This was written for imaginariet in the summer fic exchange on CMDA ( www .darkstorm. co. uk/ cmda/). I've never written Sebastian before, and my interpretation of him here owes a lot to Shadoedseptmbr's story "Shelter", which is well worth reading if you haven't done so already.

Alistair, King of Ferelden, stretched out his legs and let out a long sigh that ended in a muffled burp.

"I am pleased you enjoyed your dinner, Your Majesty." Sebastian, Prince of Starkhaven, grinned as he handed his companion a crystal snifter filled with Starkhaven's finest brandy.

"I don't think I could eat another bite. And coming from a Grey Warden, that's saying a lot." Alistair returned the grin, taking an appreciative sip.

Sebastian took his own seat, leaning back comfortably. "Is your diplomatic mission going well so far?"

Alistair shrugged. "More or less. Ferelden's known for having been lax in our treatment of our mages during my reign, and so most of the ruling heads want to think I'm to blame for the current unrest in the Chantry."

"Far from it." Sebastian frowned darkly, looking into his brandy as though he saw the events that had led to the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry unfolding inside it.

"For that matter," Alistair said sympathetically, "Anders was not only a Fereldan mage, but a Fereldan Grey Warden, so I'm on the hook for him, as well."

"No. You aren't."

"Not in your eyes, but in the eyes of Thedas."

"I cannot condone what the Chantry has become in these last ten years. It was ... one of the reasons I left." Sebastian cleared his throat and took a deep swallow of his brandy. "On a more pleasant note, Alistair, how is your lady wife?"

"Redecorating the palace again. Third time in as many years. According to Habren, Antivan classic is out, and we're now into Tevinter styles of the Exalted Age. Or was it the Glory Age? Either way, everything coming into the palace was made in a Tevinter sweatshop in the age of now." He sighed. "I keep telling her that we're the monarchs of Ferelden and we owe it to our people to buy their work, but she just tells me it's a woman's prerogative, whatever that's supposed to mean. And your wife?"

"Flora is a deeply devout woman. She spends much time in the Chantry, and works very hard in the relief of Starkhaven's poor. They call her 'Princess Flora the Merciful'."

"That's quite a mouthful to say every time she appears."

Sebastian chuckled. "It is, indeed. Which is probably its own mercy, or the people might chant it every time they see her. Much to her discomfort; she would prefer her good deeds go unremarked."

"She sounds very ... nice."

"Yes. She is. Nice."

A silence fell between the two men. Sebastian drained his glass. "Can I get you a refill, Alistair?"

Alistair contemplated the half-inch of brandy that remained in his snifter. "Why, yes, thank you." He finished it off, handing the glass to Sebastian.

"This is my favorite vintage," Sebastian remarked as he decanted the fragrant liquor.

Accepting the refilled glass, Alistair took a deep swallow. "It's local, isn't it?"

"Yes." Sebastian retook his seat. "This is the last case of this particular year."

"In that case, thank you for sharing it with me. It's certainly much finer than what they were serving at the Hanged Man when I first met you."

Sebastian laughed. "The Hanged Man's charm was never in what it served; rather, it was in who it served." The laugh faded into what sounded like a sigh.

Alistair let the silence linger for a moment, but only that long. He'd never been a man who was comfortable sitting without talking. "Do you hear much from Hawke's motley crew of adventurers?"

"Occasionally. Aveline, naturally, in the course of her duties as Seneschal. And who has not read Varric's books?"

"The Truth According to a Dwarf, by V. Tethras, Esquire?" Alistair chuckled.

"Yes. Did you also read A Kirkwall Dwarf in the Deep Roads? I understand he made that one up nearly from whole cloth."

Alistair shuddered, the Deep Roads too vivid to him still. "No. I don't read about the Deep Roads if I can help it. For a Grey Warden ... No."

"Hm." Sebastian regarded him with interest, but tactfully refrained from asking anything intrusive about the Wardens. Instead, he chose what he could not have known was an infinitely more personal question. "Have you heard from the Hero of Ferelden in recent years? I understand she has all but disappeared from sight."

Lifting the glass, Alistair drained the brandy, barely tasting it. It set fire to his veins, almost—but not quite—the way she used to. "No," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "If she were to reappear, I would hardly be the first person she'd contact." He looked at his hands, seeing visions of other fires, other nights, other companions. "We did not part well."

"I see. So the rumors are true."

"You mean the ones that call me elf-lover and accuse me of tupping every serving girl in the castle, or the ones that say I loved the Hero of Ferelden as deeply as a man can love a woman, regardless of her race or the length of her ears?"

"The second one." Sebastian was regarding Alistair with a mix of interest and sympathy.

"Then, yes. Those are true." Alistair raised his glass again, remembering too late that it was empty. "She loved me, too, if you can believe that. Somehow she managed to forgive me for centuries of what my people have done to hers, and ..." He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "And I left her for the bloody throne."

"You were needed."

"She needed me," Alistair muttered. He didn't know why he was telling Sebastian all of this; he'd kept it bottled up inside him for so long he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to talk about it. Now that he'd begun, he couldn't seem to stop the floodgates. "She said she didn't, she was all stiff-necked and proud about it, but she did. And I didn't see it."

"Love makes the wisest men into blind fools. Look at what it did to Maferath." With some hesitance, Sebastian added, "Look at what it did to the Maker. What chance do we poor mortals have, if even the Maker was bewitched into putting the one he loved in danger?"

Alistair lifted his head, staring at the Prince of Starkhaven in surprise, and then he laughed. "I never thought of it quite that way. The Chant is rather a cautionary tale against falling in love, isn't it?"

Sebastian smiled in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It is if you look at it the right way." He hesitated, then said, "I spent a number of years in Kirkwall reminding myself of that lesson."

"Ah. Does that mean those rumors are also true, the ones about you and the Champion of Kirkwall?"

"Not precisely. Most of the rumors I've heard are more ... graphic than the truth would support." Sebastian glanced away, flushing slightly. "I had made vows, you see, to the Chantry, and I would not break them. Not even for her. The more fool I."

"You mean you—" Alistair broke off as Sebastian's blush deepened. "Oh." Well, things could always be worse, then, Alistair thought. At least he'd had that. "But it didn't work out?"

"It doesn't appear to have, does it?" Sebastian asked the question with more weariness than asperity. His lips thinned as he looked into the fire, and he, too, tossed off the last of his brandy. He reached for Alistair's glass as he got up. While he was pouring, his back to Alistair, he said, "The Chantry was burning, the Grand Cleric—gone, and I could not see past that. I wanted vengeance. When Maggie chose to fight for the mages, I refused to be part of it. I gave her up for my principles."

"And you've never been the same." It wasn't a question—Alistair recognized a kindred spirit in the Prince of Starkhaven.

"No." Sebastian turned back, cradling both glasses in one hand and carrying the bottle in the other. He set the bottle down and handed Alistair his snifter. "When I was with Hawke, every day was filled with something new."

"We never knew what would happen when we woke up in the morning."

"Exactly." They clinked glasses, drinking deeply. "Some days, I didna even know if we would survive the combat—"

"But that was part of the excitement. And it was okay, because if I died—"

"I died wi' her."

"Oh, yes," Alistair said with feeling. He could have wept, here on the shoulder of this man who knew what it was like. "We made such a good team, my sword and her arrows."

"My arrows and her sword."

"And then," the words came thickly, from the wine and the weight of remembered emotion, "we would go back to our tent and she would take off that armor ... that little bit of armor that revealed more than it hid ..." He gave a helpless moan. Maker, he missed her.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

Alistair shook his head, staring at the other man. "How could you have denied yourself all that? Didn't she ... want to?"

"Oh, no. She wanted to—I wanted to. Some nights—" Sebastian took a long drink. "We came close, a time or two, but she was a good woman, and she wanted to respect my vows." He looked up at Alistair. "I was a rake in my youth; I had woman after woman, sometimes several at a time. But they meant nothing. When I was with her, I wanted it to mean something. But by the time ... it was too late." Clearing his throat, he said, "Fortunately, there was Flora. She agreed to a ... chaste marriage, in the service of Andraste and the people of Starkhaven."

"So you don't have to touch someone else and ... pretend." Alistair thought of the long, long nights in bed with Habren, desperately trying to pretend she was someone else, to change that shrieking voice to the smooth tones and flowing Dalish accent of his love, knowing that if he couldn't perform and produce an heir it would all have been for nothing. "I envy you."

"But you have the memory of being loved."

"I do." Alistair closed his eyes. "All I can see now is her face when I left her. She was trying to hide it, but she was broken."

"I was the one who was broken—she was tall, and proud, and she told me to go if my vengeance was more important than my love."

Alistair picked up the bottle, sloppily pouring another glass. "She took up with the assassin. He was always in the background, always waiting for me to make a mistake. He smiled at me when I told her it was over."

Sebastian nodded, holding out his glass for a refill. "Maggie disappeared from Kirkwall wi' Fenris. He'd always loved her. He hated mages, feared an' distrusted them, but he loved Maggie more. It was he by her side when she faced the worst Kirkwall had to offer."

"Zevran was with Leta at the top of Fort Drakon. I was on the ground, playing King, while she took on the greatest threat our generation has ever faced."

"They're together, somewhere."

"... Somewhere," Alistair chimed in sadly.

"And here we are, wi'out them."

"You said it." They clinked glasses again, drinking deeply. "You know, Sebastian," Alistair said conspiratorially, "I always thought you were a bit of a stick-in-the-mud."

"Truthfully, Alistair, I am." They both chuckled at that. "I always thought you were an upstart who couldn't hold the throne."

"Now you know I am." Alistair grinned.

"Whatever Starkhaven can do for Ferelden, we're wi' ye."

"And vice versa."

"Have another drink?"

"Don't mind if I do."