author's notes: Don't give up on me, dear readers. I promise we'll get back to larger chapters soon. Until then, have a bit of a thoughtful, internal Sebastian mental ramble. And a bit of an existential crisis.

Sebastian had watched them leave the gates and with a rueful glance at the steps that would take him up to a guardpost and allow him to observe as Aeryn disappeared in to the city, he turned back to the palace.

He and Isabela would only be needed for a gathering later that evening. Dierdre had taken a few days of hiding and coddling after the incident at her nameday dinner, but had recently put her foot down. Only at the public occasions would she allow more than two extra guards, now that the servants had been questioned and the one conspirator put to death.

Sebastian couldn't blame the queen. He'd have chafed, too true, under such constant observation. And Maker knew, if he ever tried something like that with Aeryn, she'd likely have his ears to wear around her neck. But then, she was…well, Aeryn Hawke. And, too, she would have him and maybe even Fenris with her in the years to come. She was simply less vulnerable than Ferelden's expectant queen. He mused for a few moments, indulging himself in a bit of a daydream, as he made his way back to their quarters.

So he found himself at loose ends, now that Aeryn was off and without Macie to guide. How long had it been, Sebastian wondered, since he'd had anything like free time? Alone, with no one to follow or to lend aid to? His Chantry days had never seen anything like idleness, for such was never allowed. Even the feeblest, eldest mothers were given duties fit for their hands. And once he'd started chasing about with Aeryn, Sebastian had often found himself nearly meeting himself going, trying to keep up with his duties, his interests among the nobles, and Aeryn's doings.

What to do, then? With a bit of thought, Sebastian decided to go and walk the city. It was safe enough, in broad daylight…well, cloudy, damp, chilly daylight…for another three hours or so. Ferelden wasn't showing her best colors, though apparently it wasn't unusual for this time of year. He could have a stroll, look into a few shops…and there was an idea. He had a bit of coin left from his Wicked Grace winnings at Vigil's Keep. And he needed to come up with a something for Aeryn's Satinalia gift.

They'd never exchanged gifts for feast days. She'd nixed the whole idea after she'd met her fortune in the Deep Roads, not wanting any of her companions…mainly Merrill, Anders and himself…to feel as though they had to compete. They all had the habit of doing small services for one another in lieu of presents. And though Aeryn had always been generous, with coin, small trinkets she found on her wandering, and the treats from her and Orana's hands that they'd enjoyed giving out, none of those things had been official gifts. His grandmother's locket, passed to his eldest brother's daughter, had been one such thing.

He'd not even known when her nameday was until last year, and that well after the fact. According to Fenris, Aeryn never allowed them to do more than spot her a drink. Have to try and remedy that, come Guardian. She'd turn 29, Sebastian thought. It ought to be special.

Denerim had put away the finery it had donned for Dierdre's nameday. Still, the market district bustled and he found a nice flat edged fountain to observe the folk going about their business for a time. There was a chance he might catch a glimpse of Macie…or just one of the street children who could lead him to her. Aeryn seemed to think the foolish girl was still in the city.

Starkhaven's market had been like this, when he was a boy, though more exotic and with a broader section of Northern Thedas' population. Orlais, Antiva and Rivain were all common to be seen there, on the Minanter. Tevinters, too, come to trade for the abundant grain and herbage Starkhaven provided, looking superior and cruel. Slaves were not allowed in Starkhaven. On the gates had been signs warning that any one suspected of bringing in slaves would have them confiscated without repayment, in the name of the Chantry. But it happened now and again, that you would see a small, shadowy figure scuttling in the wake of a richly dressed patron and you'd know.

None of that here. Oh, there were elves who were clearly denizens of the alienage. And other lowborn, too. Plenty of servants. But they were all clearly employed at some task or another or gathered to visit with friends. And none gave off that aura of cowed fear that had haunted the slaves he'd seen. Sebastian grinned. In fact, it might be he was the only fellow in the whole marketplace who didn't have someplace to be.

The various shops and stalls drew his eye. Next to the fabric stall, there was a tiny stand done up as neatly and ornately as a jewel box, a swathe of midnight blue silk covering the plain wooden surfaces. Appropriately, since there were jewels and decorative pieces on display. Sebastian didn't think he could afford anything flamboyant, nor would Aeryn wear such a thing…but maybe he might get an idea.

"Welcome, ser, to my shop. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"No…just having a bit of a wander." He smiled at the plump woman, her own fingers encircled with silver and gold and earrings dangling. "I thought to find something for my lady."

"Oh, lucky girl. You and a jewel." The older lady gave him what had once been a nicely coquettish smile. "You'll have luck here. My husband makes beautiful things. And he knows the hearts of women."

There were rings…but Sebastian had no intention of going down that path until he could place the one he already had on Aeryn's finger. She'd never wear any necklace that wasn't laced with runes. Even the jet piece she wore for formal dress was etched with protective enchantments. Her ears weren't pierced. Nor did she have any use for the delicate tracery of a circlet…though, he had a sudden image of Aeryn, head upheld in that way of hers, in the piece his mother and grandmothers had once worn as Lady of Starkhaven.

And what had happened to that ancient bit of filigree? His mother, that beautiful, icy woman, had loved it and the royal picture she made wearing it; tall and raven-haired with dark blue eyes, mirrored by the sapphire in the circlet. Sebastian shook himself back to the present, wincing away from any comparison between his sharp, sweet Aeryn and Alessandra Vael. Even at her coldest, Aeryn was a world apart from the woman who had left him to nannies and staff to raise. Leave that to the Maker, long in the past.

Sebastian was about to take his leave when a small open leather case pushed to the side caught him up. There were small bits of iridescent shell, fashioned into flowers and cleverly attached to hair pins laid out on the velvet. Aeryn was using such pins, now, with her hair longer. Hers were all plain bronze and sturdy, though. She'd grinned the first time she'd used them to hold the unruly waves behind her ears back. "An extra set of lockpicks, at least."

These would never stand to such a use, fragile things. Aeryn was so fond of practical items…but, he wanted a treat for her. Exotic chrysanthemums, innocent apple blossoms. And there, pale purple with a bit of inlay, was a pair that looked like a spray of violets, with red-gold pins that would show nicely with her dark auburn hair. He was almost afraid to ask the cost. 'Excuse me…might I ask the price of these?" Sebastian drew the attention of the merchant who had been attending another customer.

She eyed him, shrewdly. "Hmm. Six silver for the pair." She held her hand out for Sebastian's coin and then, as she packaged up the delicate accessories in a bit of protective flannel, the older woman smiled. "She must be an especially picky little thing. You looked at every piece I had."

"Special's the word, yes. Thank you."

Package safely tucked in one of his pouches…though he'd have to hide it before Aeryn returned, to prevent an accidental reveal from her light fingers and curious nature… Sebastian stopped in the tavern for a bit of luncheon. Even Varric had admitted that the Gnawed Noble had a better menu than the Hanged Man had ever boasted. Or at least, it tasted better, the crust of the pastry on his rabbit pie almost flaky enough to rival Orana's. Well, it was claimed to be rabbit. Could be nug for all he knew, but Sebastian has ceased to be overly picky about such things.

The other patrons came and went as he watched. Busy people with lives to lead that might seem insignificant to most. Who cared what inner thoughts the carter had or whether or not that merchant was considering expanding from a small stall to a larger stand and perhaps a shop. But it was the duty of a city's leader to care. Even before, before the refugees had overwhelmed Kirkwall, Dumar had been a puppet and Kirkwall had suffered for it. Denerim and Amaranthine were flourishing. Alistair was a good king, taking pains to rebuild better than what had been before.

Starkhaven had run itself in good times. Not fool enough to believe there are nothing but good times ahead, though, Sebastian thought. The mage issue would not contain itself in Kirkwall. He couldn't fault Aeryn for choosing to rescue as many of the mages as she could...though in the end it hadn't been many. At the very least, the Divine would be sending Seekers to the other Circles. And Starkhaven's Circle was long since destroyed. It occurred to him that he had no idea what had happened to the mages born in the city and its surrounds since. Another thing he would have to ask. But...Maker, now that he thought, it was strange that not one of his contacts had mentioned such a problem. Many had died in the fire. Some had come to Kirkwall...but the next nearest Circle was in Orlais. Perhaps Bethany would have some idea. Or he could ask Alistair to send to Kinloch Hold for what information they had.

There were other people in Starkhaven besides mages, though. And from what Alistair said, the way trade had fallen off, it didn't bode well. Starkhaven was the breadbasket of Thedas. There had been a drought a few years ago. The letters Sebastian had received before he left Kirkwall mentioned that the principality's finances were shaky. There were bandits were plaguing the roads between the outlying villages. None of it augured well for the state of the city. On such information had he made his decision to return to Starkhaven.

Seeing Denerim thrive, watching how Alistair worked to make it so, was beginning to chafe at Sebastian. He needed to be doing something towards regaining Starkhaven.

It was past time to start. Varric would be the one to begin with, who would know best if his idea had any merit. Since Sebastian had learned of the bandits, he'd been considering a more subtle path to re-establishing himself as a rightful prince, to bringing his name back to Starkhaven's attention. After all, he was a part of the finest band of bandit hunters he'd ever come across. And who would object to a man returning to aid his birthplace? There need be no mention of the throne. At first.

When Sebastian stepped back out into the grey day, the Chantry Bells were ringing afternoon services. He'd been going to the palace chapel since they'd come to Denerim. Alistair had assured him of Mother Beatrice's ability to keep a confidence and Sebastian had found her sermons to be well-thought out and moderate in their theology. He had yet to go to confession again, though. He was having a difficult time trusting anyone with some of the things he would have to reveal. His lingering anger at Anders for his betrayal, the worries he bore about having to start a war. He and Aeryn discussed such things and he'd felt better for it…but he admitted to craving the absolution that a long habit of confession made comforting.

And too, there were the things that Sebastian could not discuss with his love, without making them a burden. His fears for her. His worry that he would never be enough to make her happy nor capable of helping her reconcile her heart with the Maker. Those things could be set before a Mother, though, to hand to the divine.

Enough. There was time for that. Today, though, Sebastian decided to go to Chant. The palace services were nice enough, but there was something to be said for kneeling amongst a larger company, with voices in unison.

The Denerim Chantry was open and airy, with the high beamed construction and half timber framing that was most common in Ferelden. The crowd that Sebastian found himself in was smaller than he'd expected, considering the size of the sanctuary. A few older nobles and well-to-do merchants and then a smattering of common folk, most clearly on their way home from their work. They all filed to their accustomed places and one by one joined in the Chant, led by a sister standing near the base of the Andraste figure. Inwardly frowning at the feeble turnout, Sebastian found a place near the middle and knelt, allowing himself to be drawn into the familiar and soothing rhythm.

The Chant ended as the cantor withdrew and Sebastian was surprised to see that a few of the worshippers quietly exited before the…ah. The Grand Cleric chose to give the message, today.

Grand Cleric Geneva was a tall, spare woman, though age was telling on her, fighting to pull her down from the stiff backed form she maintained. The lined face with its strong features lacked Elthina's sense of serenity. Geneva looked like a woman accustomed to war, which, Sebastian supposed, was just as well, considering Ferelden's not too distant past.

In a ringing voice, she proclaimed the verse. "Magic is meant to serve man…"

Sebastian raised his eyebrow at the young man next to him who was whispering under his breath, "Sodding Void, not again." The fellow remained on his knees, but he took out a pamphlet about farming techniques and started reading, one finger tracing the grout line of the stone under him, clearly uninterested in the subject of the sermon.

"Oh, children. There is such a dismal, dreadful space between those words and the way Ferelden lives now." Geneva made a path through the history of the Circles, not veering too far from historical fact but the way she spoke, the chiding tone of her voice, set Sebastian's teeth on edge.

Ah, well. It was not the first time he'd sat through a less than inspiring sermon. While Elthina had almost always had something pithy and relevant to speak on, the other mothers and visiting Revered Mothers were not as consistently interesting. Sebastian had nearly distracted himself with contemplation of the statue of the Beloved, a gentler version than had adorned the Kirkwall Chantry, when he heard Grand Cleric Geneva finally circle around to a vicious point.

"And now, my children, we live in a decadent and lost age. For our king, the man who should be holiest and most reverent in gratefulness to the Maker for the coincidences that brought him to the throne…our king, instead of leading this poor country, holy Andraste's birthplace, has chosen wickedness. Has chosen rebellion. Has chosen pride. For he has chosen to allow magic to run rampant. He disbands the Circle, claiming that apostates aided Ferelden during and after the Blight. He allows elves to worship freely their pagan spirits, taking land from honest people, because he claims the Hero asked it of him." Sebastian had abandoned his contemplation in shock, instead focusing on the woman before him. A quiet, but building, angry buzz was filling the sacred space. A bitter sense of familiarity crept over him.

Petrice's sermons had once spread such anger, such resentment. And where had that led?

Geneva didn't seem to hear it. She continued, "We can only hope, children, that this is merely pride and arrogance on the part of the King. That there is no influence upon him, by one of the apostates he has allowed to run free without the temperance of the Maker's servant Templars. Will he be brought to heel by the will of the faithful? Or will we be forced to watch again, the destruction of the Chantry at the hand of a mage with no fetter? We cannot. We must act…"

Holy Beloved…how dare she? Sebastian found himself on his feet and he could only imagine the look on his face, for Geneva was startled out of her speech enough to address him. "Child…"

Perhaps she expected him to be cowed into kneeling again, but Sebastian was not a simple farmer, numbed enough to accept blasphemy in order to rest. "No, I am not your child. And this is not the message of the loving Andraste. Suspicion and vile gossip? Empty accusation? Incitement to rebellion? These are the things that lead to violence and destruction. You lead your flock astray, Your Grace."

Spinning on his heel, Sebastian left the sanctuary, left the Chantry, a sense of loss and despair coiling in his gut. Others followed, including the farmer's lad. Sebastian bit back an urge to rebuke them. He was not turning his back on the Maker, nor Andraste. It was not his beliefs in question here, but the way the Cleric was twisting the holy words of the Chant.

Behind him, Sebastian could hear the echoing words of the cantor, still singing in the alcove her contribution to the never-ending Chant of Light, begging attention from their withdrawn Maker…"the righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand…"

Oh, Maker, guide me. Please let that have been the right choice.