It is well past midnight and the wicks have nearly dropped into the wax when someone knocks on Orsino's door.

"First Enchanter?" His visitor is barely audible over the rain pattering against his windows. "Are you there?"

Orsino looks up from his book, frowning. He often lingers in his study, hours after the rest of the tower goes to sleep, but no one ever visits him so late save templars, and they don't bother to knock. He rises slowly, ignoring the sour voice in the back of his head whispering, what's Meredith done now?, and stops with his hand on the latch.

"Who is it?" he asks. "It's late, and you should be in bed." A mage caught out of their chambers will be hauled in for questioning, and he doesn't wish that on any of his charges.

The person on the other side of the door laughs miserably. "Let me in," they plead. Orsino's frown deepens. He knows that voice, but he can't place it, not through the door, and not muffled by the rain outside. "I need your help, Orsino. It won't take long, but — please let me in before the templars come back on their rounds."

"You need to leave." He lets go of the latch and steps away, filled with a vague, heavy foreboding. The familiar voice, the urgency in their words, the secret visit — he wants no part of this. He cannot risk the mages under his care. "Go, now, whoever you are."

"Oh, the hell with this," snaps the visitor. The door's latch freezes, then shatters into a pile of brittle shards before a small, dark-cloaked figure steps inside.

"Sorry about that —" his visitor says, reaching to pull back the hood of their cloak, but they pause when Orsino levels his staff at them.

"Get out," he hisses. His pulse pounds at the back of his mouth, adrenaline races through him. If the templars have seen — if this is an apostate in his study —

It doesn't bear thinking about how much Meredith would enjoy that.

"Orsino," says the figure, their voice muffled now by their hood. They push the door closed. "Please." The hood falls away, baring a familiar face to the candlelight.

Orsino sucks a breath through his teeth, and lets his staff fall to his side. "Champion," he whispers, dismay now warring with his fear. "You cannot be here. If Meredith finds out, I cannot protect you."

Hawke laughs again, a broken, desperate sound. She looks wretched: eyes ringed by bruised shadows, her skin dull, but she stands straight before him, and her eyes glow, like cobalt under flames. "I know," she says. "And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I need your help."

Orsino nearly shoves her out the door. Maker, he nearly shouts for the templars himself. She's the Champion. She walks the streets as a free mage, and Meredith can't touch her. What does she need his help for?

It's petty, it's jealous, and he can't help himself. She has everything, is everything that he can never be — what does he have to offer her?

Then he breathes in, slowly, and lets reason win out over jealousy. Fate, nothing more, has left Hawke free — and when Meredith would have left him and his mages to the qunari, Hawke defended them. She paid in blood to keep the city safe.

"You take a grave risk coming here, Champion," he says quietly, moving around her to peer out the door. The corridor is clear, for the moment, and the templars have little reason to patrol this part of the Gallows at night — but there's no reason not to be sure. "Meredith would be delighted to keep you here, if she knew you'd come."

Hawke nods. "I'm putting you in terrible danger," she says, twisting her hands together. "But I had no one else to go to. I don't dare put this in a letter, I don't know how closely they're watching me — Maker, they might not even be watching me at all, but…" She shudders, and smooths shaking hands over her cheeks. "Listen to me, I've gone all paranoid, but I don't know what's true or not, and —"

Orsino sighs. "Perhaps starting at the beginning would help?" he says, in the tone he reserves for the most frightened and mouse-like of new mages. It coaxes and comforts all at once, and it's rare for him not to gain a smile, however quavering, whenever he uses it. Hawke merely nods, a quick spasm, and goes back to twisting her hands.

Drastic measures, then. He slips behind his desk to draw a thick glass bottle from its drawer. "Antivan brandy," he says, lifting it. "Which means we won't bother with glasses. Here." He hands Hawke the bottle, and watches, impressed, as she drinks three fingers of it at a swallow. Coughing, she hands it back, then clears her throat.

"Thank you." Her hands have stilled; now she is the Champion he recognizes from a hundred pamphlets and songs: a small, charming woman, sweet-smelling and inviting. "I'm here because —" She falters, her eyes sliding away, then she steels herself and meets his gaze.

Orsino remembers Malcolm Hawke as more a vague rumor than a person. He saw Malcolm in the tower, tall and dark-haired, a strong, generous man — but his features run like water and refuse to hold their shape in Orsino's memory. But he would know the Hawke eyes anywhere, and while Templar Carver is an Amell to his bones, the Champion is fully her father's daughter.

"What do you know of the dream-sea?" Hawke asks, not blinking, as the words thicken the air between them.

The dream-sea. The blood drains from Orsino's face, and his hands feel like they've been plunged into freezing water. Old magic, forbidden magic; the words leave the taste of too-ripe fruit on his tongue.

"Only a little," Orsino says, at last. "That is…not magic they teach in the Circles. Not anymore, not in the Free Marches, not in Orlais — in Tevinter, maybe."

Hawke shrinks into herself. "I know for a fact that they still teach it in Tevinter," she whispers. Even in the faint candlelight, Orsino sees tears beading along her lashes. She draws a sharp breath, almost a sob. "What I need to know is — is there a way to stop it?"

Orsino swallows, then reaches for the brandy himself. "Take a seat." He nods at a chair as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. "Tell me everything."

Six weeks earlier.

There are worse uses for one's time than spending four frigid days on the Wounded Coast, acquiring chilblains and saltsores alike, though Hawke can't think of any. Maker help her, she welcomes Darktown's smell, simply because Darktown is both salt-free and partly shielded from the icy sea winds.

They stop at Anders' clinic to defrost and for Hawke to divide up the coin from the latest batch of armed idiots. At least this lot didn't hoard trash like half the bandits and mercenaries of the last seven years; everyone goes home with two fistfuls of silver.

Hawke watches until Merrill and Isabela disappear from sight, then aims her feet toward Hightown.

"You sure you'll be all right, Anders?" she asks, hearing his answer in her head before he opens his mouth. "You're welcome to come back with me, get some hot supper, sleep in an actual bed."

He shakes his head, not looking at her. "I'll be fine," he says, sitting down heavily on a cot and scratching at his stubble. "I should stay, in case anyone needs a healer. But thank you, Hawke. I'll see you soon."

She knows better than to argue; Anders managed to not start a single fight on this trip, besides the sanctioned one with the bandits, and he needs some solitude as much as she does. But the thought of him quietly freezing in his squalid little clinic tugs at her heart, so she can't help trying again.

"Just consider it," she wheedles. "A warm place to sleep, fresh bread, no threat of a templar visit in the middle of the night. What more could you ask for? Tonight, at least."

Anders laughs, then falls back on the cot, his legs stretched out and his hands folded behind his head. "Really, I appreciate it, but what I want right now is to be alone." He stares at the ceiling, almost smiling. "If any templars choose to come after me in this weather, they'll probably freeze first."

Hawke smiles, and tugs her hood a little lower over her face. "Point taken. Still, my door's always open for you. Keep that fire high."

"Yes, Hawke," he says, eyes already sliding shut.

The walk back to Hightown should take her no longer than an hour, but Hawke pauses at every fire pit to warm her hands and feet. She even relights those that have gone out with a quick cantrip, the movement of her hand hidden by her cloak. Anders is probably right; no templars would be stupid enough to leave their warm bunks in the Gallows to patrol on such a miserable near-dawn morning — but no sense in making herself obvious. No sense in daring Meredith's bad temper.

She amuses herself on the walk by reading the graffiti scrawled over the walls. Much of it is indecipherable, too many artists layering their works on top of those that came before until all that's left is a shapeless, colorless muddle. Every once in a great while, a word jumps out, naked without its context, but Hawke has been through these corridors enough times to have them all memorized.

All of them save the blood-red splash of ink on the wall of Old Harlan's stall. Old Harlan is curled in his bed, or more likely under a table at the Hanged Man, but the smell of burned sugar hangs around his stall, joined now by the smell of the ink, still fresh enough to drip down the wall. Hawke pauses, her sore feet and hands forgotten, and tries to puzzle out the symbol. It's badly smudged — the artist, whoever they were, drew their masterpiece in haste — but Hawke makes out what might be a snake, or a dragon, or something else entirely. She looks down the corridor, in all directions, and sees no one. Not even footprints mark the dust to show which way the artist went after they finished.

"Odd," she says to herself, then shivers as a great gust of wind barrels through the corridor and slips under her cloak. Odd indeed, but not odd enough to keep her standing in Darktown when there's a bath and fresh bread ahead of her. She'll tell Aveline about it the next time they see each other, in case it's a new batch of troublemakers trying to put down roots in Kirkwall. Perhaps then Aveline will stop harping about her civic duty.

Hawke forgets the cold completely in the pleasure that sweeps through her at the sight of her front door. No other door has given her so much joy, and little could delight her more than slipping her key into the lock, and stepping into the familiar warmth within.

She moves as quietly as she can, stowing her staff in its rack and tiptoeing through her foyer, but Nettle comes wiggling down the stairs, and lets out a sharp bark as she bounds to Hawke's side.

"Thank you for the welcome home," Hawke whispers. She stoops to hug the mabari, and presses a smacking kiss between her ears. "Now, let's hope you didn't wake the rest of the —"

"Ah, Mistress, you've returned!" Bodahn's night-capped head peeks around the corner, and Orana smiles from over his shoulder. Neither of them seem concerned with lost sleep as they bear down on her. "Welcome back! We didn't expect you till late tonight." He holds out his hands for her cloak before her numb fingers manage to undo its knot, then Orana herds her gently into the front parlor. "You just sit down, and get warm. I'll bring up the water for your bath."

"Oh, no, it's far too early for that, go back to sleep." Hawke steps over Nettle as the mabari sprawls belly-up in front of the banked fire. "I'll just get something to eat, then fetch my own water. Please, really, it's too early."

"Nonsense! Won't be but a moment, and you've been walking for days. Besides, we're early risers, aren't we, Miss Orana?" He scoops up her cloak and pack in one smooth motion, emphatically nodding at Hawke's empty chair near the fire.

"I'll just heat up some soup for you," Orana whispers, patting Nettle's head as she walks past.

Hawke grins back, not caring if her chapped lips crack and sting as she does. Simply walking through the door has her half-thawed. "You're too kind," she says, sinking into her seat as Bodahn scoffs and heads for the kitchen with Orana in his wake. "I hope all's been well here."

"Oh, it's been quiet," Bodahn replies as he disappears through the kitchen door. "I was going to take my boy down to see the ships come in, but then came the rain, so we just stayed here, snug as you like."

"I envy you," Hawke murmurs, tossing her boots toward the foyer. Her mana rises sleepily when she calls to it; a murmur later, the fire leaps and crackles against the bricks. Nettle leans against Hawke's leg, sniffs at her leathers eagerly, then nuzzles into Hawke's hand for scratches.

"Did you miss me?" Hawke rubs her thumb along the side of Nettle's snout. "Or are you just hoping I brought something back for you?" Nettle whines, and Hawke laughs. "Well, unless you count some silver, I don't have anything for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh, she doesn't need any more treats," says Bodahn, appearing at her side with a steaming mug of tea. Hawke huddles gratefully over its warmth. "Caught my boy sneaking bacon to her yesterday morning at breakfast. Shameful little beggar, she is."

"Yes, she is." Hawke sips her tea, not caring that it's still hot enough to scald her tongue. "And we indulge her, which is how it should be with dogs."

Bodahn sniffs, muttering to himself, then disappears back to the kitchen.

"Don't listen to him," she tells Nettle, as the dog slumps over her feet and sighs. "I'll ask Orana to set aside some bacon for you tomorrow morning, since you like it so much." Her coin purse digs into her hip, and she pulls it free with a grunt and sigh of her own. "Maker knows I can afford it."

She dozes, lulled by the fire and Bodahn's soft monologue in the kitchen, and only rouses when Bodahn approaches with a tray of sandwiches and a bowl of warmed potato and leek soup.

"Oh, thank you." Hawke straightens in her chair, dislodging Nettle, and reaches for her spoon. "Maker, this smells heavenly." She sends a mental I told you so in Anders' direction at the first mouthful, and is just lifting a sandwich from the plate when Bodahn clears his throat apologetically. "What is it?" she asks, crooking an eyebrow.

"Your mail, Mistress," he says, fanning a set of letters on the table beside her chair. "I'd have let these wait, till you're rested, but you see, there's one here from that Alistair fellow, and that one there's from your brother. I thought you'd like to read them now, rather than waiting."

"Right you are," Hawke says through a mouthful of sandwich as she picks up Carver's letter. Might as well get the unpleasantness over with as soon as I can, she thinks, scolding herself an instant later. At least Carver's trying, in his own oafish way. He doesn't deserve any little jabs for his trouble.

The wax on the letter was broken, then resealed, with no care for hiding the intrusion. So Meredith's got her eye on Carver's correspondence. Hawke frowns at the wax. How lucky, two messages for the price of one. She breaks the wax, then presses the letter flat next to her soup bowl.

It begins promisingly, addressed to Rhyssa and not to Carver's usual Sister, and Hawke dares to smile at the handwriting, hopeful that this letter will contain no jabs of its own.

I hope you're surviving this Maker-forsaken winter well enough. Suppose I shouldn't worry too much, though, not with you in Hightown.

And there's the jab. Hawke sighs, and takes a ferocious bite of her sandwich before she reads on.

But that's as good a place as I could ask for. Warm and secure, just like Mother wanted. The barracks here in the Gallows aren't bad. Probably warmer, with so many of us in one room. The food's not bad either, but I am getting sick of turnips. I'd do anything for something sweet. Is Old Harlan still in business? I could eat his caramels by the fistful.

Now Hawke smiles at the letter in earnest. She can fold a few caramels into her reply, and pray that they make it through whatever inspection Meredith gives to any letters coming from her address. Old Harlan's caramels may be atrocious to everyone except Carver, but it would take a madwoman to see any blood magic in them.

A new group of recruits joined up last week. I never thought I'd feel old, but looking at them, I can't remember being that young and stupid. Half of them can't even hold a shield properly. Knight-Captain Cullen is going out of his mind trying to get them trained up. They're hopeless, even with Keran — you remember Keran — helping. He's not a bad fellow. Steady enough, despite his troubles way back when.

I didn't write this to complain to you. I just wanted to see how you were. Three years now, since we've seen each other, and you've gone to Ferelden and come back. Sometimes I think about Lothering, but I don't know if I'm remembering it, or just imagining what I want to be there. But you got to see it. Actually see it. Seems like I'm always going to be jealous of you, one way or another.

Stay warm out there. Write back if you want to. And tell that skinny elf of yours he still owes me four sovereigns.

Carver

Hawke rolls her eyes — Carver and Fenris have argued over those four sovereigns for years, and no doubt will keep arguing until they're both dead — then rubs her thumb fondly over Carver's signature. Almost thirty, and he still writes his name like a child, taking up the rest of the page with a loopy scrawl.

As far as Carver's letters go, that was actually sweet, and deserves rereading when she's not quite so hungry or sleepy. Hawke slips it back into its envelope, and sets it aside to look at the rest of her letters. Bills, invitations she has no plans to accept, a scented letter from Lady Elegant, a reply from a Denerim bookseller — she sweeps them all to the side, and pulls up the travel-stained, wrinkled envelope from Alistair.

His handwriting gives her heart a familiar pang. Hawke hasn't seen Alistair since their farewell in Jader, but his deprecating little smile is clear as a sunrise.

The letter is thick — she can't imagine what Alistair must have paid to have it sent overseas — and whatever the contents are, there's nothing she can do about them tonight. It will keep until she's cleaned up and slept, along with the rest of her correspondence. By now, Bodahn has hauled up enough water to fill her tub, and she's not so tired she won't be able to heat it herself. Someday, she'll manage Merrill's trick of using the moisture in the air — a boon on a night like tonight, when there's moisture everywhere — but she has neither the patience nor energy for it tonight.

Once in her room, Hawke drops her letters on her desk and her muddy clothes in a pile on the floor, then picks up the clothes and tosses them in the hamper with a mental apology to Orana. Then, she pads naked into her bathroom, where a new fire burns merrily and candles glow beside the tub, and conjures a delicate blue fire in her palm before dipping her hand into the water. She scatters elfroot and mint across the surface, then slides in, groaning in relief. For the first ten minutes, Hawke simply sits, and watches the dirt lift off her skin and float away. Then she scrubs away the more grimed-in smudges with a handful of finely-ground charcoal, and scrubs her hair until all the dried sweat and blood are gone.

Tempted as she is to reheat the water and soak a while longer, Hawke climbs out and drains the tub. She paid a king's ransom and half again to have the plumbing in the house updated, and she's never regretted it. The tub will need to be scrubbed out before she uses it again, but — she yawns, jaw cracking — that can wait till the afternoon.

Another cantrip, the close cousin of the one she used in Darktown, dries her skin and hair with the heat from the candles, extinguishing them at the same time. She carries the fire from the bathroom into her bedroom, cupped between her hands, and feeds it to the larger blaze, sighing as the warmth radiates through her room.

Sweet, blessed Orana slipped a bedwarmer under the covers; Hawke slides naked between the sheets, sighing and smiling. Warmth, soft sheets and blankets, and a merry fire; nothing but the right company could make this homecoming more pleasurable.

Hawke allows herself a moment of selfish regret over not letting Fenris know she had returned early. But telling him would require going back out into the rain and cold herself, or sending one of her household, and then making Fenris traipse across half of Hightown, just to make her sleep sounder.

No, better to anticipate seeing him tonight. Word of her return will reach him before noon, whether she sends a message or not, and then she can enjoy him guilt-free, with a side of moral superiority for spice.

Hawke rolls on her belly and wriggles deep into her pillows. The rain has one purpose beyond making anyone caught in it utterly miserable: thanks to the steady patter against her windows, she's guaranteed an easy journey into sleep.

Would've been easier with…

She dozes before she finishes her thought.

The last time Hawke scandalized Orana was years ago, but the girl always knocks politely, a one-two-three rap, before opening the door, a measure Hawke finds both charming and prudent. When she's conscious, that is.

"I'm awake," Hawke murmurs into her pillow without opening her eyes. "Not really. I'm almost awake. But I'm not dressed."

A giggle floats under the door. "Serah Fenris is here, mistress. May I let him up?"

Well, that means getting dressed is not an immediate concern. "You may, Orana, thank you." How sweet of Fenris to ask first.

"Good morning," she says when the door opens, without stirring an inch. "At least, I think it's morning."

"We're well into the afternoon now," Fenris says. The edge of the bed dips as he sits down, and Hawke presses close as she can without untangling herself from the covers. Her fire's long gone out, and though it would take nothing but a breath and a few drops of mana to fan it back to life, that means venturing into the cool air. Hawke would like to put that off as long as possible.

"When did you return?" he asks, fingertips tracing the shell of her ear.

Hawke starts out of a half-doze, then sits up, blinking in the gruel-colored light. "Late. Or early, I'm not sure." She rubs her eyes with her fists. "I'm thankful we didn't have to spend another day out in this rain and — Maker, you're all wet. Is it still raining?"

Fenris kisses her before he answers, one hand carding through her sleep-mussed hair. "It's a mere drizzle now, though it'll get worse as the day goes on. What's left of the day," he adds, with a meaningful arch to his brows.

Hawke yawns and rolls her eyes. "Please, love, spare me the lecture on how lazy I am. That's Aveline's job. Besides, you're not the one who just spent four days running after bandits on the Wounded Coast. I'm entitled to a little laziness."

"Point taken." A year ago, Hawke could never have imagined Fenris gently nudging her over to make room for himself on her bed, but now he does it without hesitation. Nor does he flinch when she folds both her arms around his, despite the chill damp clinging to his shirt, and nestles her head in the crook of his shoulder. He crosses his ankles and leans back into her pillows with a satisfied sigh. "And was your trip successful?"

"More or less. We cleared out the bandits, so the road to the city is clear, and everyone got enough silver to go home happy." She yawns again, hiding her face in his neck, grinning when he laughs. "What about you? Did you just play diamondback with Donnic the whole time I was gone?"

"Except for the nights I spent playing Wicked Grace with Varric and Donnic at the Hanged Man. You owe Varric two sovereigns."

"Oh, lovely." Hawke leans back to get a look at Fenris' face, but as usual, he gives away nothing. "You know, one of these days, I'll know right away when you're joking."

Fenris nods solemnly, without a glitter in his eyes or a twitch of his lips as a clue. "I look forward to it," he says. "Now, if you'll excuse the change of subject…" He slips his cool hand under the covers, smirking when Hawke gasps and shies away from his touch. "Four days, Hawke," he whispers, his mouth barely touching hers.

"Fenris, you —" The hand travels lower, stroking, and she surrenders, heat pulsing in her wrists and between her thighs.

I hope he locked the door, she thinks, before all rational thoughts evaporate under the touch of Fenris' obscenely clever hands.

She wakes in the middle of the night, to Fenris' even breathing and the ceaseless fall of rain against her windows. The fire gutters in a timid draft, and Hawke listens, half-asleep, to a faint rattle coming from the other side of the room.

"It's the window," Fenris mutters from under her hair. He stretches, the shift of his body against hers doing far more to wake her than any noise or draft, and blinks sleepily at her when she sits up, eyes bright as fireflies. "The latch must be undone."

"I'll get it, you stay warm," she says, slipping out of the covers and hissing when her feet hit the cold stones before the fire. "Oh, Maker, it's freezing."

"Teach you to check the windows." Fenris' voice is muffled by the pillows, but his smug little smile is loud as a shout.

Hawke glares at him as she turns to the fire, mixing breath with mana, but smiles herself as the fire growls back to life. "That's rich, coming from the man who distracted me from checking to begin with," she retorts, knowing Fenris is fast asleep again, and far past hearing her.

Latching the window would take no time at all, but Hawke takes a moment to peer out at the night. A few streetlamps stubbornly blaze through the downpour, though the rain has washed most of them away, and left Kirkwall a muted reflection of itself.

Hawke pushes the window open with the tips of her fingers. The chilly air flows in, dragging a thin, sharp hint of salt and rot up from the harbors. As she watches the empty street, another streetlamp shudders, and goes out.

A clear sign to go back to bed, if ever there was one, but Hawke stays at the window, filling her lungs with the salt-thickened air, her skin goosefleshed, until the sound of the waves reaches her ears.

In Lowtown, huddled close to her mother and Carver in musty blankets, the waves rocked Hawke to sleep more nights than she could count. Their street led right to the edge of the docks and the quiet, grey-green waters below them, but the sea is too far away for her to hear in Hightown.

The streetlamps make valiant little circles of light in the darkness, just enough for Hawke to make out the water filling the square beyond her house. Just enough for her to see the white fringe of a wave lifting on the other side of the square, and drop silently back into the dark lake that used to be her neighborhood.

A gust of wind drives icy rain into her face. Hawke shuts the window with a sharp crack, and casts a guilty look at Fenris, who stays completely still as her cold fingers draw the latch closed.

He has the right idea, staying curled up in bed. Hawke's minded to join him and steal some of his warmth, but her room smells of salt, and she still hears the bloody waves. Their murmured voices rise, calling her out of warmth and light.

Hesitating only a heartbeat, she slips out of her bedroom and into the silent, blue-black hallway. She takes the stairs at a near run, drawn to the front door by the formless, wordless voices. With every breath she tastes salt, and the waves are so close, so close she could be standing at the edge of the sea and feeling the water swirl around her legs.

Hawke's breath plumes before her as she reaches her front door; the house has lost the heat of the day's fires, and her nightdress is no armor against the frigid air all about her. She could summon a flame to guide and warm her, but her mana is slow to answer, and some quiet instinct warns her to leave it sleeping.

Best to avoid notice, she thinks. But the notice of what? She's the only soul stirring, possibly in all of Hightown. There's only her, and the sea.

Her fingers, chilled numb now, fumble with the locks but she manages them at last, her heart fluttering against her ribs, and pulls open the door.

The black waters crash against her steps, cresting white before dropping back into the seething, rippling lake at Hawke's feet. The hem of her nightdress soaks through in moments, and the rain leaves her hair in wet straggles in almost as quickly, but Hawke can't move. The sea has come to Hightown, with all its secret rots and salt-tangs, and someone should bear witness. Might as well be her.

Hawke doesn't know how long she stands on in her doorway, watching the waves build and fall, but it's long enough for her shivering to become near-spasms, and for the rain to drench her to the skin. She watches, colder than she's ever been in her life, and only when the waves creep up the steps and into her foyer does she think about going back inside.

But the sea is old, a god through all the ages of the world, and it won't let its audience go so easily. No sooner has Hawke taken a step back than the largest wave of all rises at the edge of the square, its edges fanning away into darkness, rushing toward her with a gathering roar. It comes too fast, swallowing every scrap of light, twice Hawke's height and more, and now it's not roaring at all, but laughing, a thousand voices laughing at once. The wave curves upon her, its crest white as teeth edging a black, laughing mouth, and she can't breathe, she can't —

She slams the door closed seconds before the wave reaches her, her feet slipping on the wet tiles, and waits, ear pressed to the door, breath coming in gasps. The wave is coming. Any moment now, it will fall upon her house and she'll drown, cold and alone, in the dark, ancient water. She waits, and waits, until seawater pools around her feet and her shivers fade away.

Nothing. The only sound is her harsh breathing and the water dripping from her nightdress and hair. She counts silently to one hundred, to three hundred, to a thousand, and nothing comes.

Varric would tell her to leave well enough alone: keep the door shut, chalk the last however long up to bad dreams or bad ale, and go back to bed. Hawke's thoughts turn to her safe, warm room, to her safe, warm lover within it — then she yanks the door open.

The rain falls, steady and remorseless, into an empty square.