A/N: Thank you, Super Beta Oleander's One! You are gracious, gorgeous and gifted.
Thank you to all who continue to read, review, alert and favorite Grace's adventures! It's appreciated more than you can know.
The Calm After the Storm
"That is your plan in its entirety? Rush in and brandish your swords about willy-nilly while beating your chests in the hope that you'll scare the man away? Need I remind you the man is a Tevinter Magister?"
Grace smiled patiently. "One cannot brandish a sword about willy-nilly while beating one's chest."
"Unless one wishes to be hoist on one's own petard," Varric agreed with a smug smile pointed in the direction of the seneschal.
"I suggest we confront him in numbers so great he will not dare cast a spell," Fenris proclaimed.
"I do not wish to become repetitive, but the man is a Tevinter Magister. I do not believe he will be traveling sans guards, and I do not relish the idea of his raising an army of undead to fight at his side. At least not in our city. Should he wish to travel to a different location where such actions no longer fall under our jurisdiction, I will be most delighted to offer suggestions as to which spot in the Free Marches best suits his needs."
"Thanks, Bran, you really are such a treasure," Isabela put in, sarcasm twining around her words like honeysuckle to a fence post. She added a saucy grin. "I thought so when you helped me and now you've confirmed it. Such a manly man."
Grace watched as Bran glowered at the former pirate. "If being a manly man includes suicidal missions and brawn over brain, I can only state that such a creature has a very short lifespan."
"If we do not come upon a plan quickly, the whole matter will resolve itself in a most unpleasant way. Now, how many of us are there?" Fenris interrupted, glassy-eyed with determination and a hint of anxiety.
Grace glanced at her friends one by one, and then shook her head. "Not nearly enough. Varric's spy claims the man brought a retinue of sell-swords with him. Although I am loath to admit it, Bran's right. We can't just barge in and hope to overwhelm Danarius and his cohorts. Bran and I will try to enlist Aveline's assistance. In the meantime, Varric, check with Athenril. Maker knows she owes us a fistful of favors. And take the others with you so they don't get into any trouble."
Various heads bobbed their acknowledgement before gathering their weapons.
"We'll meet at Victor and Hugo's place," she instructed.
"The Haunted Hunchback?"
Grace had never even contemplated purchasing that particular tavern. The original owner, a stalwart man of imposing height and a straight back, had refused to spend the money to build a proper establishment. The ceiling was so low that only dwarves were comfortable drinking at the bar, which explained why the miserable old miser had finally sold out.
After ten years of stooping at the bar, he'd become permanently bent and sold the place to Victor and Hugo Bell, short, bellicose men with flaming red hair and tempers to match. They immediately changed the name from the Frosted Mug to the Haunted Hunchback, raised the drink prices but not the ceiling, and boasted that it was the favorite hangout of the Coterie. They did a booming business with dwarves, especially those new surface dwarves who felt intimidated by wide open spaces and high ceilings.
"One hour," she added and, grabbing Bran's hand, strode out into the bright morning. "And we need to stop by the Gallows, as well."
"What an invigorating morning this has become."
"Exactly what I was thinking," Grace replied cheerfully, looping her arm through his as they made their way to the docks. "Welcome to my world."
~~~oOo~~~
"Hawke, proud scion of the Amell family, welcome! In need of a smite? A stay in our luxurious accommodations?"
She was fairly certain she gaped at him because Bran touched her chin and she felt her jaws automatically snap together.
"That's just a little Gallows humor," Cullen added with a smile that erased years from his face.
No matter how many times she had claimed otherwise, Knight-Captain Cullen insisted she was a proud scion. She supposed it was better than calling her a chip off the old block, or a twig from the wrong side of the Amell branch, and he always included a beaming countenance with his remark so she did her best to ignore the guilt such words caused. Proud scion, indeed.
"And now the Champion of Kirkwall. What can I do for you today, Champion?"
"Never again call me that, for one thing."
Cullen's eyes twinkled and his lips twitched. With a formal bow, he replied, "Done. Was that all?"
"No, I need your advice on a matter."
The twinkle in his eyes disappeared and he touched his breastplate, eyes wide. "My advice?"
"Perhaps not advice, perhaps I just need information. But the seneschal and I would prefer to continue this discussion in private."
"In private?" Cullen echoed, his voice a helpless squeak. Color rolled up his neck like a red tide, his puckish charm deserting him like rats from a burning building. Grace watched, fascinated, as the blush deepened and settled in his cheeks. Now here was a man with the coloring to blush and blush well. She could not help but be impressed by the blending of pink and red tones.
"I – I don't know if that's entirely proper, given your reputation with the ..." he began, only to trail off and stare at a point somewhere over her left shoulder, his expression a curious combination of misery and curiosity.
She heard the veriest hint of a snicker from Bran but his face remained perfectly neutral. She admired his fortitude, assuming it was gained through his years of public service. His humor touched an answering spark in her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to prevent the smile that danced in her thoughts from settling on her lips.
"I have no designs upon your person," she began and watched as the color intensified. Oh, she was a cruel woman. Her smile beat at her tightly compressed lips, trying to form, and she dipped her head, attempting to keep those lips from quivering with the effort of holding back the willful smile that struggled for freedom. Might as well hold back the sunrise, she thought with a silent snicker. He was adorable in the way that Sebastian was, and she expected to see him shuffle his feet and duck his head bashfully.
"I knew that! I am just unused to hearing such commands," he replied after what appeared to be a massive effort to fight the red tide and regain his equanimity. "Follow me. And should Knight-Commander Meredith ask, I am merely showing you my collection of Orlesian etchings."
Even Bran, stalwart public servant that he was, could not contain the deep chuckle that followed Cullen's words.
Twenty minutes later, she stepped into a boat. Bran settled on the seat beside her, looking slightly ruffled, which could only mean he was stunned. She placed a hand on his knee and squeezed briefly.
"Buck up, dear seneschal. There is a method to my madness."
"I believe you mean there is mayhem to your madness."
Grace removed her hand and raised her chin. "I believe you have very little faith in me, which is not only hurtful but unfounded. Have I failed in any of my many missions for the viscount's office? Have I failed in any of my missions to aid my friends and companions? Have I not proven my merit time and time again, Seneschal Bran?"
"Time and time again," he agreed, bowing his head slightly, but not before she saw the hint of humor in his amber eyes.
"What is so amusing?"
"You are like the perfect storm, dear heart. I believe I love you quite desperately."
Grace's chin rose another notch. He was having another go at her - making sport of her - and she felt the hot rush of anger churn through her blood. "There is no need to taunt me, Bran."
"Taunt? Truly? I have just given you my heart for safekeeping. How is that taunting? Can you not consider what I have said in the spirit in which it was said?"
Grace stared across the water, watching the buildings and wharves looming ahead of them, unable to concentrate on a single thought because there were dozens of them dancing around in her head at the same time. It wasn't what he'd said that had her blood sprinting in her veins, it was the tone he'd used, so warmly affectionate and suggestive that any thought of rescuing Fenris from the evil clutches of Danarius flew from her head in a flurry of desire.
So much for friendship, she chastised herself sternly, trying to refocus her energy and thoughts on Fenris. Instead, her mind kept returning to Bran's words. Taking a large gulp of air, she fastened a glare on Bran. "I have absolutely no reason for doing so as you are fractious, presumptuous and inflexible."
"Inflexible? I would remind you, Lady Grace, of a certain evening spent in …"
"Immutable, intransigent, obdurate and obstinate!" she interrupted hastily, after noticing the leering boatman, who nearly fell overboard as he tried to listen in to their conversation.
"Because I do not agree with each pearl of wisdom cast from your exquisite lips does not mean I am stubborn, willful, adamantine, or any of the litany of other undesirable attributes you so delight in hurling at my head."
"I cannot, for the life of me, understand why I thought to invite you along."
Bran leaned close, his lips brushing along her rose-tinted cheek. "Can you not?"
"Well, perhaps one."
His lips, still near enough to make her skin tingle, curved upward. She did not look at him, convinced his smile would be smug. Instead, she concentrated on the docks. "We should hurry."
"Hurry all you like, Serah Hawke, you cannot outrun the truth."
~~~oOo~~~
"I order you, in the name of the Chantry, to cease and desist in the use of magic!"
The magister, who was surprisingly drab in his grey hair to his grey beard to his grey robe, glanced over at Cullen - gleaming like a silver virgin in his polished templar plate - as if he was no more than a pesky fly buzzing around the picnic food.
With a flick of his wrist, the magister sent the templar arse over pauldrons. There were several loud and ominous clanks and clunks as metal grated on itself and then hit wood. Grace cringed at the sound and was steeling herself to look at Cullen, persuaded she would see a twisted hunk of metal wearing a templar face on it.
Corff, still standing behind the bar, groaned as the picture of a square-rigged carrack, a special tribute to his favorite pirate, slid down the wall to land on Cullen. "Hurry it up, Hawke, you're making a mess!" Corff growled.
Grace tossed him a confident smile, though she was far from convinced that her plan had any merit whatsoever. "Not to worry!" she announced blithely and drew her sword.
The tavern was filling up with people. For every guard or sell-sword Danarius brought forth, Grace snapped her fingers and two guardsmen stepped into the crowded room, followed by several men of less noble character, wearing the colors of Athenril's smugglers. Fenris was surrounded by his friends, inside a protective bubble of some sort that was provided by Junders's special magic. She did not want to know its origins or why the mage seemed to be arguing with himself.
"Danarius!" Fenris taunted, waving his arms to gain the magister's attention. Grace wanted to reach through the bubble and throttle the elf. Just once, couldn't everyone follow the plan?
Confidently strutting down a short flight of stairs, Danarius moved towards the bubble with a careless, wolfish smile.
"Ah, Leto, my little slave. Come to me now," the magister purred, crooking his finger.
"I don't think he should do that, Hawke. Do you think he should do that? He doesn't look very nice. Not very nice at all. Oh, is he the one who enslaved Fenris?" Merrill chirped, pulling out her penknife and waving it over her arm, prepared to bleed for her friends.
Hadn't Merrill heard Grace's admonition not to use blood magic in the presence of the Knight-Captain? She was sure she had. Her gaze skipped from Cullen to Merrill and back again.
Cullen paled visibly, and she could almost hear his thoughts churning in his head as he pushed himself upright and began to move in Merrill's direction. Grace stepped forward and gave him her most dazzling smile, but it was Sebastian's calming influence and sympathetic smile that calmed the templar.
"Such injustice cannot be overlooked!" thundered Junders in such resonating tones that two more pictures bounced off the walls. Cullen's eyes slid from Merrill to Junders just as Grace's heart slid to her socks.
Bran shook his head and stepped toward Cullen, who was struggling to his feet. "I should have expected that," the templar mumbled in embarrassment, and then straightened up, his armor creaking in protest. Grace wasn't quite sure what he was referring to but she was too happy to see him up and moving in Danarius's direction to ask for clarification. She turned back to the unfolding scene, her eyes widening in shock.
Mayhem. Just as Bran had so astutely stated earlier. The bastard. Grace ran a hand through her hair, the brown buns having long ago given up their place of honor on either side of her head in favor of tumbling around her shoulders like wanton waves of chocolate. Shoulders back, chin up and loins girded, she battled both dastards and dismay.
She also resisted the urgent need to stamp her foot and scream colorful invectives. Instead she gave an ear-splitting, window-demolishing whistle. Three goblets behind the bar shattered in a magnificent shower of crystal, and two of the sell-swords fell to the ground, their hands over their ears, abject terror twisting their features.
"Faith and begorrah, 'tis Banshees!" one screamed above the chaotic cacophony of combat.
Bran turned to her, his face so carefully still that she knew he was helpless with laughter internally. Humiliation became her new friend as every cutting remark Bran had ever uttered whispered in her mind like sand in a gale, excoriating her self-confidence. She would never be more than she was at that moment. Bumbling brawler. Creator of mayhem. How wonderful that she'd invited him along to observe her in all her glory.
Her eyes narrowed and her chin rose. "Ladies," she began with feigned dignity, bowing to Isabela and Merrill, "and gentlemen," she continued, turning to her male companions while ignoring Bran altogether. "Shall we finish this?"
~~~oOo~~~
"My, he certainly looked serene," Aveline remarked as a round of drinks hit the table.
"He was almost too calm. I couldn't get a rise out of him," Isabela pouted.
"That's not calm, that's dead," Junders quipped. Laughter breezed around the table as they all agreed.
"The dead don't breathe. He was just calm," Sebastian intoned.
"Yes, he certainly seemed so. One might even say he looked positively tranquil," Grace snickered.
"I'm not sure how I'll explain his presence in the Gallows, but he will be put to work, never fear."
"Thank you, Ser Cullen."
"It's my duty, Serah Hawke. He was a dangerous apostate," he replied, his left eye closing in a slow wink. "And now, I must return to the Gallows. I believe my longstanding debt to you has been paid."
So saying, he downed his drink of whiskey, gave a full body shiver, and wove his way carefully through the clutter of tables. Silence settled over the group as they all watched him leave. Once the door closed behind the templar, Grace turned to Fenris. "Well, that takes care of your former master. Where's your sister?"
Fenris sighed, shaking his head without speaking. She noted his attempt to look severe, but on a visage where grim lived in happy solitude, he merely looked as if he was suffering from dyspepsia. "I believe she is nearing the shores of Ferelden. From there it is my understanding that her templar guards will be removing her to Kinloch Hold."
"You make it seem as if they are tour guides, not jailors," Grace said, shaking her head. "Still, I appreciate your seeing reason. Killing her would have been downright messy there in the Hanged Man, and poor Corff would have been very upset with us if we'd splashed his walls with red."
"My sister does not bleed red. I believe she has ice in her veins, Hawke."
Hawke did not state the obvious; rather, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek before raising her glass. "To life!"
"The heck with life! To liberty!" Junders roared, lifting his flagon.
"And the pursuit of … happiness," Isabela purred, leaning seductively against her broody elf.
"To not setting Kirkwall on its collective ear for once," Bran offered as he drained his glass of whiskey. "I cannot quite comprehend how that was avoided, given the zeal with which you encouraged this contretemps."
"Contretemps? Really? Not a brannigan? Or maybe a dustup? Or my personal favorite, a rhubarb?" Varric snickered as he ordered another round.
Grace held perfectly still, unsure she'd heard the seneschal correctly. The rescue of Fenris had been an unmitigated disaster and it would take a healthy amount of coin to repair the damages to the Hanged Man. Not to mention the sad state of her tattered pride. Yet here he was, cheeks delicately flushed from whiskey, toasting the success of the mission. She would never understand people in general and men in particular. Or at least this man. She could not contain the prideful wiggle of her shoulders as she sat up and lifted her drink.
"Contretemps does roll off the tongue quite nicely," Aveline remarked to nobody in particular, her mottled red complexion a testament to her drinking prowess. Or lack thereof, Grace amended, turning her face away to hide her grin.
She hadn't expected Aveline to aid in the endeavor. In fact, when Grace had first broached her for assistance, she had been sent away with a stern lecture on becoming a morally upright citizen. How ignoring a friend's plight made one morally upright was not something Grace pondered, because the comment was ludicrous and worthy only of being ignored.
It was Donnic Hendyr who had stood and offered help, giving Aveline a look that would wither glass, had such a thing been possible. He'd announced that his entire evening watch would be there with bells – and armor – on. Aveline's puppy eyes had followed the handsome guard as he marched from the room and then she'd thrown Grace a look of spite with a sprinkling of detestation on it. Grace had merely shrugged, grinning despite her silent admonition not to.
"If you want him, come and get him," she'd taunted and walked out.
Aveline had done just that and now the two of them were making merry with the rest of the group. Which, now that Grace gave it due consideration, probably accounted for the unhandsome blush on Aveline's cheeks.
"How about another round?" Junders roared.
Leaning forward, Grace pried the mage's fingers from the glass and shook her head. "Friends don't let abominations drink, Junders," she said, setting the drink on the table where it found its way into Isabela's hand.
"An unjust remark, Hawke. I am not an abonida – amobina – I'm a spirited mage!"
Laughter rolled around the table like thunder on Sundermount and Grace joined in. She patted Junders's cheek and nodded sympathetically, searching for something soothing to say. Before she could open her mouth, she felt the weight of Bran's hand on her thigh. Any comforting words for Junders flew from her mind and she felt a heat invade her body, her mind turning into a morass of molasses.
"Shall we return to my office? I believe we left a number of items of business unfinished this morning."
"Business? Oh ho! Such a clever tongue," Isabela teased, leaning across the table with a magnificent display of breasts.
"May you never know how true those words are," Grace muttered. She flashed a patently false smile at all. "Yes, shall we?" she agreed as she gathered her sword and lover and lover's sword before exiting her latest acquisition, the Hapless Harridan, with her head held high.
~~~oOo~~~
"The tales told in the dark of night to frighten children are patently false. You're no blackguard for you do have a heart," she claimed some time later. "And when I do this," she continued, letting her fingers play across his chest before tracing a path of dark silky hair down past his navel, "it beats quite quickly."
Bran captured her fingers, bringing them up to his lips and nibbling on them before deftly rolling her onto her back. He dropped her fingers in favor of exploring far greater treasure, forcing a moan from her as his lips traced patterns along her sensitized skin.
"I would ask, your most excellent Excellency, that you consider enlarging your office to include sleeping quarters for those long nights when work prevents you from leaving the keep."
Bran's lips moved north, brushing warmly against her skin as he returned to her lips. Long moments of low, heated moans followed. Finally, leaning up on one elbow, he smiled. "Indeed. A most efficacious suggestion given our current predicament, Serah Hawke," he replied before leaning down and capturing her lips.
"Well, I am a brilliant strategist," she replied, fingers drifting through his dark chestnut hair. Bran did not reply as his mouth was otherwise engaged and Grace shivered while his tongue, lips and teeth played wantonly against her skin.
"A woman utterly devoid of conceit, who practices no fanfaronade," Bran murmured against her skin.
"Indeed," she replied. "There is no need to boast when one is perspicacious."
"As a gentleman, I will not belabor that point."
Laughter lit his eyes and he assiduously avoided eye contact. Before Grace could determine whether to be offended, he spoke again.
"In the meantime, my dear Serah Hawke, shall we retire to the settee?" he asked, showing great wisdom in allowing the matter of her brilliance to drop.
"Soon," she whispered against his lips and drew him down, wrapping herself around him and opening to him. Her heart and mind soared as he joined her and she allowed herself to drop all pretense, all masks.
An hour later, just as they were drifting off in a haze of boneless bliss, a loud knock sounded and they both jumped as they lay on the narrow settee. Grace fell with a resounding thud, Bran doing likewise on the other side of the settee. Their eyes met, his dark with frustration and hers brimming with laughter.
"Grace! Bran! I need your help!" Aveline called stridently through the closed and locked door.
"So much for a respite," Grace muttered, reaching for her hastily discarded armor. "And really, Seneschal Bran, this is hardly the proper place to bring your lover," she teased.
Bran's hand caught hers and he squeezed it, his darkness dissipating. "Any port in a sto –"
"Finish that and death will serve as a reprieve," she growled, her smile growing.
"This could all be avoided if you would consent to marry me."
Grace's sword, newly acquired from a pile of clothes, armor and weapons, slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers.