A/N: Another filler chapter as people move into their respective positions for the next part of the story.
Lisa, I missed you, and am delighted to have you back! Your wonderful touch always clarifies my ramblings.
Prisons Of Our Own Devising
"You are free, Anders. How can you not see that?"
Anders reached out and brushed the dark red strands of hair from Anya's face. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist, her expression earnest. She really didn't understand at all. The knowledge rested heavily in him. How could she know? She'd lived her life able to choose what she wanted, a pampered Orlesian noble.
"I will never be free, love. I've only exchanged one prison for another by joining the Wardens."
He hadn't intended for his words to wound her. In truth, he hadn't meant to speak them at all, but her romantic idealism sometimes blinded her to reality. She had run off to join the Grey Wardens in defiance of her mother's desires for a prestigious marriage. It was only natural that she would see his escape from the Tower and induction into the Grey Wardens in a similar way. He sighed, tamping down his impatience as he strove for a lighter tone. Smiling at her, he once more brushed the strands of hair away from her face.
At times, he felt as if he was walking on the edge of a cliff: one wrong step would send him plummeting down into the darkness. Now was one of those times, and raw panic pushed aside his anger momentarily. He found himself clinging to Anya in those moments, drawing strength from her. It was only when she shifted and sighed that he realized he was holding her as tightly as a drowning man clings to his rescuer. He loosened his hold on her.
She freed herself from his hold. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're afraid of happiness. It's almost as if you don't want to be happy. Perhaps on the surface, yes, but deep down I think you're afraid to believe in it."
She leaned forward, the sweep of her hair a silken curtain that hid her expression, but he didn't need to see it to know she was pulling away from his dark mood. He shook his head, compelling his muscles to relax. He didn't want to face the bleakness of his future without her by his side, yet he seemed intent on pushing her away.
He loved her. He was sure of that. Yet, her naïve romanticism drove him to that brink, that edge of the abyss that he teetered on in those panicked moments when falling, and failing seemed inevitable. How could she believe he was free? How could she believe she was, for that matter? For all her brilliant strategies during the battles of Amaranthine and the Vigil, she was oddly innocent at times. She was a prisoner of the Grey Wardens and the fate of an early death, no children and a life spent in the grimmest of places. How was her life not a prison? Or his, for that matter. He bit back a bitter laugh.
Blinking, he refocused his thoughts. Anya was sliding off the bed, her long legs a pale ivory in the low lighting. She was young and beautiful, unmarred by the violence of their battles with the darkspawn, and she adored him. What was he so afraid of? Why couldn't he let go of his fears and just enjoy the time they had?
Slipping her tunic over her head, she spoke, her words muffled and made mellow by the material. "You're afraid if you let go of your fear that you'll fall in love with me, and you see that as a prison, too."
Her smile, as her head emerged from the tunic, was soft and sad, with a hint of pity in it. His heart twisted and he pulled her into his arms. Yes! You represent everything I shouldn't want and can't have! His mind screamed those words at him and they reverberated in his other thoughts…a great shuddering truth that burned within him.
He settled her head under his chin, breathing deeply in the hope of regaining his equilibrium. "Don't be silly, Annie," he grinned easily, sidestepping her unnervingly accurate statement. "You know I care about you."
Even to him, the words sounded weak and placating. She shrugged out of his arms and her face wore that sad, soft smile again. She wanted to believe in him, almost as badly as he wanted to believe in himself. Tilting her head, she studied him with a grim blue gaze.
"Someday you will regret what you could have had but were afraid to grasp." The words fell between them, spoken without recrimination, but rather in resignation, and that was worse, somehow.
"I know," he whispered at her retreating back. "Maker, I know."
Anders blinked, the memories retreating in the filtered sunlight streaming through the windows. He looked across at the red-haired whore sleeping deeply, curled around the blond male who'd accompanied her. The man stirred, opening an eye and grinning at Anders. The resemblance didn't seem nearly so striking in the harsh morning light as it had in the soft glow of lamplight the night before. Bile rose and he swallowed loudly as he struggled into his clothes. He tossed some gold coins onto the table near the door on his way out.
You do her a grave injustice, Anders.
"You know nothing about it, Justice, so save your lecture," Anders muttered aloud as he hurried along the street, breathing deeply of the morning air. He wanted nothing more than to scrub his skin with lye soap, and to keep scrubbing until the filth that seemed to cling to him was gone.
I know she gave you her heart and you continue to break it even now. I have no need of further information.
Anger surged hotly in Anders as he strode along the nearly deserted streets of the Red Lantern district. "I freed you from your prison, I freed us both," he defended, his voice low and grim, but the words mocked him.
A bird sang a jaunty morning greeting as it passed overhead, and Anders looked up, stumbling to a stop. The illusion of his life crashed into his reality. The prison he had traded Anya for was one he would never be able to escape from. The irony washed over him with the intensity of a storm-driven wave.
~~~oOo~~~
Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows that were set high on the wall. Anya flung an arm over her eyes, groaning at the constant tug of muscles unused to their current position. She sat up with another groan and a great deal of effort.
Flynne was obviously trying to kill her. There could be no other explanation for the iron cage around her leg, tied with leather straps from the ankle all the way up to the top of her thigh. It was hinged at the knee, allowing her some freedom of movement, but it was heavy and awkward. It was a torture device, she was convinced of it. She struggled with the leather ties and then eased her leg out of its iron confines. She grabbed her recalcitrant limb and swung it over the edge of the bed, her good leg following with disheartening ease.
How in the Maker's name was she going to manage three to six months of the contraption she now called the Iron Crucible? That she'd managed to sleep at all was a miracle and now she rested her feet gingerly on the floor before pushing herself upright.
Somehow, she'd expected instant results and not finding them made her feel as though she'd failed a test of some kind. Chiding herself, she limped to the washstand and began her morning ablutions. What would Nathaniel make of it, she wondered? Would he see it as one more foolish attempt at healing herself of something that went beyond the physical scarring? Would he be repulsed by it?
Andraste's Grace, it didn't matter! She slammed her silver-handled brush onto the washstand, suddenly furious with herself for pandering to such demoralizing thoughts. She would never break free of Anders if she didn't let go of the self-pity and the foolish notion that her life would ever be the same again.
She had captured that feeling briefly - the liberating acceptance of all that had happened and all the heady promises that life still offered - but it was such a fleeting creature; gossamer wings of reality that beat against the dreams and hopes that still bound her to another life.
The future would never reveal itself if she stayed planted so firmly in the past, or in a field of regrets. She made her way downstairs and sat in surprising solitude in the dining hall. The entire Dryden clan seemed elsewhere and she accepted the silence gratefully.
Flynne and Carver were waiting for her in the stables. Levi Dryden came out of the keep to say his farewells as Anya tied the Iron Crucible onto the back of her horse.
"Look for the troops to arrive within the week, Levi. Until then, keep a lookout in the tower. If soldiers approach who aren't flying our colors, close the steel gates into the tunnels and send someone to us via the north wall," she instructed the lanky tradesman.
"Well, now, Commander Annie, I know all of that. I won't let anything happen to Warden's Keep, that's a Dryden promise," Levi said, his exuberant voice booming in the quiet stable.
"I suspect you have a network of family members throughout Ferelden that keep you better informed than most of us. Still, I wouldn't want anything to happen to any of you here," she answered, guiding her horse out of the stable.
Levi shook his head. "We Drydens are tough. No need to worry, Commander Annie," he boasted with a hearty wave as Anya and her Wardens entered the tunnels leading away from Soldier's Peak.
Anya had learned the shortest route through the tunnels, knew the secret panels of stone that parted when the pulleys were activated, and the hidden passages that shortened the trek, so it took them less than twenty minutes to make their way out of the tunnels and into the bright sunshine.
After the dank, musty tunnels, lit only by the bare minimum of flickering, oil-soaked torches, the sun's warmth on her skin felt like a benediction from the Maker. She raised her face and breathed in the sweetly-scented air. Leaves rustled in a murmuring wind as the gentle caress of the warmth of the day seeped into her bones. Standing in a bright shaft of sunlight, she had a blinding flash of insight. Freedom must feel the same way. Had Anders experienced such emotions with each escape? She stumbled at the thought, her breath catching painfully.
He had once accused her of not understanding just how fragile freedom was, how indefatigable he would be in maintaining his. As understanding flowed into her, she blinked, looking at the two men who accompanied her, seeing their own battles clearly for the first time.
Flynne had fought for his freedom his entire adult life, fearing the arrival of templars who would take that freedom from him. He spent every day in a prison as harsh and unforgiving as any dreamt up by the templars and Chantry, but with the illusion of choice, of freedom. Was he any freer now that he was a Warden and no longer had to hide the fact that he was a mage?
Beside Flynne, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at something the mage had said, Carver glanced over at her and flashed a brilliant smile. She was amazed at how relaxed and happy the young man seemed. It was, she had no doubt, the fact that he was finally free of his sister's shadow, a prison no less damning than one made of thick walls and iron bars. Was he as free as he believed himself to be? She hoped so.
Her thoughts flickered to Anders. He had given his freedom away because he hadn't accepted that he was as free as any mortal could be. Life dictated certain prisons, if one looked at them that way. True freedom was the absence of fear and regret, she realized, wondering if he had any idea what he had thrown away. Yet, she could not be angry with him because he had given her freedom of a different kind; the freedom to love again, to give herself freely to Nathaniel.
Feeling the tension in her shoulders drop away, she straightened to her full height and grinned at her Wardens. "Last one to the Hog's Breath buys the first round of ale!" she called as she pulled herself into the saddle and dug in her heels.
She heard Flynne's yell of surprise and she cast a quick glance behind her to see both men in pursuit, yelling at each other as they tried to overtake her. Her laughter caught on the wind and sailed behind her as she leaned low against her horse's neck.
Flynne, rubbing a sore backside, bought their first round of ale. "Had I known the bloody tavern was a six hour ride, I'd have damned you to the Maker before accepting your challenge," he grumbled good-naturedly.
"And if I'd known that Maker-damned Iron Crucible was going to be such agony, I'd have left you in the care of Levi Dryden and his family."
"Maker forefend," he replied with a grimace. "Each time I was convinced I'd met every last Dryden, another popped out of the nowhere and into the here. They're all wonderful, boisterous, happy people, but Andraste's Arse, they are legion!"
Anya, thinking of her own family, both the Wardens and the Carons, smiled, feeling wistful and nostalgic.
"Come on, Magey, don't tell me you're afraid of a few Drydens," Carver jibed, poking the mage on the arm.
"Magey? Seriously? Listen, you big, lumbering lummox, I have a name and it isn't Magey."
"Lummox? That's the best you can do? I'm really disappointed, you prattling little prig."
Their good-natured bickering flowed over her like a warm breeze, and the smile that rested on her lips was bright with unexpected happiness. There was so much to do but the trip to Soldier's Peak had brought a deeper sense of peace and understanding than she had anticipated and she knew that the future held great things for her, should she be willing to let go of her fears and insecurities.
She believed she was ready to do just that.
~~~oOo~~~
Rolling over, Margaret flung an arm over her eyes to block out the bright sunshine intent on disturbing her sleep. The day ahead promised to be long and unpleasant; she felt no compunction to begin it. Closing her eyes, she drifted in the hazy place between waking and sleeping, recalling the night before.
She could still smell the musky scent of Fenris on the pillow beside her, could still feel the warmth of his touch on her skin, for all that he had left in the deepest part of the night. She wondered if he would ever consent to spending an entire night with her, of letting the world see that they loved each other. That seemed highly unlikely and she smiled as she pushed the covers aside and rose.
A yawn overtook her smile, and she stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of muscles. The arrival of the Viscount's mouthpiece the night before had been an unwelcome surprise, and she'd been sure that Fenris would turn around and march out of the estate without a backward glance. That he had, instead, consented to stay for the meeting with Seneschal Bran was a huge step, and she closed her eyes, her smile widening at the look of fear hastily covered by polite indifference that had crossed the seneschal's face when Fenris had entered the study at her side.
They were set to hike out to the Wounded Coast in search of Saemus Dumar, who had once again defied his father to go in search of freedom, and a life without constraints. He'd sworn to join the Qun when he'd finished his sabbatical, an act that would set Kirkwall on its respective ear. Or so claimed Viscount Dumar, and his mouthpiece, Seneschal Bran. Margaret wasn't convinced of that and felt that Dumar was merely afraid of the political fallout.
The Arishok, for all his protestations to the contrary, wouldn't mind having Saemus Dumar as a Viddathari, she was sure. The leader of the Qunari presence in Kirkwall was their first stop in their search for Saemus, on the off chance that he had gone directly to the Qunari compound rather than the coast. Margaret doubted that was the case as it seemed as though Saemus was crying out for his father's attention. A jaunt to the coast to say good-bye to his friend who'd been murdered there, seemed just such an attention-seeking act. At least she hoped that was the case.
In assisting the viscount several years earlier, she had never suspected that she'd somehow become his confidant or assistant. She was smart enough to know that her position as a mage was precarious in a city-state practically run by templars, and that at any moment she could be rounded up and tossed into the Gallows, and the brutally run Circle of Magi. Now, as she dressed, she wondered if she hadn't inadvertently stepped into a different type of prison after all.
Stuffing items into her pack, she glanced longingly at her bed. They would be gone for several days, if they were lucky, and she was already growing soft in her new life. She stopped by her mother's room, resting a hand lightly on the closed door. Had Carver received the news about their mother's death yet? Would he come storming across the Waking Sea to hurl epithets at her? Would he break what little contact they had? Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against the cool wood.
The wounds were so easily opened, the grief and anguish bubbling just below the surface. Their parting conversation still echoed in the back of her head, rattling around like an unspoken accusation. If Carver came storming across the Waking Sea it would seem only right, somehow. She had not protected their mother as she had promised she would.
"Lady Margaret? Sorry to disturb you, but Serahs Varric and Fenris have arrived."
"Thank you, Bodahn. Have you seen Anders this morning?"
"No, not even at breakfast," Bodahn said, clearly puzzled by the man's absence.
The relief she felt only added to the growing knot of daily guilt she struggled with. She should be concerned about Anders; he was in a very fragile and vulnerable state. She should be helping him find some sort of peace, not humming under her breath as her mood lightened because he wasn't there.
"Hey, Hawke, where's Blondie? Isn't he going with us?" Varric asked, hefting his pack onto his shoulder, carefully shifting Bianca out of the way.
"No, he is not," Fenris answered firmly, without a glance at her. She rolled her eyes and Varric grinned at her.
"I guess we know who's leading this trip," Varric snickered.
Fenris raised an eyebrow before assisting Margaret with her pack. "Margaret will lead, as she always does, Dwarf," he said seriously, oblivious to the authoritative tone of his voice, which caused Margaret and Varric to laugh.
"Right, I knew that. Why would I think the broody elf would lead? I mean, just because he's decided who is going on this little jaunt and who isn't…" Varric trailed off with a broad grin.
"You are a strange little man, Dwarf. I merely echoed Margaret's sentiments from last night," Fenris said in his defense, causing both Margaret and Varric to laugh again. Lifting his brow again, Fenris turned his gaze on Margaret.
"Am I truly that dictatorial?" he asked.
"And tyrannical," she added, placing a hand against his cheek, even knowing a public display of any kind embarrassed him. A slow blush seeped into Fenris's cheeks and his eyes dropped to the carpeted floor.
"I apologize," he said sincerely.
"Oh, Fenris, I'm teasing. Well, not entirely, but mostly," she added with another smile. She stroked his cheek with light fingers before she stepped back.
"Sebastian will meet us at the western stairs," she said, settling her pack more comfortably.
The day was crisp and cool, a light breeze toying with a few loose strands of her hair as they walked briskly along the cobblestoned street. With each step she took, she felt the guilt and grief receding. As the distance grew, it came to her that the estate her mother had so desperately wanted to reclaim was little more than a prison for her. The memories of a life lived in the house were not hers and would never be hers, no matter how long she lived there.
Not for the first time, she considered giving the mansion to Gamlen in exchange for the hovel that had been her home when they'd first arrived in Kirkwall. While she didn't miss the smell or the rough planked floors, or even the hard cot she'd called a bed, she missed the freedom of coming and going without concern for appearances. She missed the easy camaraderie of people in Lowtown. Not that Gamlen wanted anything to do with the Amell Estate. He had far too many bad memories of the place to ever do more than visit, occasionally spending the night if she pushed him hard enough to do so. No, the estate was hers, and for her mother's sake, she knew she couldn't sell it.
Glancing at Fenris, who was listening intently to Varric, she smiled softly. No doubt if she lived in Lowtown, Fenris would not be so concerned about staying the entire night, either. He worried far too much about her reputation, about whether he was good enough for her, about his lack of prospects. She sighed, realizing that he would never leave his shabby excuse for an estate. At least not until Danarius was dead and gone.
After a quick stop at the Qunari compound, where they were greeted with icy stares and implacable will, they continued on. The Arishok had not come out to greet them, as had become his custom, and that made Margaret unaccountably nervous. They were assured that Saemus was not in the compound, nor had he been for the past several days. Again, Margaret's nerves twisted and tightened.
Leaving the compound behind them, they quickened their steps, as if they were all relieved to be away from a place that seemed so oppressive. They didn't speak at all, and Margaret was lost in thought. It struck her, as they stopped to greet Sebastian a short time later, that she and Fenris were both hostages to the past. She hoped, given time, that she would be able to leave Kirkwall without the guilt overwhelming her and swallowing her whole. She also hoped, for Fenris's sake, that he would sever the hold that Danarius still had over him. She might as well hope that Anders could rid himself of the spirit that possessed him.
Was everyone subject to some form of prison, she wondered as Sebastian fell into step beside her. Was Sebastian a prisoner of the Chantry? Of Starkhaven? He seemed so sure of his role at times. Yet, at other times he seemed completely lost as to what he should do.
"Do you ever wish you had a different life?" she asked him as they left Kirkwall behind and struck out for the coastal approach.
"Aye, Margaret. Do you not wish the same, at times? But the Maker sets our path and we must walk it, no matter how many obstacles are set before us."
"That's oddly reassuring and frightening at the same time. I'd like to think we are creatures of free will and that our path is not set in stone, but rather in sand that blows and shifts constantly."
"Wow, Hawke, that's profound," Varric breathed. "And we do have free will. Well, except the wealthy, the tainted, the nobility, the possessed, members of the Chantry…" Varric paused and shrugged. "They all answer to someone else."
"I have seen what free will produces," Fenris interjected, his voice cold and hard. "Free will is an excuse men use in order to justify their most base and depraved actions."
"That's not free will, Fenris. That's a lust for power and a sickness that has nothing to do with free will at all," Margaret protested.
"Does it not? How interesting that a man would choose to treat a fellow man in such a manner without free will. Are you saying it is the will of the Maker that makes a man behave thusly?" Fenris replied.
She sighed. His hatred held him in a prison no less fortified than the mansion that imprisoned her. Would he ever realize that? Shrugging, she continued on, letting the conversation falter into silence as they walked.
Stopping for a midday meal several hours later, Sebastian offered a blessing and they ate in silence. Fenris, sitting at her side, offered her a drink from his waterskin. Their fingers brushed lightly against each other. The lyrium in his branding hummed softly to her and she felt the deep thrum in her blood as her magic responded. No matter how high the prison walls were that isolated each of them, somehow they had found each other and she glanced at Varric and Sebastian. For whatever reason, they had been brought together and become bound to each other by ties that ignored their individual prison walls. The thought brought a smile to her lips and a lightness to her step as they set off once again.
~~~oOo~~~
"Well, find out when he was last seen!" Nathaniel growled, his anger held in check by the merest thread.
The captain nodded, bobbed, nodded again. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting left and right, clearly terrified of Nathaniel's wrath. Nathaniel scrubbed at his face and took a deep breath. Obviously the man had been mistreated by his father, but when would everyone realize that he was not his father? That he could, and did, control his temper. Usually. His lips curled into a smile that felt unnatural, but seemed to reassure the captain.
"I will report back as soon as I know anything, my lord," the man said quickly and spun on his heel, marching quickly out of the office.
Anger limned Nathaniel's nerves, stretching them taut. He turned to Varel, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "That captain needs to be replaced with someone who isn't afraid of his own shadow."
Varel's iron-grey brows pulled together as he frowned. "It isn't a shadow the man is afraid of, Warden Nathaniel."
Nathaniel's eyebrow shot up at that. "The unspoken accusation is that he is afraid of me?"
"As you say."
"Damn the Maker's eyes, I am not my father!" Nathaniel thundered.
Silence fell in the room following his outburst and he was stunned by not only his words, but his tone. Varel shook his head. "You are worried about Commander Anya, I know that, Nathaniel. As am I. But you won't find answers by bullying everyone. You know that. Your skill as an interrogator lies in your ability to remain calm and detached."
He didn't need Varel's words to remind him how out of control he'd become since discovering Harker and Windhym had met several times a week. But they steadied him and he was grateful for that. "You're right," he admitted sheepishly. "I'm better than that. What would make Harker turn? Any ideas?"
"He was a good soldier, loyal to Amaranthine. Whatever caused his betrayal must have been –" Varel began but Nathaniel cut him off.
"Loyal to Amaranthine or the former Arl of Amaranthine? Could he have been part of Bann Esmerelle's conspiracy to kill Anya when she first arrived?"
Varel's frown deepened. "He was loyal to the people of the arling. He had no love for Esmerelle or your father."
"Something caused his betrayal. If we knew what, it might lead us to who."
Anger gave way to frustration as Nathaniel stared out at the men mustering in the courtyard. Who was loyal? Who wasn't? Was Anya the target because she was the Arlessa of Amaranthine? An Orlesian? A Grey Warden? Were those intent on harming her loyal to Anora? To Rendon? Was it someone who had lost a loved one in a failed Joining? The more he tried to sort out the list of suspects, the longer the list became.
He was convinced it had something to do with Anora, Empress Celene, the group who had poisoned him, and Anya's family ties. Were the Nevarrans after something? And was Kirkwall just a convenient meeting place for whoever was involved? Maker knew it was easy enough to bring in a large army without notice down in Lowtown and Darktown.
Sighing to release the tension knotting his neck, he leaned against the cool windowpane. Without knowing who it was, he wondered how he could keep Anya safe,. or at least help her unravel the mystery. He'd realized almost too late that she didn't need his protection, she needed his trust, just as he needed hers.
The large studded gates slowly opened and Nathaniel felt his neck muscles forming into knots once more. It was too early for Anya to be returning. A runner clamored down the watchtower's twisting stairs and dashed across the courtyard. Nathaniel met him at the main door.
"Warden colors on the road," the runner wheezed, trying to catch his breath.
"Warden Sigrun's party or Commander Anya's?" Nathaniel asked sharply.
"A cart, ser. I reckon it's Warden Sigrun."
"How many traveling with her?"
"Looks to be the soldiers as went with her and Warden Sarhal, another in the cart and one other riding with the column. If I saw right, ser, he was a templar judging by the glare coming off his armor." There was a hint of a smirk in the young man's voice.
Disappointment lanced through Nathaniel, but he was already moving through the Vigil, issuing orders. At least they had a templar in their ranks again. Hopefully a trustworthy one. "Thank you, Arden. Stop by the kitchen before you return to your post."
"Thank you, Ser Warden," the runner said with a deferential bob.
It was another hour before the cart clattered to a stop in the courtyard. Sigrun jumped down, landing nimbly on her feet. Nathaniel, coming outside to greet them, squinted in the late afternoon sun. She looked as perky as ever and he realized he'd missed her.
She slanted a smile at him and then glanced around. "Where's the real boss?" she asked impudently.
"You're looking at him until the commander returns from Soldier's Peak," he informed her.
"What's she doing there? How was Denerim? What'd I miss this time?" she asked, her smile dimming at the news.
He greeted the new recruits - a newly harrowed mage named Chandal, and a tall, blonde templar named Caedmon – as warmly as he could, but his mind was still focused on the events of the past ten days. Instructing a servant to show the new recruits to their rooms, he explained that their Joining would be the following morning.
Once the Wardens were alone, he filled Sigrun and Sarhal in on the trip to Denerim and the defection of both Windhym and Harker. Relating the story made Nathaniel realize just how tangled the strands had become. It was entirely possible that more than one group was trying to kill Anya. That was not a reassuring thought.
A short time later, he strode out of his office, taking the stairs two at a time as he climbed up, past the living quarters and the attics, to step into the fresh air. Long, golden streaks of sun dappled the darkening violet sky as dusk settled over the Vigil. He stood on the upper rampart, watching the world slowly move into darkness. A lone eagle dipped a white-tipped wing at him, gliding on an updraft.
Reflecting on the day's events, he wondered when Anya would return and how he could keep her close without imprisoning her. It came to him, as he watched the eagle soar out of sight in the gathering gloom, that to keep her a prisoner would break her spirit. He would have to let her fly free if he had any hope of keeping her in his life.
He shivered as the wind rose, pushing leaves along the courtyard below and ruffling his hair. But he'd be Maker-damned if he'd let her travel without him again.
