A/N: Thank you, Lisa, for your wonderful beta skills and your friendship.
Sorry for the delay in chapters. I won't bore you with reasons or excuses, but it feels good to be writing again.

Crossing the Bitter Divide

The Vigil rose in the distance like an old, weathered friend. Spires and turrets, capped in rust-colored tiles that sat atop silvered stone, stretched up to greet a bright blue sky. Relief brought a grin to Anya's lips. It felt as if she'd been away for months. Was Sigrun back? Had she found recruits? Was the arling in good order? Had Gideon gone to the islands with a scouting party? Her heart and mind raced. Home and hearth and family waited.

"Last one to the Vigil buys the first round!" Anya cried, echoing her challenge from days earlier as she spurred her horse.

By little more than a length, Flynne won, his triumphant crow reverberating off the stone walls of the keep as he slipped out of the saddle. And then she was surrounded by her Wardens and her laughter added to the general cacophony as shouts and greetings were exchanged. Voices and smiles - and a sober Varel with his formal dignity – filled the courtyard.

Anya scanned the assemblage, her eyes settling finally on a lone figure. Nathaniel stood back, almost in shadow, grey eyes studying her, expression solemn. She flashed him a bright smile and then turned to hug Sigrun, but not before she saw him nod, a smile almost visible.

"Ancestor's ass, woman, what is that contraption?" Sigrun bleated, pointing at the leg brace tied to Anya's saddle. "Some weird chastity belt?" she added with a boisterous laugh. "Too late if it is," she snorted.

"It's an instrument of torture for impertinent Grey Wardens," Anya replied, winking at her dwarven friend.

"Guess it's a good thing I'm pert, never impertinent."

"You keep telling yourself that, Sigrun, and we may believe you one day."

Anya made her way through the throng to stand in front of Varel, who bowed slightly. "Commander, welcome home."

"Thank you, Varel. How've things been here? I'll expect a briefing in my office in thirty minutes."

She would much prefer to go upstairs, have a long soak in a hot tub and an even longer nap in her bed, but that wasn't possible. She cast a glance at Nathaniel, who was discussing something with Flynne. He looked over and caught her eye, a barely discernible smile flitting across his features, before he turned his attention to the mage again.

Making her way up the stairs, she automatically turned down the hall to her old rooms and it was only a deep chuckle that made her alter her course. "Nathaniel," she murmured softly, her heart and breath quickening. "You've oiled your leathers," she continued with a smile.

His arms pulled her close, and his breath ruffled her hair as he held her. "Anya," he answered, before tipping her chin up and capturing her lips with his.

They stood in silence, their bodies adjusting to each other once again and then made their way to their rooms, arm in arm. "Thirty minutes? You couldn't have said an hour or two?" he asked as they entered their chambers.

"My thought was to get it over with so that we'd have the rest of the day to catch up. Not one of my better plans, I'll admit," she added with a smile. Then, with an indrawn breath, she spoke again.

"Nathaniel, I have had time to think, and I –"

"Anya, I realized that I –" Nathaniel began in the same moment.

"You first," Anya urged, pulling Nathaniel to the small sitting area. They sat in the matching chairs placed before the fireplace, facing each other, and she felt unreasonably anxious in those few moments before Nathaniel began to speak.

"I've been too possessive of you, I see that. I don't want to own you, Anya, I just don't want to lose you," he explained, his voice low and far more emotional than she was used to hearing. Her nerves fell away as she reached across the small distance between them, taking his hand in hers and encouraging him to continue.

"I have waited a lifetime for you, or so it seems, but I understand you don't need an overprotective lover; you need a companion, an equal. I can't promise to change overnight, or even in a week or a month, but I can promise to try, and to love you with open hands. I'll need to be reminded occasionally, I have no doubt," he added with a dark smile. "I've lost enough in my life to guard what I still have. Del will attest to that."

She leaned closer, bridging the gap between them and raising her other hand to brush back his dark tumble of hair before allowing herself the pleasure of caressing his firm jaw with fingers tickled by his stubble. He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her touch before straightening.

"Thank you, Nathaniel. I've discovered so many things about myself that I hardly know where to begin. You were right when you accused me of seeing you in the same light as I saw Anders, perhaps not in the way you meant it, but it was true enough. I'm sorry for that because you are not in the least like Anders.

"But I am so scarred…so flawed. I grew up in a culture that demands perfection in all aspects of life. I'm not who I once was, obviously, and there are times when I am terrified that you will see just how imperfect I am…how deformed. This fear of being broken even further comes in and takes control, making me irrationally angry and clingy one minute and aloof the next. It isn't your fault that I'm more vain than I realized, or that I'm a bigger coward than anyone believes me to be. I don't think I appreciated just how much damage Anders did, both physically and emotionally. Maybe now that I do, there's hope.

"I will try to let go of the fear, but sometimes you'll have to remind me that I may not look as I did before, but I'm still the same person, made stronger through all of this. I will try to trust you to be there when I fall, but I need to learn to rely on myself as well. I need to remember how to walk beside you and not lean so heavily on you in one breath and run from you in the next."

He came to kneel beside her chair, grey eyes searching. "I love you, Anya, and I don't see the imperfections that you see. I see only that you survived, and your scars remind me of how strong you are, how bravely you fought for your life. You are beautiful, not despite your scars, but because of them," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She knew he believed his words; there was a fervency in his tone that brought peace to her, allowing her to exhale a breath held captive by anxiety. The chasm between them had been bridged, and for now, it was enough. Time would tell if they had both learned from their experiences.

A short time later, she sat at her desk, listening to Nathaniel's detailed account of recent events. Varel stood near her desk, hands clasped behind his back as he listened, although she sensed he'd already heard the information before.

"Harker? Truly? He seemed quite content here. Why would he and Windhym be working together? To what end?"

"More importantly, just how many groups are spying on you and why?" Varel interjected. "Are they separate or working for one common goal?"

"The Brotherhood of the Wolf is an expensive band of mercenaries. Were they after me or Pentaghast? I can't imagine why anyone would want to harm me or watch me, for that matter."

"It might have something to do with your family. You're all in the line of succession, aren't you?"

Anya chuckled at that. "The last time I was notified, I was thirty-seventh in line to the throne; my family would all have to die, as would a large number of aunts, uncles and cousins. I don't think that's what's going on. Perhaps they are agents of Cousin Etienne, who is actually a great-uncle, if memory serves. There are so many of us, it is just easier to call them cousins," she admitted with a wry smile.

"What of the islands and the pirates attacking Amaranthine's ships?" she continued, glancing at Varel.

"Warden Gideon and a squad of men are still scouting the area, Commander Anya. I expect their return within the next day or two."

"Any word from Teyrn Fergus?"

Nathaniel nodded, pointing to the pile of unread messages that were stacked with great precision on her desk. "They are arranged in order of receipt," he explained.

"You could have opened them, Nathaniel. Or you, Varel."

"Opened correspondence is in the stack on the left. Those were urgent matters regarding the Grey Wardens or the arling," Varel intoned.

Anya reached out and plucked the first letter from the stack, reading the sender's name with a sense of dread. Breaking the seal, she opened the letter and scanned the missive. Her heart sank and she felt the scalding heat of tears in the back of her throat.

"Andraste's grace," she whispered, setting the letter aside with shaking hands. "Fetch Carver, Varel. And a bottle of whiskey."

Nathaniel moved to her side, frowning. "What is it?"

"Leandra Hawke was murdered. Margaret has asked that we send Carver to her so she can give him the details."

"Will you be sending him?"

Anya rubbed her forehead with trembling fingers. No matter how often she had to relay such news to people, she never got used to it. Carver would be furious with himself, she had no doubt. He would also be devastated and was likely to pick a fight with someone, if she knew him at all.

"I need to go to Kirkwall to follow up on some leads. I'll accompany him. From there we'll be traveling to Val Royeaux. I need to speak with a number of people there, some of whom are, or were, good friends."

"Just the two of you?" Nathaniel asked, his voice carefully neutral. She looked at him and saw the struggle in him not to demand he go in her stead, or that he accompany them. Her lips twitched and she lowered her head for a minute so he wouldn't see her smile.

"No, not alone. I thought to bring Flynne with me, he's proven quite useful."

Continuing to watch him through the fringe of her eye-lashes, she saw his disappointment warring with his need to protect her, as well as his need to let her walk her own path. She almost smiled at the emotions flickering across his austere face, like a candle's flame caught in a breeze. Raising her head, she met his intent gaze.

"I'll need someone who is good at getting into places he ought not to be in, as well," she added, once again lowering her eyes to examine her desktop. "Of course, I can't keep taking the Second with me, or there's no point in having one."

"If there is a regulation that prevents you from having more than one Second, I'll resign," he said promptly.

"Nathaniel," she began, but he was already striding from her office.

"I never wanted to be your Second, anyway," he added over his shoulder. "I recommend Sigrun."

As Anya had also considered that very thing, she remained silent. It wasn't until he had returned to her office, resignation letter in hand, ink barely dry, that she continued.

"While I was at Soldier's Peak I sent a letter to King Alistair, recommending that the Howe family be reinstated as the ruling family of the arling. I advised him that the Grey Wardens will remain a strong presence in Ferelden, and that they should have a non-voting seat in the Landsmeet, reminding him that overseeing the arling represents a violation of the principles governing the neutrality of the Wardens.

"I've sent a copy to the First Warden, as well. There's a good chance that whoever my Second is will become the Warden Commander of Ferelden in the near future. Are you sure you want to resign?" she asked, smiling up at him.

"Why would you do that?" Nathaniel asked with quiet intensity.

"Because I am being used as a pawn in a political game that I refuse to play. Because, in addition to the manipulations and machinations of my cousin, I am being played by old friends, as well as the one group I was sure was incorruptible. And because I will play the Grand Game my way, or not at all."

"Andraste's grace, Anya, you've made yourself an even bigger target for whoever it is that's after you."

She raised a brow, her smile still curving her lips upward. "Indeed? Why would I want to do that?" she agreed. "Certainly not to flush out those who are holding the strings in this puppet show."

The bravado of her statement fell away and she waited with a wariness she didn't want to feel, staring at her hands, now clasped and sitting on her desk with a will of their own. She expected him to argue with her, to demand she stop being so foolish.

"Why would you recommend a Howe become the arl or arlessa again?" he asked, fixing on the one thing she was sure he would ignore.

"Because the Howes are deserving of that title. By now the people of this arling, and Ferelden - especially the nobles - understand that your father acted on his own, and that you and Delilah are decent, honest people, worthy of reclaiming your legacy."

Nathaniel's grey eyes widened with a look of panic quickly replaced by one of implacability. "Del, yes, but not me."

"You don't think you've behaved in an honorable and worthy manner?" Anya asked with surprise that was edged with sadness.

Would he ever see himself as a noble man? A man of integrity? Or would he always wear the mantle of his dead father? Would he always live in the shadow of Rendon Howe? Sighing, she pushed back her chair and moved around the desk to stand before him. Now was not the time for that battle, but she spoke anyway.

"Nathaniel, you deserve to be the Arl of Amaranthine. You have been nothing but honorable, and you helped save the city of Amaranthine, as well as helping to kill the Architect. Or have you forgotten all that?" she asked softly, reaching out to caress his cheek. "You must be aware that the people of this arling respect you."

"We've had this discussion a time or two," he replied dryly. "We both know what the other will say by this point, so let's just drop it for now. Besides, this conversation is a bit premature. Alistair has no use for any Howe. I don't foresee that changing because you want it to."

"We'll have several days at sea to discuss it further. Now, as my former Second, please find Sigrun and inform her of your resignation. Then send her here. But not too quickly, I want to speak with Carver, first."

She sat down and rubbed wearily at her forehead, where a headache was determined to take hold. Carver entered after a loud thump on her door, his long legs quickly crossing the room. He stood stiffly in front of her desk, eyes forward in the perfect posture of a subordinate soldier.

"Sit down, Carver. I am afraid I have some bad news."

~~~oOo~~~

"We'll head back tomorrow morning. There's no point in continuing to search for the boy if he doesn't want to be found."

Margaret's disappointment and frustration were mirrored in the expressions of her companions. Finally, Varric shrugged, his smile crinkling his eyes. "The 'boy' is almost twenty, Hawke. Chances are he took some of Daddy's gold and bought himself a companion for the week. We'll probably get back to Kirkwall and find he's already home."

They had spent a week on the Wounded Coast, searching for Saemus Dumar and finding nothing but bandits and Tal-Vashoth instead. They'd eluded some, killed others, and still found no trace of the viscount's son. With a grim smile, she looked at her companions and said, "What a waste of time and energy. It's almost as if someone wanted us out of the city, though I can't imagine why."

Sebastian's vivid blue eyes narrowed as he considered. "You have a great deal of influence in the political arena, Hawke. Perhaps it's someone who wanted a favor they knew you would oppose?"

Margaret laughed softly, without humor. "I am not that important, nor do I have the influence you think I do, Sebastian. Still, it's curious. If I find out it was a wild goose-chase, I'll be relentless in pursuing whoever it is that arranged it."

She stirred the bubbling stew, grimacing. Another night of rabbit stew with more flour than spice, more wild onion than potatoes. Maker, she missed the comforts of home and the hot, fragrant meals that were served regularly. Andraste's grace, she hadn't really thought that, had she? She was growing soft, living in Hightown, and the resentment that slept just below the surface began to awaken. She wondered what she could do with the Amell house, because she no longer had any desire to live in it.

Fenris gave snort of derision before speaking. "I am in agreement with Sebastian. The intrigues and maneuverings of the nobles in order to curry favor and prestige stop at nothing, including using other nobles to achieve such things," he said contemptuously. "Should you find the person responsible, consider permitting me to deliver your message of retribution."

Margaret smiled, humor finally filtering through the resentment and weariness. She lifted her eyes from the pot to glance up at Fenris, who wore his contempt for nobles like a brightly lit lantern.

"Yes, what a wonderful idea. Maybe we can plan a formal ball, invite them all over and you can go along the receiving line eviscerating anyone who even dares look shifty or dishonest," she teased, tossing him the last of the hardtack. He caught it with a graceful flick of his wrist, and, while the others laughed, he merely grunted softly, but his eyes softened.

"Besides, it's a welcome diversion in a way," she admitted honestly. "For all my grumbling, there is something oddly restful about being away from the city."

She discovered, as she sat down to eat the meager stew, that the guilt that gnawed with hungry fingers at her had receded, slipping into the shadows and giving her a respite. Glancing around at the others, she felt a wave of affection roll over her, through her. She leaned her head back, resting it against the gnarled trunk of the tree she sat beneath, breathing deeply. The scent of distant rain and salt water hung lightly in the air and the low roar of the surf as it met the shore was soporific. She felt warm and drowsy and content.

"Tell us a story, Varric?" she asked around a yawn. Fenris settled beside her, silent and watchful. She felt his fingers brush against her arm, but knew that he would not show any overt affection in front of the others and she would not push him to do so.

"Tame or wild?" the dwarf asked, grinning. He stroked his chin, where his stubble was beginning to look more like a beard, which he hated. "Hmph. With Choir Boy here, I'll make it tame. Don't want to be the cause of his heart failure."

Laughter filled the air and Sebastian had the grace to join in. "I knew a woman who went by the name of Blue Eyes. Damned if her eyes weren't the color of the sky in spring," he began, his voice low and evocative, nuanced in the way only a great storyteller could manage.

Her eyes closing, she let his words drift around her, not really hearing them. Carver would have received her message by now. Would he sail across the Waking Sea to tear into her? Would he even speak to her? Would he resent her for not coming in person to tell him? Why hadn't she done that? The answer slapped at her, once more stirring the guilt and resentment. I'm a coward, that's why, she castigated herself. But the distance between them was becoming insurmountable. She should have gone to Amaranthine and told him herself, rather than sending a message to his commander so that she could break the news.

The ocean's roar increased as the tide came in and she listened carefully, sure she could hear Carver's angry voice in every wave that hit the shore. The calm that had settled over her dissipated like morning fog, leaving her chilled and disquieted. Fenris leaned closer and whispered softly, "You are unwell or unhappy?"

She was startled by his perception and she turned her head to look at him in the gloom. His hair, a silver beacon against the night, caught her attention and she had an overpowering need to touch him, to ground herself in this life, in this time, rather than the fear and antipathy that had so often guided her of late.

"Tired," she responded softly and felt his fingers curl around hers.

"Sleep. I shall keep watch tonight," he instructed and she let her eyes drift shut.

It would be so easy to abrogate her duties and return to Ferelden, to a life more suited to her than the one she had inherited by happenstance. But her mother's desire to make the Amell name, and, by proxy her father's name, something to be proud of again, prevented her from doing so. She would make both the Hawke and the Amell name something to be proud of and when that was accomplished, she would find a quieter life across the sea. A bitter laugh caught in her throat and she allowed Fenris's nearness to lull her into a deep sleep.

~~~oOo~~~

Banging his hand down on the table, Anders scowled at the dark-haired dwarf. "This is unacceptable! The sample is too small!"

Magic coursed in blue pulses from him, but the dwarf held his ground, seemingly indifferent to the demonstration of power. "I got what you asked for. If you needed a larger sample, you should have said so," he replied with a shrug. "Now pay up or I'll be forced to send my men after you and no amount of magic will save you."

Anger burned his blood. He wanted nothing more than to pick up the diminutive man and hurl him across the room; let his magic rip the man apart.

Do not be a fool, Anders. Your impatience will be your undoing. There is time enough to accomplish our goals.

Bugger off, Vengeance. I don't need a lecture from you. And they aren't our goals, they're mine.

I wonder how such a callow man managed so many escapes, but then, ultimately, they all failed, did they not?

Anders growled low in his throat, an animalistic sound that brought him up short. Was that what he was being reduced to? Did he have so little control over Vengeance or himself that he would kill without remorse simply because he didn't get exactly what he wanted? His magic flared and dimmed.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a small bag of coins out and tossed it at the dwarf, watching with disgust as the avaricious little man counted it twice before nodding.

"It was not a pleasure doing business with you. Don't contact us again," the man warned before turning and stomping out of the clinic.

Anders stared at the small amount of powder contained in the vial he held and slumped down on the bench. Months of waiting, preparing to study and replicate the gaatlok, now gone. The futility of it incensed him and for long moments he was unable to think at all.

It was obvious that he needed someone better at determining the formula than he was since there was so little powder available. There was someone he'd known - though the name escaped him - that had been an expert with chemicals and bombs. He rubbed at his forehead with shaking fingers, trying to remember.

Even if you remember, you cannot possibly go back to Vigil's Keep, Anders. You will be captured and executed.

I can if I'm careful. I can wait in the city and send someone to fetch him. What was his name? Dwarfil? No, Dworkin. His brother was the Master Mason. Glavonak? He'd be very interested in this. You remember him, Justice.

Anders, this is most unwise. I urge you to reconsider this reckless proposal.

It'll be fine, Justice. I'll go and be back in no time.

You will not!

Blazing shards of pain ripped into him and he fell to his knees, clutching his head, incoherent pleas falling from his lips. Undulating waves of pain that seemed unending burned his thoughts and left him curled up on the floor, whimpering like a child.

"Damn you to the Void," he mumbled, weak tears leaking from behind closed lids.

We have invested too much time and effort in our work to risk it now, Anders. Going to Amaranthine is foolhardy. Did I not know you better, I would suspect you want to die and returning to Vigil's Keep is the easiest way to achieve it. Or do you still harbor feelings for the commander?

Anders swiped at his face with his sleeve. "Don't," he muttered angrily. "Don't you dare."

You are obviously overwrought. Your emotions are affecting your ability to think rationally. I suggest you get a good night's sleep.

Deflated, his anger and fear coalescing to form a hard knot in his stomach, Anders found the idea of sleep overpowering. He stripped and threw himself on the hard cot in the back room of the clinic, so tired he didn't even try to make his way back to the mansion. He was asleep the minute his head rested on the pillow, his last thoughts on how to get to the Vigil without attracting attention.

~~~oOo~~~

Nathaniel's hands curled into fists as they rested on his thighs. He watched Carver's reaction, ready to intervene if things got out of hand. Except that Anya would flay him if he did intervene. Forcing his fingers to open again, he let the tension ease from his shoulders.

"I won't go back!" Carver shouted, leaping from his chair, which fell over from the force of his movements.

"Why not?" Anya asked, a frown knitting her brows.

"Why should I?" Carver countered, swinging around to face her. He was pale and his eyes were narrowed, his mouth tight. "Margaret's never needed me before, she won't need me now!" he added.

Anya rose, moving around her desk and quietly pouring a dram of whiskey into each glass. She handed one to each of the men, but left hers untouched. She took a step towards Carver, looking up at him with sympathy.

"Are you sure that she hasn't needed you? She's been forced to shoulder entirely too much responsibility for most of her life and she finds it difficult to let go of it, but that doesn't mean she doesn't need you."

"Bollocks!" the young Warden snarled, glaring down at her.

It was fear, Nathaniel realized. Carver was afraid to go to his sister. Was he afraid of rejection or his own reaction? Did he believe his sister was unworthy of the attempt or that he was? With a flash of awareness, he saw himself in Carver at that moment. So many times he'd chosen the least frightening path, only to discover it was often the most painful.

"Commander, a word in private?" Nathaniel said quietly.

"Now?" she asked, frowning at him.

"It's important," he assured her and moved to the small room adjacent to hers. "I understand what he's doing, Anya. Let me talk to him. You have no hope of convincing him to see his sister, but I think I may be able to get through to him."

Anya's frown eased, and she nodded once. "Use my office. I'll just wait here, in this little closet of a room," she finally replied with a wry smile.

He re-entered the room and went straight for his glass, gulping it down quickly. The fiery liquid spread warmth through him and he grinned. "She's a woman, Carver. Women need to talk about things. Men don't. They need to hit something, break a few heads, get drunk."

Carver frowned, gulping his whiskey down with a shiver. "She means well enough, I guess. But she doesn't have any idea what it was like, growing up with a perfect sister."

Nodding, Nathaniel splashed more whiskey into their glasses. "It's a miserable way to grow up, I know. Delilah was the perfect everything. No matter what I did, I always stayed in her shadow, two steps behind, and my father was happy to point it out at every turn."

Carver blinked. "Bann Delilah? She's your sister?"

With another nod, Nathaniel paced the room before returning to the desk. He shrugged nonchalantly. "So, don't see her. You'll still be going with us to Kirkwall, but nobody will force you into seeing your sister. I imagine she's taking it pretty hard, though. She doesn't have the Warden family to see her through it."

Carver's eyes narrowed again. "I know what you're trying to do and it won't work. Besides, she has plenty of friends around her."

"But none who know her as well as you do. Still, I won't force you, and neither will the commander. Just don't blame us if you come to regret it one day. Maker knows I have those kinds of regrets," he added, his voice suddenly harsh as he remembered his brother Thomas.

Silence settled between the two men as Nathaniel sat back down, leaving the whiskey bottle on the desk. "Dismissed," he added with quiet authority. "Unless you want to discuss your emotional state with the commander?"

"Maker's balls, no!" Carver exclaimed, setting his glass down with enough force that Nathaniel thought it might break. "I – well – thank you?" the young man asked and quickly strode from the room.

"You can come out now," Nathaniel called softly and the door opened with a quiet click.

"I'm not sure what you did, exactly, but at least he's calmed down a bit."

"I've given him something to think about. There's no need for him to decide if he'll see his sister right this minute. We have, as you pointed out earlier, several days at sea to work on his attitude. But, judging from my own experiences, it will take more than a few days to change that."

Anya chuckled. "You see that, do you?" she teased.

He felt a ripple of laughter as his tension eased. Anya came to stand beside his chair, resting light fingers against his scalp. He closed his eyes, the last remnants of dark memories fading as her fingers sifted through his hair. Moments passed in companionable silence, finally broken by a staccato rap on her door.

Clearing her throat, Anya moved to her desk and called out, "Enter!" He was glad to see that she appeared as reluctant to separate as he was.

"What are you thinking?" Sigrun demanded, a gale force sailing into the room. "Are you insane? And you!" she accused, rounding on him, her finger wagging in his face. "You had something to do with this, I just know it!" Her cheeks burned with color and her eyes were wide. "I'm dead! Why would you put me in charge?"

"Sigrun, I warned you that this would happen the last time you led a patrol so diligently. You are more than deserving of the title. Besides, Nathaniel will be accompanying me on several trips. I need someone here that I can trust, looking out for the Wardens and their interests. That's you. Unless you'd like to work under Gideon?"

"Not even on a dare," Sigrun hissed and then spun around again, heading for the door.

Anya's voice stopped her and Sigrun swung around, affixing Anya with a fierce glare. Nathaniel bit back the impulse to snicker at his friend's discomfort, as she had done to him countless times.

"Do I need to get out the torture device for impertinent Wardens?" Anya asked. Sigrun glared at her and then shook her head, obviously capitulating, wheeling around and marching to the door, head high.

"I need a drink of something stronger than that nug-piss you call whiskey," she added and slammed the door behind her.

"That went well," Anya commented dryly. "You're sure that's what you wanted, aren't you? Not that she'd be unhappy if you changed your mind."

"I'm sure. I've always maintained I'm not suited for a leadership role. Now, tell me about this leg brace of yours."

He watched as Anya struggled to get her emotions under control. She wanted to argue with him, again, about his abilities to lead. He knew he could, if necessary, but his preference had always been to travel alone, without encumbrances or responsibilities …until Anya had entered his life. Then he'd found himself volunteering to assist her, following her lead without argument, accepting his promotion to Senior Warden and then Second, and doing whatever was necessary to assist her.

Growing up as the first born son, knowing he would one day become the Arl of Amaranthine, he'd still preferred solitary pursuits, even though he should have been learning to lead men in battle, run an estate, govern. Which was probably what Father was trying to beat out of me, he thought with a familiar tug of bitterness.

"Stop it," Anya admonished softly. She had returned to his side, her fingers now cupping his chin. "You do yourself no favors by revisiting your past and allowing it to take hold."

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her, letting his lips and teeth and tongue tell her that he'd heard her and was no longer in the past, but with her, in her office. When she finally broke away, to lean back, he saw that her cheeks were pink from stubble-burn and her lips swollen. She looked young and fresh and in love. With him, of all things.

"Nathaniel," she admonished, as if she'd read his thoughts. It wasn't his thoughts she read, but his tension and grimness, he knew.

"Anya," he replied, dredging up a smile. "The brace?" he prodded, returning to the subject at hand.

"Flynne suggested it would help alleviate some of my hip pain, possibly even give me a bit more mobility. But Sigrun is right. It is a torture device."

"Is it worth it?" he asked, preparing himself for her usual flare of anger when discussing her limp.

"I believe it's helping, Nathaniel. I'm not ever going to be normal again, I've accepted that, but if even a bit of mobility comes back, it's worth it."

He tipped her chin up and studied her, hoping that she had given up her reckless schemes to become 'whole again' as she put it. She returned his look without guile, a soft smile on her lips.

"It took me long enough, didn't it?" she whispered.

It didn't matter how long it had taken, she was finally at peace with her injuries and he could only be happy with that.

"Not as long as it's taking you, however," she added with a mischievous, infectious smile.

He quirked a brow at her and allowed himself a brief smile. "I'm working on it," he answered with quiet dignity.

"And that is all I can ask of you."

And there, in her office, as she rested her head against his chest, her hair smelling of verbena and sunshine, he realized he had taken the first actual steps away from the dark legacy of his father.