when he had done, Varric leaned back, pleased with himself. There were points that needed to be embellished, but otherwise he'd done a fine job.

    "Fine job," Anders said with a snort. "How long has it been since then, and I'm only finding out the details now?"

    "Blondie," Varric scolded. "You know the truth of the tale. You're living it. What do the details matter?"

    "You left out the part about the exorcist being six," Anders reminded him. "I may never be comfortable again."

    Hawke shrugged. "And he left out her mother, who was a striking woman."

    "Really?"

    "Not just physically. She had real presence. And power."

    "She was rude," Varric said, "and scared the piss out of me."

    "Sometimes the truth isn't quite as poetic as the fiction, hm?"

    "Absolutely not, Hawke. I'm sticking to my version."

    Anders stared at Varric a moment longer, then looked at Hawke. "Gone," he said. "That's what's weird. Justice always—fought me, whenever I kissed you, or—" He glanced briefly at Varric, then back at Hawke. "Or did anything else with you. I don't feel that, anymore. I don't hear his thoughts."

    "That's good, right?" Hawke wondered.

    "I—" He hesitated. "Yes. I suppose it is. I just—"

    Hawke sat forward and turned to face him. "You just what?"

    "It's been so long," Anders said apologetically. "I'd forgotten what it was like to be just me in here." He tapped his head. "It feels—a little strange. Lonely."

    "You miss him?"

    "No! Yes—not exactly." He squirmed. "I need to get used to it."

    She folded her arms and regarded him with a stare that Varric had secretly named Hawke's Ire. Whoever had to face it found him- or herself scrambling for an explanation, an apology, a swift repayment of funds owed.

    "That son of a bitch," Hawke said coldly, "tried to make you kill me. I should think you'd be thrilled to be rid of him."

    "He was—I am. Sort of. I feel bad that it was done the way it was, if it means he's dead now."

    "So you're more unhappy that he's dead, than that he tried to kill me."

    "It's not that simple, love. He gave me purpose for so long, that I—"

    Hawke's nostrils flared and her jaw clenched, and Anders fell wisely silent. He twisted a bit of blanket between his fingers, and did not meet her eyes. "Excuse me," she said in the quiet tone that complemented Hawke's Ire and made it seem more frightening. She climbed off the bed and crossed the room to grab the pieces of her armour that she'd washed of Anders' blood, and she began to put them on.

    "Hawke's Ire?"

    Varric chuckled. "You don't like it?"

    "What do you call it when I laugh? Hawke's Hysteria?"

    "When you laugh, I call it a red letter day, and apply to the Chantry to make it a holiday." Hawke glared at him. "See, there it is. Hawke's Ire. Blondie, you see it?"

    "It's not directed at me," Anders said cheerfully, "so I don't see anything."

    "Wise man." Varric sighed, tapped his pages on the table to straighten them, tried to ignore Hawke's stare.

    "Where are you going?" Anders asked.

    "I suppose it doesn't matter," she said. "Your dearest friend is gone, yes? What do you care where I go?"

    "That's not fair," he complained. "It isn't what I meant at all."

    Hawke said nothing more, simply stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind herself.

    Varric stared at the door a minute, then turned to look at Anders. "You aren't much good with words, Blondie," Varric told him.

    Anders smiled unhappily. "I'm only good at two things, Varric," he said. "And I don't have the strength right now to do either of them."

    "Well, I suppose step one in getting your strength back is eating something. You feel up to that?"

    "I could eat."

    "Then I'll go see if Fannar is awake yet, and is willing to put together a plate for you. While I'm gone, you might want to try to get dressed." He jerked his head in the direction of Anders' clothes. "They might still be wet. I don't think Hawke is much of a laundress, but she did her best."

    "Don't make the guilt worse," Anders groaned.

    "I'm just looking forward to seeing how you're going to make this up to her," Varric assured him. He slid off the chair and out of the room, shut the door quietly. Hawke was not in the tavern's dining room, but Fannar was in the kitchen already. At his request she put together a plate of cold meat and vegetables for him, sliced some bread, filled a jug with water; Varric carried this back to the room, where Anders was standing in his robes and boots and examining the feathers on his coat. "Still wet?" Varric wondered.

    "Everything's damp," Anders said morosely, "but the coat is dripping. She could have just dried it with a fire spell or something."

    "Hawke grew up not using magic for fun," Varric reminded him. "And she wasn't exactly in prime condition herself when we got here. I take it you're not up to doing it yourself?"

    "No, I'm not." Anders sighed, hung his coat up again, and spotted the food in Varric's hand. "Is that all for me?"

    "All for you, Blondie." He set the plate and jug on the table and stood back to watch Anders stuff himself.

    "This," Anders said with his mouth full, "is the best beef I've ever had. Bar none."

    "Everything tastes better when you're half-starved."

    "I suppose that's true." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he had finished eating, and sighed. "Where did she go?"

    "No idea. She might be upstairs with the others, might be outside." He shrugged. "I doubt she'll go far. She might be mad at you, but she won't leave you behind."

    "I'd rather she wasn't even mad at me."

    "She's done a lot for you, Blondie."

    "I know that more than anyone." His shoulders slumped and he sighed again. "What do I do now, Varric?"

    "Talk to her. "

    "Talking to her's the reason she's gone."

    "Say smarter things to her, like 'oh, Hawke, my love, now we're free to express our undying lust for one another—'"

    Anders screwed up his face. "Varric."

    "Oh, Hawke, my love, I was still feeling the effects of losing the majority of my blood and none of that was what I was truly feeling—"

    "Varric!"

    "Oh, Hawke, my love—"

    "You know I don't talk to her like that, don't you? You don't write me talking to her like that, do you?"  

    "Mostly in the stories you talk dirty to her. And she likes it a lot. And you like to pull her hair—"

    "I do not!"

    "Hey, they're just stories." Varric grinned. "But—if she did like that, would you do it?"

    "I don't even want to talk about this with you. Get out. I'm going back to sleep. And if you see Hawke—" He stood up, leaned on the table and frowned down at his empty plate.

    "If I see Hawke—?" Varric prompted.

    "Tell her I need her." He turned and climbed into the bed, his back to Varric, and pulled the covers up to his chin. Varric watched him for a moment but Anders did not move.

    "You need to be the one to tell her that," he said quietly. He turned and slipped out of the room a second time, shut the door behind himself.

    "How's your friend?" Fannar asked.

    "He's going to rest some more," Varric said. "Listen, you didn't happen to see which way Hawke went, did you?"

    "The girl? Outside." Fannar shrugged. "I didn't ask, just saw her go out."

    "Thanks, Fan."

    "Bugger off, Varric. I haven't forgotten that you owe me."

    "Oh, that's right!" He pressed a sovereign into her hand, winked and headed for the door.

    "That's only half," Fannar called after him. He laughed and continued on his way.

    He found Hawke perched on the top rail of a fence near the tavern, her toes tucked behind the next rail down, for stability. She glanced at him when he approached, then resumed looking at her hands. "What's up, Hawke?" Varric asked quietly. He leaned on the nearest fencepost, crossed his arms and his ankles.

    She shook her head. "You know, Varric," she said, and sighed. "Very few people get where I am by failing as much as I have."

    He snorted. "What have you ever failed at, Hawke? You get everything you want, and the Fade take anyone who tries to get in your way."

    "My father died," she said, holding up a finger to count. "All the healing he taught me, and I couldn't stop that."

    "Not everything can be healed, Hawke."

    "I couldn't stop Bethany from getting killed." She raised a second finger.

    Varric frowned. "Bethany died saving your mother. That's what you told me."

    "She died trying to, yes," Hawke agreed. "But it should have been me there, protecting Mother, and maybe Bethany would still be alive. And Carver wouldn't hate me." She raised a third finger. "And then there's Carver. Because of me he lost his twin. And then I couldn't help him in the Deep Roads, and now he's lost to us." She let her smallest finger free. "I couldn't stop my mother from getting ripped apart by a blood mage." Her thumb stuck out. "I couldn't stop the Qunari from attacking Kirkwall—"

    "Whoa," Varric said sternly. "The Qunari chose their own fate, Hawke. You gave them plenty of opportunity to walk and they didn't, and the Arishok died because he couldn't compromise. That is not a failure on your part."

    "And now I've failed Anders in—" She threw her hands up, dropped them to her knees. "In everything. I thought I was helping him, helping him keep his own mind to himself. When that girl started taking Justice out of him all I could think was now we'll be free. And it turns out—"

    "See," Anders said, "this is when your artistic license starts to be a problem, Varric."

    "What do you mean?"

    "Hawke never said any of that."

    "Oh, no," Hawke said, and set her mug on the table. "That's probably the most accurate part of the story so far."

    Anders looked askance at her. "You think you failed me?"

    "I was in a bad place that morning. I was tired and sore, and you—said what you said. It hit me the wrong way." She shrugged.

    "You've never failed anyone."

    "I have," she said. "Everyone fails, now and again. I just felt it particularly hard that day, that's all."

    He shifted his chair closer to hers, slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. "Well, I'm glad you got over that. We've already got one complaining self-absorbed mage in this family." He nuzzled her ear.  

    Varric cleared his throat. Hawke stifled a smirk and pressed her elbow firmly into Anders' ribs; he sighed and straightened in his chair. "Thank you," Varric said sternly. "You can apologise to me later for accusing me of lying, Blondie."

    "And now I've failed Anders in—" She threw her hands up, dropped them to her knees. "In everything. I thought I was helping him, helping him keep his own mind to himself. When that girl started taking Justice out of him all I could think was now we'll be free. And it turns out it wasn't what Anders wanted at all."

    "Where did this come from?"

    "You heard him, Varric."

    "Bullshit," he snapped. "I like Blondie and all, but he's not exactly the brightest torch in the thaig, Hawke."

    "Whether or not he's smart, Varric, he made his choices, and I was stupid to think that he regretted them."

    "He's regretting a lot right now," he told her.

    "That I know."

    "Hawke," he said, and sighed, "he's been through a near-death experience and an exorcism in the span of a day. He's not strong like you are, up here—" He tapped his head. "Or in here." He patted his chest, over his heart. "I'm not sure he even really realises exactly what's happened to him, even with me telling it to him."

    "It doesn't matter," she said. "His first reaction was regret that Justice is gone. I might just as well have listened to him when he tried to leave me in Kirkwall—"

    "He what?"

    "It doesn't matter."

    "I think it does. Come inside and we'll chat over a breakfast pint, all right?"

    "I don't feel like drinking right now," she said softly, and looked up at the sky.

    "Six years I've known you, Hawke, and nothing's ever—" Nothing's ever broken you like this, he'd been going to say. But Anders had promised to break her heart, hadn't he? Hawke had simply never let him do it, until now.

    So even the Champion of Kirkwall had her limits. That was good to know.

    "I'm going to go inside and have something to eat," he told her. "Then I'm going to take a nap. Then I'm going to give Blondie a piece of my mind. You'd better stay here, because he'll be crawling out to apologise before long."

    "Don't say anything to him, Varric. Please."

    "Why not?"

    "Because it's not your job to mediate everything."

    "Hey, negotiation is one of my strong points. I don't get to do it much in business these days, so it gives me a chance to practise."

    Hawke sighed. "I'm going for a walk," she said, and hopped lightly down from the fence. She turned her back to him and Varric watched her until she turned a corner. He returned to the tavern, made his way to the kitchen and talked quietly with Fannar while she put together a plate for him and tossed him a room key so he could rest when he had eaten. Varric sat down in the dining room and ate thoughtfully, and planned his words.

    "Oh," Merrill said behind him. "I didn't think anyone else would be awake at this time."

    "I haven't been to bed," Varric told her. "How are you doing this morning, Daisy?"

    "I slept very well," she said, and sat down next to him. "Isabela is very warm. It's nice to sleep with a warm person, you know? It's comforting."

    Varric chuckled. "I guess."

    "You don't sleep with people," she observed.

    "I'm saving myself for my one true love."

    "But Bianca isn't very warm."

    "You might be surprised, Daisy. But that's not who I meant. I will marry one day, don't you worry about me."

    "I hope I'll be invited to the wedding. I've never been to a dwarven wedding."

    "They're a lot like dwarven funerals," Varric told her, "just with slightly less crying." He winked at her and cleaned his plate. "But if you're around when it happens, Daisy, you'll get a front row seat." He sat back. "I need to get a little sleep. Can you sit here and watch to see if Blondie comes out of that room?"

    "Oh," she exclaimed. "Is he awake?"

    "He was, and he had something to eat and then went back to sleep."

    "Hawke must be so happy!"

    "She's gone for a walk, and I'm not positive she'll be back anytime soon." He stood.

    "But—" Merrill's face drew into such a sad little expression that it almost hurt him. "Why is she gone, if Anders is awake? Oh! Has she gone to look for medicine? I could help her with that—"

    "No, Daisy, she's just working some things out for herself. Don't worry about Hawke. Just keep an eye out for Blondie and come get me if he comes out, all right?"

    "All right." She watched as he climbed the stairs.

    The bed was comfortable and Varric fell asleep quickly, slept soundly, and woke alert when sunshine streamed in through the window. He rose and shook out his arms and legs, smoothed back his hair, and made his way downstairs.

    Isabela and Fenris had joined Merrill at the table; they all looked up at him when he approached. "Nothing, Daisy?" he wondered.

    Merrill shook her head. "I haven't even heard him moving about."

    "And Hawke hasn't come back?"

    "No."

    "Where did she go?" Isabela wondered.

    "For a walk," Varric said absently. "I'm going to check on him." He made his way to the door to the room and peered inside only to find the window open and Anders gone. He swore loudly, and this brought the others. "Out the window," he said, with a helpless gesture.

    "Why would he go out the window?" Merrill wondered. "The door wasn't locked, was it?"

    "He's been running away from responsibility all his life. Why should anyone expect anything new of him?" Fenris shrugged.

    "You are so negative," Merrill scolded.

    "And you are naïve."

    "Not the time for it," Isabela warned them. "Should we go after them?"

    "Hawke is an adult, and knows her own mind," Fenris said.

    "Right now," Varric said slowly, "I'm not sure she does." He relayed to them his conversation with her.

    Isabela frowned. "That's not like Hawke at all."

    "That's why I'm a little worried right now."

    "We have to find her," Merrill said. "We have to find both of them. We can bring them back here and lock them in a room together, and they'll see—"

    "Kitten," Isabela said, "have you been reading A Rogue's Heart again? You know that's just a made-up story, right? People don't just fall in love because they're stuck in a room together."

    "It's a good series," Varric complained cheerfully. "Made me a bit of coin."

    "And it's as much bullshit as the rest of your stories, Varric." She turned to Merrill again. "That's not how love works, Kitten. If Hawke is hurting, locking her in a room with Anders right now might just get him killed."

    "She would never kill him. She loves him."

    "Maybe you are a little naïve, sweet thing." With a sigh, Isabela looked up at Varric. "Should we split up?"

    He shook his head. "Let's stick together. If we really can't find either of them, we'll split up later."

    They left the tavern with purpose in their steps, and at Fenris' suggestion began a methodical search of each street and alley; they questioned every person they saw. No one had seen a stranger in town that morning, but strangers came and went, did they not?

    Shops opened up; people began to fill the streets. Merrill was distracted by several cats prowling outside a fishmonger's window. "We could use them as bait," she said. "Dangle one precariously from a rooftop and Anders would come to the rescue."

    "He's long gone," Fenris advised her. "We're looking for Hawke."

    "I don't think he'd leave without her. He loves her."

    Fenris opened his mouth but Isabela shot him a withering look. He rolled his eyes and shut his mouth, and they continued their search.

    Merrill stopped, suddenly, lifted her head and inhaled. "What is it, Daisy?" Varric asked her.

    "I smell Anders' coat," she said.

    "What?"

    "I can smell his coat," she said, and stood on her toes. "Do you remember the storm that caught us, right after we left Kirkwall?"

    "Took my boots a week to dry out," Isabela grumbled.

    "His coat smelled funny, then. It's the simir feathers. I can smell them now."

    "Simir feathers are not unique to his coat," said Fenris.

    "In a town like this," Varric said, "his coat might be unique, though. Lead on, Daisy. We'll follow your nose."

    Merrill was swift on her toes, faster than Varric had anticipated, and they jogged to keep up with her as she led them on a winding path through the town. They ended up at last near a livery stable. "Ugh," Isabela grimaced. "All I can smell now is horse shit."

    "No," Merrill said. "I can still smell the feathers." She led them inside and past the bewildered stable owner, who said nothing. Varric smiled apologetically at the man and followed Merrill.

    "What are you doing?" Hawke asked quietly. They all spun, but saw no Hawke.

    "What does it look like I'm doing?" Anders replied. Isabela pointed furiously at the back of the stable, and then ducked down below the height of the wooden pens, her back against the dusty wall. Fenris squatted to Isabela's left, and Merrill to Fenris'. Varric stood where he was, grateful for his height.

    "It looks," Hawke said, and there was some rustling, "like you're trying to—oh."

    "I am," Anders agreed. "Now hold still, would you?" There was a slight metal scraping and a click.

    "Look, I'm not really in the mood—"

    "Will you quash that Maker-blessed ego of yours?" Anders asked. "I'm just making sure you don't get away from me until I'm done."

    Isabela looked up at Varric, a question in her face. He shrugged. "I can't see anything," he mouthed. Isabela crept along the wall, her curiosity stronger than her sense of self-preservation. Fenris reached out and caught her sash, hauled her back; she fell to her bottom on the straw-covered floor and when she opened her mouth to protest, Fenris wrapped his arm around her head and clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her.

    "Well, spit it out then," Hawke sighed.

    Anders sighed as well. "Look," he said, "I know I don't deserve you. You know I don't deserve you. Even bloody Merrill who thinks everyone has something good about them knows I don't deserve you—"

    Merrill moved to stand up, her mouth open to speak; Fenris' arm shot out and around her head, his gauntleted hand over her mouth, and he held her pinned against his other side. Varric wished there was anyone nearby but himself to witness Fenris holding a pirate and a blood mage in his arms. No one would believe him when he told this story.

    "—but the fact is, Hawke, no one really does."

    "Oh, sweet talk me some more," Hawke snapped.

    "But it's true," Anders said softly. "You're beautiful and strong and powerful. You could have killed me and taken over Kirkwall and ruled as its Viscount, and no one could have stopped you."

    "Should have done it, too," Fenris muttered. Isabela reached up and put her hand over his mouth.

    Anders sighed again. "I'm not a strong man, Hawke. It's why I allowed myself to be possessed, and it's why he pushed me in directions I probably wouldn't have gone on my own."

    "Gave you purpose, you mean," said Hawke, bitterly.

    "That is not at all what I meant by that."

    "What else could you have meant?"

    He took a deep breath. "He made me focus. Before him, I was just wandering around Ferelden, getting caught by Templars and dragged back to the Circle, and running off again, and getting caught by Templars again. After I became a Warden and met Justice, and after I—let him in—I felt like at last I had a reason to exist, other than continuing that terrible cycle."

    "This isn't convincing me that it isn't what you wanted."

    "Then I ended up in Kirkwall and I met you, Hawke, and I wanted you, and he couldn't bear for me to have you. I wanted to wander around all of Thedas with you and I wouldn't even mind a few run-ins with Templars now and then, as long as I always got to run off with you again in the end. But with Justice inside me I wasn't allowed my own desires. He made it feel like everything I did was my own choice. It was easy to let him do that, to guide everything I did. I'm not strong, love, and I'm awfully lazy."

    "You came to me," Hawke reminded him. "That was you, wasn't it?"

    "And that angered him. Made him try harder to take over." There was more rustling and Hawke sighed softly. "Without you to keep me sane, he would have taken full control, and I would have been—gone. I need you, Hawke, more than I've ever needed anything, anyone."

    "Well, you don't need me to help you with that anymore. You can do what you like."

    "What I like is you. And now I want to get to know you all over again, without anyone sitting inside my head making angry comments about it."

    "You said," she began.

    "I was half-starved and half-asleep," Anders cut her off sharply. "I'm surprised I said anything coherent."

    "He didn't," Varric assured the others in a whisper. Isabela's eyes crinkled behind Fenris' gauntlet as she grinned, her own hand still over Fenris' mouth. Merrill, held in Fenris' other arm, pressed her palms together in silent applause.

    "And now you've slept and eaten and you think it's all right?"

    "No," Anders said. "It's not all right. But I will spend the rest of my life making it all right. I will follow you on my knees through the Blackmarsh if I have to, to make it all right." They heard Hawke inhale, heard soft slurping kisses, another scrape of metal. "Let me follow you, Marian Hawke, wherever you go." More kisses. "Please."

    "Anders—"

    "No," he said softly. "My name."

    They all perked up at that, all leaned in that direction to hear.

    Hawke whispered something and Anders made a pleased sound and then Hawke made several pleased sounds and Fenris made a face behind Isabela's hand.

    "I think—"

    "Okay," Hawke said, "this is too much, Varric. Really? 'I want to get to know you all over again'?"

    "It does sound like something I'd say," Anders admitted.
    
    "But you never did." She looked at Varric and waited.

    "Well," he said slowly. "It was that, or—our four intrepid adventurers followed Merrill's incredible sense of smell all around town until they reached the livery stable. There they rounded a corner near an empty stall and found Anders riding Hawke like a rented mule while she pulled on his hair and whispered curses at him in a couple of different dialects. Fenris turned colours no one's seen on an elf before or since, and may or may not have had a minor heart attack. Then it took the combined force of Fenris, Merrill, and the devastatingly handsome dwarf Varric to drag Isabela away, complaining that she wanted to join in." He sat back in his chair and watched Hawke sardonically in return.

    Anders looked a little uneasy. "I didn't notice any of that," he said.

    "No shit, Blondie. You were a little preoccupied." He kept his eyes on Hawke.

    "I admit," she said, "your version is a little less—a little more—"

    "It's a little more palatable to the audience that reads 'The Champion in Exile'," Varric finished for her, firmly. "Now, if you don't mind. Where was I—?"

    "I think we can go, now," Varric whispered. "I don't want to be around for the rest of this."

    They moved quietly out of the stable and into the street, and Merrill danced a little jig in the sunshine. Fenris glared at her. Isabela laughed. "You're adorable, Kitten," she said.

    "I knew they would find one another," Merrill said. "Because they love one another. No matter what you think." She pointed at Fenris.

    "I did not doubt their feelings," Fenris informed her flatly. "Though I question Hawke's motivation."

    "Did you hear her in there?" Isabela wondered. "I've been in that position—"

    "You've been in every position," Varric obliged.

    "—I know what he's capable of doing. It'd motivate me, I can tell you."

    "Let's just go back to Fannar's," Varric suggested, "and get some lunch. They'll join us when they're done."

    The tavern was busy, loud and bustling, but they managed to find a place to sit. Once more Varric bought a meal and drinks for the four of them, and they passed a pleasant hour or so before Hawke and Anders returned, looking none the worse for wear and acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had gone on. Somewhere along the way Anders had found something to tie his hair, so it was off his face; he looked much less haggard than he had in weeks—perhaps months.

    Maybe even years, Varric mused.

    The two of them sat down at the table next to one another, between Varric and Fenris. When his food was placed before him Anders wolfed it down as was his custom; by the time he was done Hawke had eaten her fill and offered the rest of her food to him. He took it gratefully.

    "I've often thought," Isabela said innocently, "that if Hawke didn't have Anders eating most of her food, she might not be as thin as she is. Or as flat." She patted her own ample bosom.

    "Nothing I could eat, Isabela, would give me a bust like yours, my dear." Hawke drained her mug and set it on the table. "And I'm hardly starving myself." She looked at Anders, thoughtful. He looked guiltily up at her. "If I wanted it, you wouldn't have had a chance at it," she assured him. He beamed around his distended cheeks and returned to mopping up gravy with bread.

    "Might put some hips on you," Isabela said.

    "The Maker gave me what I have," Hawke told her with one eyebrow raised. "What do you care if I have hips?"

    Isabela shook her head. "Oh, it's not for my benefit. I was thinking of Anders. It's just nicer to have some padding, don't you think? Anders?"

    He grabbed a linen napkin and wiped his mouth and hands and sighed. "I don't think Hawke is uncomfortable," he said. "Are you?"

    "I've been sitting on it for thirty years," she said with a shrug, and patted her hip with one hand. "Hasn't failed me yet."

    "Oh, but come on," Isabela pressed. "Say—say he throws you up against the wall for a little nasty fun. You've got no ass at all to protect you from the hard wall. Or does he do it the other way around? You don't have any tits to cushion you either." She patted her chest again. "So, which way does he turn you?"

    Hawke and Anders stared at her. "Why are we discussing this?" Hawke wondered.

    "Oh," said Merrill. "I know—" Fenris cleared his throat, and Merrill glanced at him, then back at Hawke. "It's because—oh, ow!" Merrill recoiled, drew her foot up to look at it. "Oh," she said, "I'm bleeding."

    "You should tend to it," Fenris said without looking up, "before it festers."

    Merrill glared at him. "Why do you care?"

    "I don't," he assured her, "but she might." He nodded at Isabela. Merrill looked up at Isabela.

    "Can't take risks with that, Kitten," Isabela said, with a dark look at Fenris. "Go clean it up, and put a bandage on it."

    "You go with her," Fenris suggested. "Make sure she does it properly." He met Isabela's dark look with a meaningful one of his own.

    Isabela opened her mouth to protest, snapped it shut, smiled at Merrill. "Let's go, Kitten. We know when we're not wanted."

    "Am I not wanted?"

    "You are always wanted," she said, and moved around the table to help Merrill stand. "I, on the other hand—" As she led Merrill away she managed to strike the back of Fenris' head with her elbow, knocking him forward; he scowled but did not look back.

    "What was that about?" Hawke asked, bewildered.

    "I wouldn't even know where to begin," Varric told her with a laugh.

    "At the beginning?" Anders suggested. He sat back in his chair, laced his fingers together over his middle.

    Varric shook his head. "Another time," he said. "Why don't we hit up the shops here, this afternoon, stock up on what we need before we leave town?"

    "Good plan," Hawke agreed. "Start out at dawn tomorrow?"

    "You are a harsh taskmistress, Hawke," Fenris informed her.

    "It's what I do."

    "It's part of it," Anders agreed.

    They waited for Isabela and Merrill to return, and spent the afternoon in the town's market and shops, stocked up on potions and salves and food that would travel well. They returned to Fannar's tavern, had some supper, and spent a few hours playing cards, retired to their rooms for the night.

    In the morning they resumed their journey. Eventually they reached Ostwick, where they stayed for a few days. It was from Ostwick that Isabela vanished one night, taking Merrill and Fenris with her. Varric wasn't surprised that Isabela had left them, nor even surprised that she had taken Merrill with her. He was more surprised that Fenris had gone along. The elf had been carrying on a relationship with Isabela for years, but his hatred of Merrill, Varric thought, would have prevented him from wanting to follow Isabela to the sea if the Dalish girl was with her.

    But one never knew with people. They made illogical decisions when their hearts got involved; Anders was literally living proof of that.

    Aveline had been left behind from the beginning, determined to stay at her husband's side in Kirkwall. Justice had been exorcised. Isabela had taken off with what would no doubt become the first of her crew on whatever ship she stole. Only the three of them remained: Varric, who was still gathering stories about Hawke; Anders, who would follow her to the ends of the Void and back; and the Champion of Kirkwall herself, still blazing a trail across Thedas. Varric knew it wouldn't last. Eventually he, too, would go his own way, would find his fortune somewhere, perhaps find himself a nice dwarven wife and settle down—

    "Wait a minute," Anders said sternly, "this is the ending."

    Varric looked up. "Every story ends eventually, Blondie."

    "But ours isn't done yet."

    "No, of course not. But this is just a story, not real life."

    "Still, you're planning on leaving us," Hawke said, and her face was sober.

    "More like, preparing for the inevitable."

    "What will I do, without my trusty dwarf?" she asked ruefully.

    "You'll have your trusty human with you," Varric scoffed. "By the way, Anders, what is the real name?"

    Anders shook his head, drained his mug and set it on the table, waved the waitress to the table for more.

    "Do you know it?" Varric asked Hawke. Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You do. Good. Then that part of the story works."

    "I still think you overdid it on the sappy bits."

    "My readers couldn't handle the awesome reality of the two of you," Varric informed her facetiously. "They want adventure and romance, and I give 'em what they want. They like to see love come to crisis and get resolved and strengthened." He shrugged. "My version has more universal appeal than the truth."

    "Probably has less straw in my knickers, too," Hawke said drily. Anders grinned.

    "Good times," he said, and kissed her ear. There was a mewling sound and a tiny orange head peered out of the top of Anders' robes, blinking sleepy golden eyes. "Oh, Queen Alistair," Anders said gently, looking down. "Did we wake you up?"

    "I still think that name is perverse," Varric said.

    "Red tabby females are rare," Anders told him, and reached down to rub the kitten's ears. "And she's the same colour as the king's hair, and he's special too, and almost as adorable as she is. Right?" he asked the kitten. "Yes, that's right." Queen Alistair yawned, purred happily, closed her eyes.

    Varric looked questioningly at Hawke. She smiled and shrugged and reached for the new mug the waitress had set before her. "What can I say, Varric," she told him. "It makes him happy, so it makes me happy."

    He shook his head, leaned forward. "Listen," he said, "I've started a new series about a swashbuckling pirate captain—"

    "A particularly slutty pirate captain?" asked Hawke, amused.

    "It's pretty racy," Varric said with a chuckle. "I want to read you the first instalment, tell me if you like it. Next round's on me, all right?"

    Hawke sat back in her chair, her arms folded, her legs stretched out in front of her. Anders settled back as the kitten dozed once more in the folds of his robes; he rested his arm on the back of Hawke's chair, played absently with her hair. Varric cleared his throat and began to read.

    "'Hard to port!' cried the captain, and her first mate obeyed without thought..."