Chapter 10

Sebastian pulled the thick doublet over his head and gave a small sigh of relief when the chilly air of the guest room touched his skin. It had been unbearably hot in the Warden Commander's study, what with the fire, his doublet, the Warden Commander, and her prying hands. While he appreciated her concern as a friend, there was an intimacy – a forced intimacy – in her touches that gave Sebastian pause. In fact, much of what he had experienced during his short time at the Vigil gave him pause. There were many small inconsistencies when it came to the Warden Commander and her servants; she and the others watched him from the corners of their eyes, as if they knew something he didn't. It wasn't what they said or did, but rather the lack of it.

He had, for example, expected to see Carver Hawke at dinner that evening but the young man had been suspiciously absent. He had also expected to be bored into his stew by the Grey Wardens chattering about their duties and responsibilities, but the conversation over dinner had been particularly subdued. The only one who had been leading conversations at dinner had been the Arlessa herself, but she had only managed to pry one or two words out of her compatriots. The Grey Wardens had shifted about in their seats and slurped their stew noisily, but also nervously. Their break from traditional Grey Warden stereotype – the boisterous laughter, the camaraderie, the loud chatter – was what had given them way. The only politician and player of games in their midst was the Warden Commander, but Sebastian could at least respect the silence that the Grey Wardens kept. They were, after all, likely only following the Warden Commander's orders, and while they were doing a poor job of hiding it, they were following her orders well. He could not fault for them political inexperience, and it was a refreshing change of pace from Starkhaven where even the most novice of courtiers could participate properly in games of silence and intrigue (As an aside to both clever readers and clever princes, it has to be said that Starkhaven's politics are nothing compared to those of Orlais or Ferelden – though the games of gentle and courteous warfare within Starkhaven can indeed keep one up late at night.).

Thoughts of Starkhaven made Sebastian groan and he let his shoulders sag. Beyond just having to return to the duplicity of his court, he was also faced with, as his chief advisor had said, his "most pressing matter yet." He had meant, marriage of course, and Sebastian knew that even as he rubbed his shirt between his hands that his council was hard at work drafting the appropriate contracts. He had just managed to leave the port at Riversmouth before his councilmen could parade documents and portraits in front of him. He'd already heard the proposed names – princesses of Nevarra, countesses of Orlais, duchesses in Antiva… they had even debated putting forward Teyrna Anora Mac Tir of Gwaren as a suitable match. It made him ill to think that the Vael Throne hadn't even been warmed by his bottom before they were already telling him to marry. They were so obsessed with heirs, which struck Sebastian as ironic. His brother had had many children, but that hadn't saved his legacy, had it?

He wondered what it would be like to spite his advisors and not sire another Vael. Of course he knew he would do it eventually – he would have to – but in the interim, it gave him some amusement to think that he could live yet another life of celibacy, except this time wear the trappings of royalty. It might not be so bad. Others were leading such lives: the Empress of Orlais had no children, for example, nor did the Teyrna of Gwaren, or the Arlessa and Warden Commander of Amaranthine.

And it was not because the women weren't lovely, because they were. He had never seen the Empress of Orlais, but Sebastian knew that her beauty was one that was unparalleled across Thedas. He had also never seen the Teyrna of Gwaren, but he had seen her father, and Loghain Mac Tir had been an intimidating, but handsomely built man. He had been possessed of an unfortunately long nose, but he had an aristocratic bearing that more than made up for any physical irregularities. And of course, Sebastian had seen the Warden Commander with his very own eyes, and there was no denying that she was a beautiful woman… though it was a sort of beauty he was unaccustomed to. He was used to women who were soft and delicate (like Hawke, he inwardly admitted, or the Grand Cleric), with Aveline having been perhaps the exception. The Warden Commander, like Aveline, had a rugged handsomeness of face that he was beginning to associate purely with Ferelden, scarred and cloaked as she was in her mantle of frost.

Comparing Aveline and the Warden Commander to Hawke sent a pang of guilt through Sebastian. There was really no comparison between the women; Marcelle had been the loveliest of the three; the sweetest smelling rose. She had been the exception to the rule, having come from Ferelden as a delicate, lovely young woman and not encased in armor and thorns. And if all Fereldan women were like Aveline, then they could all break him as easily as Sebastian could bend his bow. However, he was always mindful of the fact that Andraste called Ferelden her homeland, and that women like Aveline and the Warden Commander were raised from the same barbarian stock, and that Andraste was probably more like her iron-clad kinswomen than the silken garbed Marcelle. And Andraste, he thought bitterly, would never have used her beauty to ensnare men. She would have had an honest beauty.

With a weary sigh and a foul taste in his mouth, he carefully draped the doublet over the back of a chair, mindful of how easily the silk could slip and fall to the floor. Smoothing the shirt over the edge of the chair, thoughts unbidden and unwelcome bubbled to the forefront of his mind. The feel of the fabric below his fingertips stirred memories of…her skin and her hair. On those rare occasions when Sebastian had embraced Marcelle, taking her into his arms to provide some shell of mortal comfort to her troubled mind, he'd had the opportunity to feel the smoothness of her skin and the softness of her hair. Warm and inviting as a dream of home, she had molded herself perfectly into the circle of his arms. But she had never lingered overly long there, which is why Sebastian supposed that the memories of her were so strong. She had him clutching in the dark for her, yearning for her. But he yearned for justice more.

The next time he took the mage in his arms, it would not be to embrace her and offer her words of support. It would be to bend her forward over one of the walls of Starkhaven, to show her face to Anders before he threw over the wall to dangle in front of the other mage. Kirkwall deserved – Grand Cleric Elthina deserved – at least that much. And when Anders shouted out bitterly that he was a coward, that he should never have used Marcelle as proxy for his revenge, Sebastian's finest troops would have crossed the Minanter River and surrounded him. There, Anders would meet a bloody end, stabbed to death by Starkhaven's loyal soldiers. He would be buried in an unmarked grave: unloved, unmourned, but most importantly unremembered. And anyone who came with him would meet the same fate. Sebastian had rehearsed the scene in his head each night before he'd fallen asleep; it brought him closure and the peace in his soul that he so longed for.

The greatest punishment that Sebastian could think of was death. In death, all souls were cast on their knees before the Maker to be judged. There was no hiding one's sins and transgressions from His ever watchful gaze. Those souls deemed worthy would pass on into paradise by the Maker's side, and those who were seen to be weak and rotten were given to the Void. Anders deserved to be given to the Void, no matter what Aurora Cousland or Marcelle Hawke thought. What other alternative could there be? The only other option was to let Anders live – to languish in a prison cell where he would still be thought of as a martyr and could still spread his influence throughout the land. No, a quick end and a sudden disappearance were necessary.

He reached his arms over his head and stretched, and then scrubbed his palms over his face to reinvigorate himself and center his attention on matters that were not soft, blonde, and fluttering beneath his fingertips like the heartbeat of a small bird. He did not like this idleness. The knot in his stomach twisted and grew when he thought of his quarry escaping into the Fereldan wilderness. Every moment he delayed was another step away Marcelle took from him and another moment longer that Anders could be spreading his hatred and sinful messages. The possibility of another group of innocents meeting the same fate as what happened in Kirkwall sent waves of rage and anxiety coursing through his body.

To calm himself and hopefully aide in his sleep, he took full use of the bath the Warden Commander had offered, finding the water hot and steaming for him behind the privacy screen in a corner of the room. And, as if anticipating his needs, she had also provided him with foam, a razor, and a variety of small little vials filled with clear, spicy-smelling liquid. He knew he needed to shave; he had not done so for several days and he was already sporting the shadow of a beard. If he let such a slovenly behavior go for another week or so his chin would disappear completely.

Peeling off his leather trousers, socks, and boots, and tossing them either at the foot of the privacy screen or over it, Sebastian sank into the wooden tub. Hot water sloshed over the lip of the tub and pooled around the soles of his boots, and Sebastian apologized to the air for the mess. He reached for the small washcloth that was resting beside the shaving kit and one of the small vials of liquid. He poured a small amount of the liquid onto his finger and tested its consistency. Satisfied with how it felt (and smelt), he dipped his washcloth into his bath water and then poured the soapy substance over it.

He ran the cloth over his shoulders and across the back of his neck, the heady scent of autumn and summer spices making him drowsy. He scrubbed vigorously at his nape and then down his back, trying to remove the sweat and grime accumulated from his time at sea. Maker help him, but he could not remember living in such a perpetual state of…well, stickiness. The salt water had clung to everything, and it was with relief that he felt the last traces of the ocean wash away into the bath water.

Pouring more of the vial's contents onto the washcloth, he scrubbed at his chest and under his arms, letting the soap and the water wash away the sweat of the day. The soap clung possessively to the small curls that spread across the top of his chest, but it was no match against the water Sebastian splashed over it. He had moved the washcloth lower over his abdomen, and was about to attend to his unmentionables when a large thud against one of the walls startled him.

"Who's there?" he called into the gloom of the candle lit room, but there was no answer. There was only the crackling of the small fire and the gentle howling of the wind outside.

Wary of being watched (or attacked…), the rest of Sebastian's bath followed in a blur. The only time he slowed was to shave, and this he did out of necessity. A slip of the fingers or an unsteady hand would have been dangerous at the worst and inconvenient at the least. When he attended breakfast with the Warden Commander and her fellows, he did not want to be sporting painful cuts – or missing his head.

Perching the mirror on the edge of the bathtub, Sebastian lathered his face with the foam and picked up the razor. He dipped it into the bathwater to heat it, and tilting his head up, he dragged the razor down the side of one cheek, flicked his wrist, and then dragged it down the length of his neck. The razor slid with a satisfying hiss across his skin. He dipped the razor into the water to clean it, and then drew the edge of its blade under his chin. He repeated this process of dipping and scraping until the foam had been cleared from his face. He wiped what little foam remained away with his washcloth, and feeling appropriately cleansed, he stood.

There was another thunk against one of the walls, and Sebastian hastily grabbed the large towel beside the tray and wrapped it around his waist. He would have to speak to the Warden Commander about the possibility of her having very large rats hiding in the walls of her castle. He ran his hands through his hair and squeezed the water out of it before padding away from the privacy screen and to the large sack that one of his knights had rode out to bring him. He pulled out a clean tunic and smalls, and slipping them on, he folded the towel over the privacy screen and climbed into bed, blowing out the candle as he did so.

The sheets were cool against his skin, soothing what aches still remained in his muscles from the bath. He was reminded again how much he enjoyed the comfort and safety of a real bed. He thought his neck might snap in two if he was forced to sleep in a hammock for yet another night. The pillow below his head was damp from his hair, but it was soft, full of feathers, and wonderfully supportive.

His bed in the chantry had felt a lot like this bed. Nestled in the quarters reserved for Chantry Brothers and Laymen, Sebastian's bed had been little more than mattress sack of straw and horsehair, with a smaller sack of goose feathers layered atop it for comfort, but he remembered it being splendidly comfortable. It had been firm where he needed it, easing a stiff back from where he had knelt or stood for too long in prayer. But it had also been soft, and he could remember many nights when he'd sunk blissfully down upon it, too weary to say anything more than a simple chant in thanks to the Maker.

He turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply. It smelt of soap, and sunshine. It smelt unused, and nothing like his pillows – his bed - in the Chantry. His pillows there had smelt like spindleweed and elfroot. And like Marcelle.

He had never been able to get the smell of Hawke out of his pillows, not since he'd found her there that one evening long ago…

With vespers having ended, Sebastian saw the last of the faithful out of the Chantry. The air in Kirkwall was chilly, and he knew that it would only be a few more weeks before autumn and its storms hit the city. The Chantry always saw an influx of worshippers at that time, and he made a small note to himself that he would need to add extra rows of pews to accommodate them. He would need to get the storeroom key from the Grand Cleric, and he would probably have to enlist the aid of several of the Sisters to help him…

"Young man?"

Sebastian looked away from the horizon and turned his attention to the wizened old woman standing in front of him. She was the matriarch of one of Kirkwall's old families, though Sebastian could not remember her name.

"Serrah?" he greeted with a smile.

"I just wanted to say how inspired I was by your sermon today." She placed a gnarled and wrinkled hand on his forearm and gave it a surprisingly firm squeeze for a woman of her age. "You have a gift for reciting the Maker's words."

"I," Sebastian colored, "thank you. You are kind to say so."

"It is a shame," the woman continued, "that you have pledged yourself to the Chantry. I have a granddaughter that could use an eloquent speaker such as you for a husband. All the men in Kirkwall are either doddering old fools or stuttering youths."

Sebastian's eyes widened. "I…am sure that she will find a man worthy of her, in time, serrah."

"Yes," the old woman did not seem convinced. "We'll see. You can officiate the wedding, if we ever find one worthy of her."

Sebastian released the breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding when the woman finally released him and went on her way. There was always at least one woman each week who thought he would be the perfect match for her daughter, granddaughter, or sister. When he was younger, he had enjoyed the attention; it reminded him of the days before he had been imprisoned in Kirkwall's cloister and it brought him comfort and a feeling of normalcy. Now several years older and having come and gone from the Chantry too many times than was proper, he didn't know what to think about it. On some days he was flattered, and others he was shamed.

He was the last of his line, and Starkhaven needed heirs. Being desirable as a husband ensured that his family's legacy would live in.

But the Maker needed him, and being desirable would only lead him to temptation and sin.

It was a philosophical quandary that Sebastian had no answer to. The Maker had made him as he was, and thus the burden was Sebastian's to bear.

Sebastian sighed and shook his head. His hand tightened on the handle of the Chantry's open door, and he was about to pull it shut for the evening when a piercing shriek split the night air. The screech came from overhead and sent a chill through his blood, and he looked up in time to see a small blur of brown pass under the stars above him and into the Chantry. Like an arrow shot from heaven, the brown projectile angled downward, until it came to a crashing stop some place on the sanctuary.

With a strong tug of his arms, Sebastian pulled the door shut and wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants before he set out after the source of the commotion. He stalked through the pews, keen eyes scanning for signs of disruption in the hazy interior of the Chantry. Sisters were mulling around the stacks of books and artifacts, their faces turned to the statues of Andraste flanking the sanctuary in a combination of curiosity and fear. Sebastian passed their shuffling feet and whispering robes, giving them reassuring smiles as he approached the Chantry's center. With measured steps he ascended to the sanctuary, and there his eyes fell upon what appeared to be a small brown and white bundle resting atop the book he had been reading sermons from. The breeze from an open window high above them sent what appeared to be fur, or fluff, or feathers rustling in the air, and Sebastian was overcome with pity. The creature had taken quite a fall.

Curiously, Sebastian approached the round bundle of brown and white fluff that rested atop the Sermons of Divine Renata I. He reached out a cautious finger, stroking his fingernail along what appeared to be feathers, and gave a start of surprise and withdrew his hand when the small bundle shook and righted itself. The creature was not dead, as he imagined it must be after falling so quickly and so fast, on the contrary! It was very much alive.

Unfurling and shaking itself from its daze, the creature fluffed its feathers and spread its small wings halfway before pulling them back to its body. The face of the bird gave it away almost immediately. A round head with large golden eyes peered up at him. The head sat atop an equally round body, which was composed of a series of white feathers at the breast and brown feathers along its back and head. Its otherwise solid coloring was speckled with tiny flecks of grey and white, giving it a mottled appearance.

"What is an owl doing in the Chantry?" asked Sebastian aloud, crouching close to take a better look at the bird that had collapsed midflight. It appeared none the worse for wear, though its feathers were matted and ruffled from the flight. Its chest was also rising and falling far too quickly for Sebastian's liking, and he suspected that it had been injured in some way. There were nocturnal birds far larger and nastier than this diminutive owl, and perhaps one of them had knocked it off course or attacked it in flight? He would have to check the owl for injuries to assess what had really happened, but from his cursory observation and a quick circling of the owl he could find no blood. The pages of the book were as immaculate and white now as they were during the sermon.

Ducking down once more to stare at the curious little bird, Sebastian considered what to do with the small creature. It could not stay in the sanctuary, nor could it make its resting place within the Chantry on a permanent basis. But if it was injured (and Sebastian could not believe that it wasn't), it was his duty to try to aid it. The Grand Cleric would probably not disapprove of him tending to the owl until it was well enough to fly on its own again, even if it meant keeping the owl in his quarters.

Did he have a place to put it? Sebastian chewed on his lip in thought, watching as the owl tilted its head up and down to look at him. He had a small wooden box where he kept the letters his brothers had sent him. He supposed he could stuff it with an old work shirt and socks to make it a suitable nest for the creature. As for food, there were plenty of worms and insects in the Chantry's gardens. They would have to do, since the Chantry's mousers had made sure that there were no mice or rats within the sacred walls. The plan seemed altogether sound, and he decided that was exactly what he would do. His mind made up, he took a deep breath and addressed the creature.

"I am going to pick you up, little one," he said in a soft voice to the owl. "I mean you no harm. Please, don't scratch me overly much."

If the owl understood him, he did not know. It merely regarded him with its wise, if not slightly wide-eyed, stare. Its eyes flicked to his hands as he moved them, watching them come closer to cup underneath its body. At the first touch of his fingertips against its feathers, the owl's eyes focused back on his face, and then closed.

Sebastian cupped the small owl in both hands, wincing slightly as he felt the owl's sharp talons flex against the flesh of his palms. One of the talons managed to break the skin, and he hissed. The talon immediately retracted itself, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. He brought the bird up to his chest, resting it against his heart to give the bird extra support. He did not expect the owl's feathers to be so soft, and he found his fingertips idly smoothing back and forth over the owl's head and back.

With careful steps, he made his way upstairs to the second level where his quarters were. "I am going to have to hold you with one hand," he explained gently to the owl, "while I open the door." The door to his quarters was locked, and he would have to use the key he had in his pouch to open it. "Do not be alarmed. I will not drop you, little owl, I promise."

The owl's only response was a sudden fluffing of its feathers.

Sebastian gently pushed the bird closer to his chest and removed his left hand. He slipped it beneath the flap of the small pouch he kept at his hip and skillfully retrieved the small, copper key. He slipped it into the door, and with a soft clicking of the locking mechanism, he pulled it out and stashed it in the pouch again. The door's hinges creaked as it swung inwards, and Sebastian reflexively tried to cover the bird's head to shield it from the sound. Whatever he had done had been ineffective, for the owl gave a sudden tremble at the noise and its beak nipped at his palm.

"Maker…" he hissed, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Despite his frustration with the bird, he refused to let the door slam shut. The poor creature was merely afraid and it meant him no ill will.

The box that Sebastian had in mind was tucked neatly in the large wooden trunk kept at the foot of his bed. He would have to place the owl down somewhere if he was to retrieve it. His bed seemed the best option, and he carefully lowered himself upon it. "I am going to put you down for a few moments, little owl."With steady hands, he gently tugged the owl away from his chest and placed it carefully upon the bed.

The owl rested serenely where he placed it. Its head bobbed from one side to the other as it observed him, but it made no motion to move. It seemed content to just watch him, and Sebastian could not resist a final touch of the owl's soft feathers. He placed two fingers to the owl's head and lightly stroked the top of it. The owl's eyes closed and it let out a strange chittering sound as he rubbed the back of its head.

"If someone were to scratch my head," he said to the creature with a gentle smile, "I would probably make the same noise and expression too." He indulged himself (and the creature) for a few moments more before he withdrew his hand. Eventually, the owl would have to be set free and it was best that he did not get attached to it.

Sebastian rose, keeping one hand on the goose feather and straw mattress so that his movement did not disturb the small bird that was resting amidst his sheets. When his weight was on his feet, he pulled himself into a standing position and quickly made his way to the chest at the foot of his bed. The key in his belt pouch was in his hand once more, and he slipped it into the lock. He flipped the gnarled, wooden lid open and plucked out the small box of letters he kept stashed away. Blood from the cut the owl's talon had made in his palm dripped onto the topmost letter, and Sebastian gave a weary sigh. Holding his injured hand in the air, he carefully used his free hand to remove the letters from the box and placed them in the space the box had taken up. He then shut the lid and placed the now empty box on the edge of the bed.

"I am going to go to the storeroom," he said to the owl, which had ducked its head low against its body and had its eyes shut, "and tend to the little scrape you've given me. I will return."

The owl did not even so much as open its eyes as he shut the door behind him.

Sebastian made his way to the storeroom and easily found what he was looking for: some crushed elfroot and a strip of boiled cloth to keep the poultice in place. He carefully dabbed the elfroot into the wound, hissing as the herb's natural cleansing properties began to treat the surprisingly deep cut. He then wrapped the boiled cloth around his palm. Come the morning, the cut would likely be healed and he wouldn't need the bandage anymore.

Satisfied, Sebastian returned the jar of crushed elf root to the shelf and made his way back to his room. When he opened the door, he thought his eyes and heart might explode out of his chest, for there on the bed where he had placed the wounded owl was a naked Hawke.

She lay exhausted atop his sheets, the swells of her creamy breasts rising and falling with her deep, even breaths. Her face was tilted away towards the far wall, and the shadow of a bruise could be seen growing along the edge of her jaw. She had one arm raised above her head, her fingers tangled in the edges of her hair as she pressed her cheek into the pillow. Impossibly long legs, well-shaped and as pale as the rest of her body, were curled underneath her, giving Sebastian a glimpse of her curved bottom.

There was so much wrong with the situation, and he did not know where to place his eyes. Everywhere he looked he could see her exposed form. Staring at her while she was naked and vulnerable was disrespectful. It was a sight not meant for him, only her husband, or a physician… only men other than him should see her as such. Only the man she pledged herself to under the Maker's eyes should know that the pebbled buds of her nipples were the same pink as her lips, or that the thatch of curls between her legs was darker than the roots of her hair. Oh, Maker, he should not know these things about her, should not know the secrets that were to be shared only between a man and wife.

But now he did know these secrets, and Sebastian had to cover his eyes to stem his shame. Doing so helped focus his thoughts, and he immediately reached for the sheet that covered one of the spare bunks and tugged it away. With the sheet in hand and raised above his face, he marched with determined steps to the woman resting in his bed and draped the fabric over her. The sheet clung to the mounds of her breasts and the contours of her body with wicked intent, but it was the best Sebastian could manage at that moment.

He moved to walk away, thinking to find her some clothes, but he stopped when he heard her call out to him.

"Sebastian," she murmured, the sheet rustling about her as she tiredly pushed herself into a sitting position. She was clutching the sheet to her chest with one arm, and the other was running itself through her golden hair. Gooseflesh had risen along her skin, and she shivered.

"Hawke, I…" Sebastian wrung his hands behind his back as he stared at her, "what…are you doing here?"

She frowned and stared at her knees. "I had nowhere else to go."

Something in the tone of her voice caused Sebastian to abandon all thoughts of hiding in the nearest confessional. Hawke…Marcelle…needed him. He found his feet were carrying him to her side, and he settled himself on the edge of the adjacent bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned towards her. She smelled like the night air: cool, crisp, and fresh. "What happened, Marcelle?"

"I was on the right side of a conflict," she chuckled sadly, "and ended up paying the loser's price." She held up her hand, and Sebastian saw that a large cut had been made into her palm.

He looked at her helplessly. "I do not know what it means. You know that I'm rubbish at riddles."

"My father," she said quietly, "had one of these."

"A hand?"

Marcelle covered her mouth to hide her laughter. "Good Maker, I would hope so. No," she showed him her palm again, "he had one of these cuts. His scar had faded into the creases of his hand, but I remember the sight of it, the feel of it. It is the mark of a Circle Mage."

"Are you…" Sebastian's eyebrows raised in sudden understanding, "part of the Circle then? I thought you said you had some sort of diplomatic immunity from Knight Commander Meredith?"

"I…don't think I am. No," she shook her head. "I cannot be part of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. They may have my blood, but as far as I know," she seemed disturbed, "they have not bound it to me. And I have to be in Templar custody for them to welcome me into the fold. And as you can see," she pulled her hand to her chest, and the sheet drooped to reveal the profile of a milky white breast, "I am not in the Gallows any longer."

"How did you even get in the Gallows?"

"I was in Darktown…" Marcelle lifted her large blue eyes to the ceiling as she considered what to say next, "having been asked by the Knight-Lieutenant to investigate rumors of apostate mages. I found them," she explained, "but as we were speaking, the Templars found us and they overwhelmed us. They asked no questions, did not even address us. They simply attacked, and as you well know, magic is useless against them."

Sebastian frowned. "But why would you go alone? Why did you not ask Fenris or Aveline to go? Why would you not come ask me?"

"I was asked to be discreet," she replied dryly. "Unfortunately, I would not consider a group of my friends as 'discreet.' A guard in full Kirkwall guard regalia would have sent the apostates running. Fenris only has to look at a mage to provoke them to attack. And you..." Marcelle winced in what Sebastian wanted to assume was embarrassment, "you are always so busy."

"I could make time for you," he protested loudly, sitting up straight. "All you have to do is ask, Hawke. You've done so much for me, I'd be a cad not to reciprocate."

Marcelle's cheeks flushed pink. "I would never ask it of you." She shot him a tender smile and then winked at him. "Truly, I know that you will always prefer Andraste's company over mine, and I promised myself I would not turn into Maferath over it."

Sebastian's eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed into an expression of serious concern. "Hawke, you could never be Maferath. I have no lands for you to covet, and Andraste is not about to raise me to her side."

She tilted her head towards him, hair spilling over her shoulder as she did so. "That is not true. You have Starkhaven."

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "I…suppose that is true. But if you want Starkhaven, you may have it, with my full blessing. It would save me a world of trouble if you took it."

Marcelle closed her eyes and shook her head. "I can barely stand to listen to Orsino and Meredith argue. I imagine that I would not last a day in the Starkhaven court."

"You have survived well enough as Viscountess of Kirkwall."

"I have had many years proving myself to these people. I could not just walk into Starkhaven and take what I think is mine."

"Now you understand my dilemma."

"Mmm," Marcelle reached out a slender arm and placed her hand on his. "You were born there Sebastian. The people will remember that, should you choose to walk that path. And if you do not…" she pulled her hand away, letting her fingertips drag across the backs of his knuckles, "I will be glad to have you in Kirkwall with me."

Sebastian said nothing, merely stared at the place where she had touched his hand.

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?" she asked quietly. "I will understand if you say no. I do not want to endanger the Chantry by my presence, but I would feel more comfortable resting in a place where I can call for sanctuary should the Templars decide to break protocol…"

"Break their protocol?"

Marcelle licked her lips. "I suppose this would make sense if I finished the story. I apologize in advance for my poor story telling skills. I can't quite weave a tale like Varric."

Sebastian shrugged. "That hardly matters to me."

"Ah." Her eyes roamed around the room for a few moments before she settled them once more on his face. "Well, when the Templars attacked, I was knocked unconscious during the fighting. I think one of them stunned me, or I was collateral damage in one of the apostate's attacks…it does not matter which it was, since the end result was the same. I do not remember much about what happened. I recall the smell of the sea and the cry of gulls, and the feeling of being dragged across uneven stones in a cobbled courtyard. I do remember waking up in a small room, huddled with the apostates the Templars had captured. They must have taken the blood sometime shortly before then, because I have no recollection of receiving this cut on my hand…" She shook her head, "but the cut was there when I awoke. Oh," she took a moment to pause as she gathered her thoughts, "it was so quiet in that little room. One could have gone deaf from it. There was only the sighing and sobbing of bitter mages and the droning of faraway Templars in prayer."

"But they came for you?"

"Of course. When they did it was to drag us through the Gallows in chains."

"They chained you?"

"Around our wrists and ankles to stop us from escaping. It was…" her shoulders drooped, "humbling."

Sebastian stilled the urge to rest one of his hands on the curve of her shoulder. Instead of offering her physical touch as consolation, he resorted to giving her a half-smile of encouragement. "The Maker puts us through many trials."

"That he does, and he also grants us many boons, for the Gallows courtyard was empty as the majority of the mages were locked in their cells and the Templars were in their chapel attending their vespers. The Knight Commander and Knight Lieutenant were among them, and so they did not see me being dragged through the Gallows and into the central spire." She touched her hand to her jaw and fingered the bruise there. "A Templar struck me and threw me into a small room with only a pinhole of a window overhead. He said that the Knight Commander would come to interrogate me and the other mages." Despite the weariness of her tone, she smiled. "I do not think he knew who I was."

"How could he not recognize the Champion of Kirkwall?"

"The Templars do not get out much," said Marcelle sadly. "I would probably not recognize me on sight, if I had never been introduced to me before."

Sebastian was not convinced of that. The Champion of Kirkwall had been an ever present companion in his mind since the moment he'd first seen her after posting his bounty on the Chanter's board. There had been something haunting in the unfathomable depths of her blue eyes that always drew his thoughts back to her. But he elected to keep these thoughts to himself, and merely nodded at her to continue.

"When he left, I escaped." She stretched out her arm, as if in demonstration, and stared down the length of it. "I turned myself into a bird and flew away."

"You turned into a bird to escape Knight Commander Meredith?" Sebastian asked with some surprise, unsure if he was more shocked by the fact that she could turn into a beast, or that she had run from the very thing she had sought to preserve. "Hawke, you will have to forgive me for being so blunt, but I have heard you advocate the Circle as a place for mages many times. Why would you abandon it and not heed your own judgment?"

Marcelle was not angry when she spoke, but then Sebastian did not expect her to be. She rarely got angry, and he had only ever heard her raise her voice in combat, and even that was to shout commands and spells.

"Were I not the Viscountess, or even the Champion of Kirkwall for that matter, I would not have fled. And I do not say this out of vanity or a love for power, but out of the influence that my person wields." She sighed. "Of all the Templars in the Gallows, Meredith would most certainly know and recognize me." She shifted on the bed so that she was now facing Sebastian, rather than merely turned towards him. She extended one leg over the edge of the bed, and the sheet fell away from it to reveal the curves of her thigh and hip. "And while she and I are not enemies, she is not someone that I would count amongst my close friends, either. She is a good woman, but she is blinded by her conviction. I feared what she would do to Kirkwall, and what balance of power I would tip in her favor if she somehow managed to make me a mage of the Circle. No, I do more good for the city unbound – if only to delay the inevitable a little longer. So I escaped, seeking sanctuary and solace in the one place that would give me it."

"The Chantry," Sebastian said quietly, and he watched as she nodded.

"The Chantry," she repeated, and she flashed him a smile that was as gentle as it was wise. "Anders may not believe that the Chantry can offer succor to mages, but I have always believed differently. I know that the Grand Cleric would shelter me if I asked it of her. And," she finished quietly with a shy smile, "you would too."

Sebastian found himself blushing and opened his mouth to speak, but he was quickly silenced by the hand that Marcelle had placed to his lips.

"Before you say anything," she said, "I want you to promise me that you will tell no one of what happened today. Do not breathe a word of this to Anders. I…worry about what he will think. This could push Justice over the edge."

Talk of Anders soured Sebastian's mood, and he gently tugged away the soft fingers that were brushing against his parched lips. Her fingers smelled like the open ocean and the salty sea wind. "You have my word," he said, "that I will not tell Anders or any of the others about what happened to you today." It unnerved Sebastian that her first concern was about Anders.

"Thank you," she breathed, wrapping her fingers around his.

"Now," Sebastian glanced over his shoulder to the door, "are you absolutely certain that the Templars will not come after you?"

"My father never told me much of the Circle Tower and its policies, or even many of the details about how apostates were hunted, only that they were. But I do not think the Templars will come. They may have my blood, but I suspect it lacks…" she searched for the word, "an appropriate agent of magical binding. It is not bound to me, so they cannot use it against me. Though," she gave a rueful chuckle, "I could be wrong."

"Well," Sebastian settled her hand into her lap and stood, "in the event that you are and the Templars come tonight, they shall have to go through me first." He gestured to the bow that was resting lovingly against the far wall. He could not help the heat that spread down his neck at the appreciative way the mage beside him stared at him. He cleared his throat nervously. "I am going to tell the Grand Cleric that you are with us for the night. And…" he swallowed, "I will find you something to wear also."

"We could not," she said throatily, "have me fleeing the Chantry stark naked, now, could we?"

Sebastian shut his eyes at the image. "No, indeed we could not."

Chapter 10's corresponding picture is now linked in my profile. As always, feel free to let Lady Winde know she did an excellent job on the piece!

The mystery of the phylactery gets solved next chapter. Surprise, Marcelle, it isn't always the devil you know but the devil you don't!

Thank you to everyone who has been reading Worth and following along with the story. Special thanks also go out to those of you who took a peak at Trovommi Amor (Hi, naomis8329!). You are very brave indeed.