A/N: Been a while!

Life's been crazy, with the new job and the busy, busy life. But rest assured; I'm still writing.

Albeit at a much slower pace. =)

Also, I've been made aware that some of FFnet's recent site changes and sudden policy enforcement have prompted some people to move over to Archive of Our Own. If that's your preference, I'm over there as well, under the same moniker!

But for now, enjoy some more Zevran badassery and benevolence.


Hawke's feet pounded against the cobblestones hard as she rounded the corner sharply, two companions in tow.

"'Come to the Market,' you said," she called back. "'Try some traditional Starkhaven confections,' you said!"

"Less yelling," the Bann huffed, "more running. Left at th' next turn!"

She did as she was told, grumbling, and they ducked into an awning-covered backstreet. They took a moment to rest under the butter yellow- and purple-striped tarp, breathing heavily.

Hawke sighed, roughly wiping the newly-formed beads of sweat on her forehead. The three of them – MacDougall, Sebastian, and herself – had taken the late morning to wander around and enjoy the festivities before the strategy meeting that evening. Hawke had wanted to rest, but her stupid fiancé and his stupid face like the stupid sun had convinced her to go out in search of whatever pastry was making the delicious smell that was wafting up to their window.

They hadn't been in the market longer than an hour before she picked up that they were being followed - and then subsequently ambushed, sending the three scurrying into the labyrinthine alleyways of the back quarter.

Maker, she thought as she rolled her shoulders and neck in anticipation, feels like Tuesdays in Kirkwall.

Sebastian craned his neck around one of the awning's poles. "Have we lost them?"

Hawke held up a hand to call for silence, hearing muffled voices scattering around them. "No. They're weaving through, but not spreading out. Smart not to split up, but it gives us a little time."

"Do we find them first, then?" The Bann frowned, reaching for the hand-axes at his hips. "Head back t' where we saw th' bastards last?"

"Can't." She bent over, hands on her knees as she thought for a moment. "That takes us back to the streets, and we can't let the people see the prince shedding blood." Her head lifted and she caught said prince's eyes solemnly. "I don't think we can get out of this one without leaving a body count. Sorry, Sebastian."

He gave a short nod, jaw tight as he unhooked his bow. "I understand. Do what you must."

She smiled wryly to herself as she stood straight, running her fingers over her belt and pockets to take silent inventory of her resources. That Sebastian had agreed so quickly and with so little fuss was a reassurance; the willingness to take life was unfortunate, but absolutely crucial in a leader.

Especially one throwing a coup.

"They're getting closer," she said, stretching to pull the adrenaline out into her limbs more evenly. "And they're still in a big group, which means that taking them head-on is a fool's mission. I'm the fastest on my feet and practiced at being irritating. So let me draw them off. You two know the city well enough to circle around and pick them off from the back and side?"

"Th' streets aren't changed much," the Bann said to Sebastian, thumbing behind him. "We can clear th' tail end and hit them in th' middle t' break them up a bit."

"Perfect." She drew her daggers and felt the hum of their power vibrate beneath her fingertips as the lyrium pulsed to life. "Let's do this."

As she turned, a tanned hand caught her wrist firmly.

"Hawke," Sebastian said, the bright blue of his eyes tinged with worry. He hesitated before squeezing her hand and releasing it, looking as though he had something that his mind was begging him to say. Instead, he exhaled and schooled his features. "Be careful," he told her firmly. "Maker watch over you."

She grinned, giving him a reassuring wave. "Doesn't he always?" With that, she darted off purposefully and didn't look back.

It didn't take long to find the noisy group of attackers as the group combed the alleyways, cursing her and one another at every turn.

Ah, yes. Just when she was starting to miss the flowery language of miscreants who wanted to kill her.

They entered a particularly wide length of street, and Hawke saw her opportunity. She jumped out behind them a ways, glowing blue weapons at the ready.

"Pity," she sighed theatrically, turning all heads in unison as the group snapped to attention. "Here I was hoping you'd be wearing those lovely pleated numbers."

They turned to rush her, and she loosed a wave of ice that froze the first wave of feet to the ground, sprinting around the corner in the opposite direction. Footfalls thundered after her, and the Champion knew that they'd pushed past their rooted comrades to give chase.

So far, so good.

Hawke wove through the alleys, knocking over barrels and crates to trip up her pursuers, but always making sure to keep in their sights. After all, she wouldn't be much good as a lure if they couldn't chase her like good little sight hounds. And she was very practiced at being bait. The occasional jab of ice into the ground as she left it behind served as a good slippery surface to add distance when she needed it, but also left a handy little trail for any stragglers.

All that was left was for MacDougall and Sebastian to thin the herd, and when the three of them met up, they could finish off what was left of the group, leaving a few for questioning.

Of course, it was as she was contemplating her next move that Hawke forgot to check where she currently was. Suddenly, the alley she turned into widened dramatically, and she came to a staggering halt as the massive obstacle to her escape stared her down.

"Oh, Maker's balls."


The Bann yanked a hand-axe from one of the assailants' shoulders, throwing it across the alley to pin yet another would-be attacker to the wall before he could raise his sword above his head. And as a third rushed him, MacDougall gripped the man's head with one gargantuan hand and shoved his skull against the closest wall.

"Boy," he called, fetching his stray axe while swiping with the other. "How fare ye?"

"Yet unscathed," Sebastian answered from the other end of the alley as he fired a volley into the air, raining arrows down on the nearest cluster of men. "Are you injured?"

"No, none of th' blood's mine." The Bann pulled an axe out of the chest it was buried in, elbowing the attacker behind him as he got a better look at the corpses or wounded on the ground. "They don't wear any marks or colors," he observed.

"Hired men?"

"Aye. And not very good ones, from th' looks of it." He grunted as he headbutted the nearest man, sending him tumbling back into his fellows and knocking them all off balance. "Common thugs, most likely. Work for anyone with enough coin."

They'd taken down the entire group they had managed to separate from the main charge, and gathered themselves up as they took a brief moment to survey the carnage. Sebastian's eyes closed for a moment, the deep inhalation of breath steadying his nerves.

It was no comfort to know that after years following Hawke, killing had gradually become easier to stomach. He suspected it would continue to do so as he ruled, necessity forcing his hand, though he swore it would only be out of that necessity, and never anger or personal gain.

"Pray later," the Bann grunted, scanning the alley's exits. "We've got t' find th' rest."

"Did you see where Hawke turned?"

MacDougall furrowed his brow in thought, flicking his hand-axes sharply and sending spatters of blood in clean arcs against the dirt. "Think I saw her run that direction," he said, nodding his chin to the left and turning. "And over a ways."

Sebastian jogged over to him, his blood running cold when he triangulated where, precisely, the Champion's path would lead.

"The river," he realized aloud, and his feet were two steps ahead of him, taking off at a breakneck pace after her fast-melting trail of ice.

"Aye, right at th' south wall," the Bann confirmed, keeping up with long, thudding strides. "Not th' cleanest, but it'll provide an easy getaway should she need it."

"You don't understand," the archer said gravely, issuing desperate prayers in his mind every second she was still out of sight. "Hawke cannot swim. If she is cornered..."

The clashing of steel caught his attention, and he turned straight for the source of the noise on instinct alone.

It sounded like the thugs had found her first.


Hawke considered her options as she turned her back to the water barrier behind her. Nine or ten feet down lay the rushing current, lichen green and thick halfway up the stone walls. Too far to jump to the other side, and no bridges in sight meant that option one was out.

The men advanced on her slowly, cautiously, weapons drawn as though they were hunting a crazed mountain lion. Some had even scaled the walls of nearby houses, creeping across the rooftops and covering all avenues of escape.

She thumbed the runes on her daggers. No fire or tremors. The houses were packed too tightly together, and the damage could destroy nearly half of the district. And she'd traveled lightly, bringing only her weapons, meaning that she had neither flasks nor traps at her disposal. With ice and steel as her only options, Hawke considered what would happen if she tried to freeze as many as she could and then take on the remainder herself.

She'd probably get flanked by the roof-perchers and swarmed by the rest, that's what.

Balls. Why was nothing ever easy here?

As the men on the ground gained on her step by step, she slid one foot back and planted. She wasn't giving them an inch. Not with a body of water behind her. If she could hold out until her cavalry arrived, then–

She wouldn't get the chance. The frontmost thug raised his sword and yelled, running forward to lead the charge. Hawke's hands and daggers glowed white-blue as she prepared an icy onslaught...

...and shouts accompanied a cascade of tumbling bodies from the rooftop to her left.

She took advantage of the momentary confusion to jab her blades into the ground, fixing dozens of pairs of boots icily to the street. Only then did she hazard a glance up at the commotion next to her that had resulted in the small collection of bodies.

A flash of green and gold brought a smile to her face.

"Ah, my dear Champion," the elf called down as he parried an attack with a rapier in one hand, swiping in with a dagger in the other. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"What are the chances," she yelled back flippantly as she started to take down her temporarily legless company before the frost thawed. Zevran kicked one bleeding assailant down into the pile he'd started before following with a spry leap, Antivan finery fluttering prettily as the duelist's cape flapped about his shoulders.

"You dress for the occasion?" Hawke snickered, punching a nearby thug squarely in the nose, knocking him unconscious and sending waves of happiness up her arm at finally having decked someone. "Maker," she breathed, "that was better than an orgasm."

Chuckling as he dodged and swiped, the former Crow clucked his tongue. "That sounded like a challenge, my dear." Before she could retort, he flattened his opponent roughly against the wall. "And no, I simply have a certain image to maintain while I stylishly impersonate an ambassador. You understand, I hope."

"Of course. To your left!"

"Thank you, princesa." He casually slashed the air in front of his would-be attacker, startling the man into stumbling backwards and consequently onto one of his comrades' outstretched blades. "Mm," he purred, "such fond memories this brings back. Just like in Kirkwall, no?"

"Ah, the good old days," she sighed, bracing her back against his to kick one particularly burly thug in the knee, sending him careening into the river. "Except I don't recall ever seeing you with a sword."

"This old thing?" He speared through tender flesh and slid in to finish the job. "They are all the rage in Antiva City. Mine, however, is not merely for decoration, as you may have noticed."

"You're not bad with it," she huffed, ducking out of a hand-axe's trajectory. "I'm impressed."

"Such high praise!" He chuckled. "Behind you, my dear."

"Much obliged." She dropped and spun, driving her daggers up into a broad chest and lifting the man clear off the ground. Catching a glimpse of incoming feet, she snapped upright and spun her weapons in her hands. "Zev, get down!"

He sighed theatrically as he complied, the beams of ice leaving a frosty trail across his shoulders as they passed over him and hit their targets. "Why do you only call me intimately in moments such as these? How unromantic you are."

She smirked, deflecting an airborne knife from its path. "Hey," she called, "bend over."

His eyes glinted as he braced his hands on his knees. "You see?" he murmured. "Was that so difficult?"


Sebastian had arrived at the scene ahead of MacDougall, who had been waylaid by stragglers and yelled for him to go aid Hawke. Though from the looks of it, he wasn't needed.

The Antivan elf was with her, a flurry of shadows and steel and sarcasm as they took on the entire pack by themselves. And while the prince was overjoyed to see the Champion alive and safe, a powerful sense of envy from seeing them fight together crept like a vine into his abdomen. As a pair, they were an incredible sight, all fluidity and wordless communication and effortless teamwork. They suited one another well, and the two dagger-masters looked as thought they'd fought side by side all their lives.

And Hawke was positively radiant.

Ducking out of sight behind the corner and taking aim, Sebastian cleared the rooftops of any thugs threatening to jump into the fray, checking on his tornado of a fiancee between shots. She and Zevran worked around each other's bodies with a kind of understanding that only another fighter accomplished in the same style could possess. And they smiled and bantered as their blades hit bone and weapons were thrown at their faces.

She trusted the assassin, Sebastian realized, and he found himself more and more curious as to how such a friendship had come to be.

His sights clear, he watched as Zevran bent at the knees and waist, his hands on his knees and back flat as Hawke used him to propel herself into the air. From her height, she encased the remaining trio of brutes in a solid block of ice, shattering them with her feet as she landed.

Her partner turned to shield himself from the shards, grinning smugly as he picked a few scraps of frozen armor from the Champion's hair and shoulders. Gesturing to the carnage, he gave a mock bow and said something to make Hawke burst out laughing. At that familiar sound, most of the tension melted from the archer's shoulders, and he began to turn toward them with a smile.

"...and not a drop of blood on me!" he heard Zevran boast just as he emerged from cover. "The Maker smiles on my choice of silks today, it seems."

"Yes," Hawke smirked, "your looks, and your timing, are impeccable. As always."

Chuckling, the elf slid a tanned arm around her waist, leaning in with a smolder in his eyes that rivaled Sebastian's in his heyday.

"Then," he said in a low, soft voice as he closed the distance between their faces, "do I not deserve some small reward for my efforts?"

The prince of Starkhaven skidded to a halt as he watched the Crow solidly kiss his still-smiling future bride. And his blood ran cold as realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

Hawke didn't flinch. She didn't tense, she didn't push him away, and she most certainly didn't look like this was a new development. Zevran's hands spent no time exploring to find their rest; they already knew her body well. Familiarity emanated from his fingers as they traced her curves over the form-fitting armor, and a knowing smile ghosted the corners of his lips against hers.

They knew each other far more intimately than they had let on.

Returned to the shadows, Sebastian leaned back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. With each strained intake of breath, he prayed that when he turned the corner, the two of them would have parted. Yes, it was a kiss and nothing more, but it was still painful to see, and it merely served as confirmation of the nagging suspicion that had planted itself in the back of his mind the first time he'd met the honey-tongued Antivan.

He was snapped out of it by the Bann's hurried arrival. "Is it clear," the enormous, panting man asked. "Is she safe?"

"Aye," Sebastian said coolly, "we should not have worried. She and Zevran had things well in hand."

Frowning, MacDougall pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Th' froofy elf?"

"The Antivan Crow," corrected Sebastian, and he watched the Bann's expression harden.

"Your lady," he replied carefully, "has powerful friends."

"Yes," Sebastian repeated as he turned the corner. "Friends."

Up ahead, Hawke was rifling through the thugs' pouches and pockets, going through her usual check for coin or incriminating evidence. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and her face brightened to see him. "Sebastian!"

Any other time, such a reaction would have lifted his spirits a bit. But not now.

She stood, sheathing her daggers. "I finally got a good fight," she said, chipper. "And Zevran saved my ass, thank the Maker."

"But of course," the elf called from his seated position atop a barrel, where he cleaned his blades with the edge of an unconscious attacker's tunic. "I am but your humble servant, princesa."

Hawke shot him a look over her shoulder at the use of the nickname, but said nothing. "Anyway," she continued, "was everything all right on your end? You seem to be in one piece."

"It was," the prince replied dryly, "and I am."

"That's good. Then we should look through this before the guard comes to clean it up." She turned to resume her task, but an uncharacteristically sharp voice stopped her.

"Leave it." His blue eyes were cold.

Puzzled, she wiped her palms on her leathers. "But – "

"Go on," called the Bann. "Get t' disappearing. I can explain things better if th' two of ye aren't around."

Sebastian grabbed Hawke's wrist roughly without a word, his jaw clenched and body stiff.

And he practically dragged her back to the estate, silent against her protests.


Zevran watched the two disappear around the corner, hopping down from his perch with a self-satisfied chuckle.

"Ye look pleased with yerself," called the bear-like man he now knew as the Bann of Shallervale. "Fighting street gangs makes ye happy, does it?"

"Not at all, my impressively bearded friend. I have simply done a good deed."

The Bann grunted as he checked for survivors. "What's that, then?"

Zevran pressed the heel of one boot into the shoulder of a nearby corpse, rolling it onto its back. There, sticking out of its chest, was an arrow marked with the unique fletching of the Royal Archers.

A smirk curled his perfect lips as he recalled the look on the prince's face when he'd taken his prize. The subsequent dodge around the corner left much to be desired in the way of subtlety, but who could blame him?

"I gave your princeling a little push, nothing more. As a favor to the princesa."

And the way Sebastian had just hauled Hawke off like a man possessed had spoken volumes as to how well Zevran's little stunt had worked.

MacDougall raised a bushy red eyebrow, but ultimately inclined his head in appreciation. "I'm not sure exactly what it is ye did, but I'm glad a romantic's keeping an eye on them."

Zevran sighed, stepping delicately onto a waking man's chest before hitting him with the pommel of his dagger and returning him to unconsciousness. "Tis true; I am far too softhearted."

"I won't say a word, if they give Starkhaven an heir."

The elf's eyes glittered as he tapped a gloved finger to his nose. "Then let us both hope they do not waste this chance to do so, hmm?"


The doors to their suite were slammed shut behind them as Sebastian shoved Hawke inside.

"Maker, Sebastian," she groused as she rubbed her swollen wrist where he'd gripped too tightly, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

He didn't reply, calmly covering the room in a few long strides and opening the door to their bedchamber. Frowning, Hawke followed him in, the curtains still drawn and sealing the room in darkness, save for the bright beams creeping through occasional gaps in the gathered fabric. She could see him in front of the vanity drawers, palms on the waist-height edge, head hung low. And he looked almost nothing like his usual self.

"Sebastian," she called quietly, reaching to lay a hand on his arm. After a moment, his other hand came up to cover hers, calloused fingertips brushing along her warm skin.

Suddenly, she found herself flung against the mirror, backside sliding along the vanity's wooden surface. Her thighs hung over the edge, Sebastian standing between them. As the skin of her shoulderblades stung from slamming into the glass, she spat out a half-formed curse and caught her breath. Not that she was given a proper chance to, as in the next moment, she was pushed back into the mirror with the force of a body and mouth assaulting hers.

Hawke moaned despite herself, winding her hands into his hair and working her tongue against his. She grimaced at the grind of his armor into her chest, which brought about a prompt and considerate removal of his breastplate. As it clattered to the floor and she pulled the archer back to her, a small voice in the back of Hawke's head kept saying that this wasn't normal, that he wasn't himself right now, that something -

The voice was quickly overruled by the feeling of deft fingertips loosening the ties on her armor, and as she shuffled her chestpiece and shoulder guards loose, two half-gloved hands chased after the vulnerable flesh it revealed. One slipped up under the fabric of her undershirt, quickly finding her breasts and sliding rough, bare fingers and leather-clad palms under her breast band.

A gasp escaped her lungs, muffled against the skin of his cheek as he moved his mouth to her throat and back again. Her legs wrapped around his waist, one hand squeezing through what little space there was between their bodies to loosen the buckle on his belt and tug it down past his hips. It, too, slid to the floor, and without Andraste's face in the way, Hawke could feel the stiffness of a very forceful hard-on as she thrust her crotch into his.

Something resembling a growl resonated in Sebastian's chest and throat at the contact, and when she hurriedly moved the hand sandwiched between them lower to grip what she could through his breeches, he moaned into the hollow of her neck. Grinding himself against her palm, he reclaimed her mouth, the hand not preoccupied with tormenting one of her nipples sliding forward over her stomach to undo the ties on her pants. A strong, insistent yank at the waist brought them down to mid-thigh, and his lips never left hers as he withdrew enough to tug his right glove off and whip it to the ground. He was back against her in an instant, the warmth of his palm over her inner thigh sending a shiver through her body.

When he reached her smalls, expert fingers slipped under the thin fabric and began shallow, torturous work.

The Champion's limbs trembled as she curled inward, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the rabbit's fur in his collar. And there was no warm chuckle at her clinging, nor an affectionate stroke of her hair. There was only his mouth at her ear, speaking her given name in that thick accent made heavier and lower with want.

Everyone should marry an archer, she thought as his fingers elicited a shudder. How this man survived in the Chantry with hands like this, she would never know.

Chantry.

The thought felt like an ice cube trailing down her spine, and not in the good way.

She hated having character sometimes.

"I'm all for this," she managed, murmuring against his temple, "but what made you change your mind about waiting?"

She felt his shoulders stiffen and his hand stop, and while her body cursed her mouth, unease settled in her gut.

"He's had you," the prince said slowly, quietly, "hasn't he?"

That ice cube of nervousness turned into a bucket of cold water.

Maker's sacred balls. He'd seen the kiss.

Hawke bit her lip and let her head fall back against the mirror with a light thunk. She was a huge proponent of the truth, even when it was a terrible idea. And right now, it really was.

"Yes," she admitted. "A few times."

She felt Sebastian slump against her, hands now against the bureau on either side of her hips to hold himself up.

"I helped him out once on Sundermount," she explained, "and when we found out that we had Cadhla in common, I offered to let him use my manor as a safehouse whenever he was in the area. The sex was just a physical thing between friends, nothing more." She drew a deep, shaky breath. "It was just after the Arishok left."

The archer tensed and drew back, anger flashing behind his bright eyes. "So you ran to a stranger, an assassin, for comfort?"

Irritated, she narrowed her eyes and straightened up, shoving his arms away with her shoulders. "He's proven himself," she spat back, "and right in front of you! Not only did he just save my life, he got us information at the banquet that might save yours. Besides," she added quickly, "who else in Kirkwall would offer me comfort? You?"

"If anyone could have convinced me to break my vows, it would be you, Hawke. Especially if I had thought it would help you."

She stilled, the anger starting to drain from her chest. He was looking her in the eyes now, completely earnest.

"Try to see me," he pleaded as his hands gripped her shoulders, "as a man."

...And it came right back. She smacked his hands away, sliding to her feet and fixing her clothes. "As opposed to what," she hissed, "a sexless paragon of all things bright and beautiful?"

"I meant – "

"I'm not the one with the vows here!" She rounded on him, frustration taking over. At this point, she didn't care if the entire manor heard her. "Why do you think I haven't made a serious attempt at you yet?" she challenged him sharply. "I know you know I want to. I could go into detail about the things that run through my head every time you so much as touch me."

He swallowed hard. "Don't. Please."

"And yet we sleep in the same bed," she continued angrily, "and I haven't so much as snuck a hand under your nightclothes. Why? Because I respect your faith and your integrity. And I know how important it is to you and this whole arrangement is about respect. But I have my limits."

She glared up at him, defiantly standing directly in his personal space. "So you have one chance to tell me you want to stick to your convictions, or else I'm pinning you down on that bed and finishing what you started."

Sebastian stood in silence as she watched him. One gloved hand ran through his smooth red hair, the other hanging by his side as he rubbed still-slick fingertips together slowly, carefully. When he raised his head to look at her, his blue-green eyes glittered with something that made her skin burn.

She wanted him. But she wanted the real him, not this jealous prick who had come out of nowhere. And if that meant reminding him of his vows, so be it.

Suddenly, it was like his mask broke, and the tanned face returned to its familiar gentleness.

"Hawke," he said, looking thoroughly abashed, "I don't – I am so sorry."

She sighed, simultaneously relieved and murderous. "I'm keeping track of how many times you do this to me, you know."

"And you've every right to."

"You'll have to do a lot of making up for this."

"I understand."

"Good." She shoved him toward the door, palming the Antivan oil that Zevran had so helpfully provided.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I have something to take care of."

And she shut him out.


As the latch clicked closed, Sebastian leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor with a groan.

What in Andraste's name had he been thinking?

He hadn't been. For that moment, he had been his younger self, impetuous and arrogant and possessive to the point of anger. There was no rational thought, only her skin and breath and warmth and the way it took nearly nothing to make her tremble beneath his hands.

And now, she was alone in their bedroom, unsatisfied and with a bottle of warming oil. He couldn't stop his imagination from torturing him, and as he faintly heard the pop of the cork from beyond the door, he bit back a groan.

It took far too much effort to stand, but he did so, the mail on his muscled frame feeling heavier than ever.

Maker give me strength, he prayed as he made his way to the bath closet, discreetly locking the door behind him.


"According t' th' shirt, these're the points."

As the wooden markers were put into place on his map table, MacDougall tossed aside the bloodstained leine they'd used as a reference.

"Where's Hawke?" he asked Sebastian, who stood opposite him at the table.

"Accompanying Aeryn on her errands," the archer answered. "After today's attack, she thought it prudent."

"Appreciated," the Bann grunted. "Anyhow, have a look."

The two men leaned over, Eoin unloading an armful of maps and books on the desk beside the fireplace before joining them.

Four tiny triangles sat on the carved surface, not a single one sitting on a recognizable... anything.

"Well," the Bann muttered, scratching his beard, "maybe we had it turned t' th' side."

"No," Sebastian asserted, "my left hand was on the Estonborough keep, I'm sure of it."

"I'll take your word then, lad."

They all stood back, scanning the map.

"What's your take?" he prompted, towering over the room's other occupants.

"Well," Eoin said thoughtfully as he indicated the top and bottom-most markers, "I know nearly all the main roads in Starkhaven by heart. This one..." He tapped the lower of the two. "This is right near the route through the Vimmark mountain pass. To Kirkwall. And the other..." The northern one next to the river this time. "This is the biggest port to Antiva."

Stretching across the surface, he made little circles in the air above the two points. "They're rather near the two biggest routes out of Starkhaven."

"So he intends to prevent our departure?" Sebastian mused, frowning. "It seems a bit odd, unless..." He turned to the Bann. "Unless at the point he anticipates, it would be an escape."

"Meaning he aims to try something," MacDougall understood. "Right. So that leaves th' other two. One in Blythefeld, in th' middle of nowhere." He pointed to the southwestern bannorn, which the prince knew to be mostly farmland.

"And one just outside the city proper," Sebastian added, "in Estonborough, but near nothing in particular."

The Bann grumbled something unintelligible, and Eoin surveyed the distance between the points. "When did you say that Loudain's men left?"

"The afternoon of the banquet," the chantryman responded. "And most likely on Tevinter Highwatches, if that is of any use."

"It is." After a moment of circling and consideration, the former horsemaster of Tantervale exhaled slowly. "Even with their speed, it would be fully three days before they all reached their marks."

"Then we've got at most a day or two before th' man makes a move." The Bann unrolled a map of Estonborough, laying it flat on the desk. "I'd expect it sooner rather than later. He needs t' move quickly if he's t' keep ye from gaining any more support than ye already have."

"Then let us hope he does so," Sebastian said, eyeing the Estonborough mark, "and in his haste makes an error in judgment."

"We can hope," MacDougall grunted. "Though swear t' me ye won't pull any heroic nonsense. Th' instant ye catch wind of aught suspicious, ye come to me, understood?"

"Understood."

"And don't go out in th' middle of nowhere alone again," the Bann added with an amused snort, reaching for another map. "That was dim."


It was the wee hours of the morning before the strategy meeting finally came to an end, contingencies laid out and avenues traced until Sebastian was convinced he would feel some sort of relief when Loudain's attack finally came, if for no other reason than it would put an end to this damnable anticipation.

He closed the door to his and Hawke's rooms gently so as not to wake her, shedding his armor in the main chamber for the same reason. The door to the bedroom was ajar, firelight spilling into his path as he pushed it open quietly and slipped inside. After closing the door latch carefully and donning his nightclothes, he lifted the coverlet and slid into bed beside the sleeping Champion.

She stirred at the movement, and with faint irritated mumbling, she turned on her side to face him, eyes still closed in slumber. She tried to pinch his nose, but only managed to clumsily splay her fingers across the center of his face. The resulting movement of his smirk and the warm breath on her fingers seemed to pacify her annoyance at being disturbed, and her frown melted away. A placid smile graced her lips in her drowsy delirium, and she reached for him, limbs heavy with sleep.

He shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her waist as hers encircled his neck snugly, holding him against her to warm his skin, cold from walking the abandoned hallways. Stroking his hair in a slow, soothing rhythm, she murmured comfort and nonsensical dream-speech that made Sebastian chuckle.

If this was what he would have to come home to, he thought to himself as he felt a gentle sigh graze his ear, he could do anything. Even weather through an assassination attempt.

Hawke's words died into quiet snores, and her heartbeat slowed its lazy pace against his own.

And there in the stillness, quietly as though testing the words, the Prince of Starkhaven nigh-inaudibly admitted aloud that he was in love.