A/N: This contains spoilers for the end of the game, so this is your fair warning.

Respects

The light cast a coolness over everything. It was past dawn, but not yet late in the morning, and the air was pure, clean, and as of yet unsullied by the warmth of the sun. It was a quality only autumn and the mountains held, and it had long been his favourite time of day. The trees had only just started to turn, and created a patchwork of greens, yellows, oranges, and reds through the valley and up the mountainsides. His eldest sons always tried to insist he keep an escort when he left the old stronghold, but he never listened to them. The day he couldn't defend himself, he told them, was the day he was dead.

So, he rode alone along the winding, narrow trail, giving his horse her head to go at her own pace. He was in no rush; the one he went to visit wouldn't be going anywhere. He liked to look about him at his provinces as he rode, taking time to absorb the beauty of it all over again. He came this way at least once a week, his heart unable to stay away from her for long. They used to ride together every morning, until she no longer had strength enough to stay atop a horse, and it was then he knew they were close to the end. She hadn't lasted longer than a month after that. Riding this trail by himself had hurt too much at first, then became bittersweet. Now, he rode with fondness and memories, at peace with himself. It had been five years since he brought her to rest in the mountains, and he had relinquished reign to their eldest son, Edward. Sometimes, their two younger sons, Gregor and Malcom, accompanied him, along with their daughter, Seren, but those times had grown fewer and farther between as the children started their own lives and families. Edward and Gregor both had children, the elder with two girls, the younger a son. Malcom and Seren both had set out to travel a few years ago, and had, Sebastian Vael thought, hopefully not started their own families yet.

He didn't mind making the trip to see her alone. They hadn't had much time truly alone for thirty years, since Edward was born, and he could now speak his mind to her again without worry. He only wished she could still do the same.

Two hours he rode through the mountains, until the trail forked. He went left, and was enveloped by the forest where the grass had grown over the edges of the trail. It was much cooler in the dappled shade of the trees, and Sebastian was glad he chose to wear his cloak. To him, the autumns seemed to come earlier these past years, the air growing colder sooner than he remembered when he was younger. He felt the ache in his bones earlier and earlier, too, and always could tell at least a day or two before a bad storm would hit, mostly in his knees and fingers. He could still draw a bow, still wield a dagger or sword, but his muscles and joints invariably complained bitterly about it afterward for hours without relenting. He missed both the baths and oil massages she would share with him. A smile pulled at his lips, and he tugged a bit at the iron grey whiskers he now sported. He kept his beard well-groomed and trimmed closely; after he overheard her talking to a friend about how distinguished and stern it made him look, about how much she liked it on him, he decided to keep the style. She had always loved to run her fingernails through his hair, still thick even as it turned a dark steel colour as he aged—once, he tried to grow it long enough to tie back, but it had aggravated him entirely too much, so he cut it back to the same length he always had. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he recalled how she finally let her own hair grow out, lustrous and wavy, to the small curve of her back. She loved to braid it and he loved to undo the braid after watching the long red and silver plait whisper across her strong back all day.

The trees finally opened up to a field still dotted with late summer flowers and Andraste's Lace. He could smell wild chives, and saw their blooms waving above the others on slender stalks, reaching for the morning sun. Old stones sat near the middle, moss and vines creeping up their sides. Some of the names and dates carved into them had faded to be barely an impression, but the youngest of them was clear as if it had been carved yesterday. He dismounted and let his mare graze freely—she was well trained and his personal favourite, and he did not worry she would run off. Five stones marked out a semi-circle, and he went to them first, carefully clearing off vines where they had snaked up to cling to the stones, murmuring soft words as he went. His parents and brothers slept beneath those stones, gone back to the earth in their thin shrouds. Back to the mountains that birthed and raised them. Fondness shone through his features as he went to each one, intentionally saving her for last. Once satisfied with his family, he went to his love.

He had wanted to carve her stone himself, but had neither the skills nor the artistry to give her the justice she deserved. In the end, he had to settle for watching the stonecutter carve everything to his satisfaction. The stone was simple and strong, imported from the western mountain quarries and known as ironstone. The quarryman he had worked with said it would stand the test of time, so he ordered one for both of them, a matching set from the same parent slab.

He looked over the inscription with a sad affection as he knelt—slowly and with a bit of stiffness—to brush dust and vines from her stone. Maebh Hawke Vael, it read. Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall, Princess Regent of Starkhaven, Mother and Beloved Wife. Below all the lines of titles and the dates of her birth and death, he had ordered words in the old tongue to be carved, an old adage his grandfather always would say to his grandmother. Rhyth dunaen eo saolach, hers read. His stone would hold the second half of the phrase, Siaelan t-srea myr croinach. Wings straight and swift will bring us home. Above the titles on both their stones would be a hawk and falcon, together holding two daggers and two arrows in their talons. She already had hers, and his was made and waiting.

"Soon enough," he told her softly, wincing as he rearranged himself to sit. He did not impatiently await death, but he no longer dreaded or feared it. A smile tugged at his mouth.

"You were always rushing ahead of me into the thick of things," he mused, recalling all the battles they had fought together, him hanging back to pick off enemies with precise arrows while she tore through the middle of them with her long daggers. "What a fool I was then, to spurn your affections for so long. I did think I was doing the right thing, though." He had apologised countless times over the years, even after their children had been born, when drink or sickness made him weak and forget the life they had built and fought for. He had apologised for his unrelenting anger that lasted for years at her refusal to kill Anders for destroying the Chantry in Kirkwall.

He shook his head. That had been a point of contention that reared his ugly head for over a decade in arguments, until it had almost broken them both. She had left in a fit of anger and hurt, had not come back for months—and he had seethed and didn't go to find her. Seren was only a little girl then, and didn't understand why her mother wasn't around. Just when he began to really worry he had driven her away entirely, she came back, calm and compromising. They spent two weeks after that working things out, old hurts, old angers, until the air was clean and the waters smooth between them. There had been no problems after that.

He sat for a while, softly speaking of news of their principalities to her, how Edward had stepped up to fill the role of Prince Regent as well as they could ever have hoped to raise him, of how their children and grandchildren were faring otherwise, of how he ached in the fall and spring and missed her sure, strong hands to knead his pains away. After he could think of no more to tell her, he sat in silence, listening to the wind and enjoying the feel of it on his face. He closed his eyes and could smell loam and cinnamon, never failing to remind him of her.

Then, a different scent filled his nose. He heard his mare paw the ground, but not start in panic or alarm, and he saw no reason to arm himself. He knew that smell. It had been over forty years since he last recalled smelling it, but it hadn't dimmed his memory any. Nothing could ever make him forget that exact smell of ozone and sulphur, even though he had made his peace concerning the man it clung to.

"Anders," he said without opening his eyes.

There was a tense hesitation, almost palpable in the air.

"Sebastian," came the mage's tentative reply.

Long moments of silence passed. Sebastian opened his eyes and got to his feet, grunting quietly as he did so. He turned and saw Anders on foot, leaning heavily on a weathered black staff with a broken top. The man himself looked much the same—long, dirty coat with patches all over it, worn boots, and an old, haggard face. His hair had gone ashen grey with age, and there were deep circles under his eyes, dark stubble on his jaw and cheekbones. He was dusty from travel, and too thin for his height.

"You look tired," Sebastian said, no malice in his voice.

Anders winced, but nodded. "I have been, for a long, long time." He looked at Sebastian. "The years have been kinder to you."

"Thank you." There was no point in denying it. He did not hate Anders any longer, but he certainly didn't like him, either. "I have been blessed."

Anders didn't answer, but looked beyond him to his wife's grave. The apostate's amber eyes softened.

"I heard she had passed," he said quietly. "When…?"

"Five years ago," Sebastian answered smoothly.

Anders' eyes went to the ground. "I—I'm sorry. I just heard a few months ago."

"You have no reason to apologise, Anders." All their old companions had shown up for the wake to pay their respects and share stories, old and new—all save Anders, who had vanished after the whole Kirkwall incident, and Aveline, who had been taken by consumption a decade before that. Sebastian was a little sad for Maebh's sake, for he knew she once had been very close to the mage.

Giving a tired smile, Sebastian stepped to the side, motioning to the grave with his hand. Anders seemed to understand what he was doing and walked up to the stone.

He fell to his knees and reached out to touch the ironstone gently, and Sebastian saw his hand shaking. The aged Prince of Starkhaven clasped his hands behind his back and waited silently. He watched as Anders ran unsteady fingers over the hawk and falcon crest he and Maebh had adapted after they married, lingering over the hawk half.

"I'm so sorry," he heard Anders whisper, heard the tears in his voice. "I never got to say that, never got to really feel it until these last few years. When it was too late." The apostate bowed his head and his shoulders shook gently. Sebastian did not move or say anything. He felt no need to condemn or comfort the man, and so let him to his grief.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to pay my respects when it happened," Anders continued, not caring Sebastian was still there, simply needing to get the words out, needing to get the feelings out of his chest and heart. "But at least I'm here now. I always loved you," he admitted, and Sebastian felt the slightest twinge of jealousy tug at his gut. "Even at my lowest depths, even when you thought I didn't care, I always loved you. I wish I could have told you that."

Sebastian drew in a breath, and nodded slightly to himself. He would not intrude any longer; the confessions that began pouring out of Anders were far too personal for his ears. He didn't want to hear them. He knew his wife was with Anders for a time before he destroyed the Chantry and she became Viscountess of Kirkwall, and that was as much as he cared to know. Even with all the years and the life he had shared with her afterward, Anders showing up so suddenly and unexpectedly after being completely out of that life unearthed old emnities. Sebastian took his leave of the grieving apostate and went over to his mare, murmuring softly to her and running his hands over her neck. She leaned into him and sighed in contentment, her barrel chest giving one great heave.

After a while, he heard Anders approach. He turned his head slightly to acknowledge the other man.

"I—" Anders started, but Sebastian cut him off.

"Don't." The old archer turned fully to face the mage. "I made my peace long ago. Don't go dredging up what has already passed."

Anders nodded, and Sebastian hoped he truly understood.

"I just… All I tried, all I said… I knew I never fully had her affections." He didn't meet Sebastian's eyes, which were unfathomable as the deepest sea. He shook his head. "For all that I tried, she was always distant. Always… distracted."

Sebastian pursed his lips. "Please tell me you have a point to this other than to make me feel awkward?"

A nervous laugh came from Anders. "Yes. Sorry. I guess… I just want to know what you did that I never could."

An exasperated exhale escaped Sebastian before he could stop it. All the old antagonisms reared their heads in full before he could quell them, drawing in a breath.

"Anders… That was over forty years ago. Why do you want to know after all this time?"

The mage met his eyes and Sebastian saw anger flash in them. "I never got closure. You say all those things so easily, so dismissively because you had the opportunity to talk them out, to talk to her. I never got that."

Sebastian closed his eyes, folded his arms across the chest his age couldn't seem to lessen the breadth of. He decided he owed it to his wife and her memory to give this man who was once her friend, who was once her lover, closure. He loved her, too, Sebastian reminded himself, and obviously had not let that go, even after so long. He would do it for her.

"I never demanded anything from her." The reply was curt, more so than he intended. He opened his eyes, saw the confusion on Anders' face.

"What?"

"You, Fenris, Isabella, her family, even Merrill and Aveline. Everyone demanded something from her. Loyalty, to side with someone over another, to choose one ideal over another, to do for them or not. To help them, to fix their problems."

The look Anders gave him was flat, unfriendly. "And you'd have me believe you never did."

"I didn't. She helped me avenge my family of her own choice—I didn't even know her then. Everything she did was not because I asked her to, but because she wanted to. I'm not saying she didn't want to help everyone else," he went on, not unfolding his arms, but holding up a few fingers to keep Anders from interrupting. "But that all the requests and demands took their toll on her. It wore her thin by the end of it all, and she came to me several times just to get away. To be around someone who she knew wouldn't ask anything of her."

"Didn't you—" Anders stumbled, the memory obviously paining him. "After what I did to the Chantry, I remember you demanding her kill me."

"Yes," Sebastian agreed slowly. "I did do that. And she didn't."

There was a moment's pause. "Do you regret that she didn't?"

"For a long while. We argued about it sometimes. Once, she left for months because we were so angry. But she came back and we got through that." A wry smile came unbidden to his lips. "That, and asking her to marry me and move to Starkhaven with me, were the only two demands I made of her."

"I wish I could have done better by her," Anders said quietly.

Sebastian nodded. "As do I. I don't exactly want to say I'm glad that you didn't, though."

This time it was Anders that gave a cynical smile. "Yes, you do. I don't fault you it. I betrayed her, and I know it." He glanced back at the grave. "I'm glad to have told her, though, some way. I think… I think I can finally forgive myself for it all."

That one monstrous act had haunted him all these years, Sebastian realised. "I know she would have wanted you to. Even through her own hurt and anger."

Anders looked back at the other man. "Thank you. For letting me say my words to her. For not killing me on sight."

Sebastian's tone was not unkind. "As I said, I made my own peace with it long ago."

Anders nodded. "Thank you," he said again. He glanced around. "I should be going."

"As you will." Sebastian would not stop him.

He watched the old mage limp back to Maebh's grave one last time, and bend over it momentarily. He noticed, as Anders straightened, just how heavily he leaned on his staff. Without another word or glance from either man to the other, Anders walked quietly away from the graves, soon vanishing beyond the next roll of the ridge, the tall grasses enveloping his mildly hunched form.

Sebastian went to his wife's grave after Anders was out of sight and looked down to see blooming flowers all around the stone. He smiled sadly at the delphiniums and gillyflowers now ringing the grave from the last bit of magic Anders cast for his old friend. They were her favourites. Running a few fingertips over the top curve of her stone, Sebastian whispered his love to her before turning and heading to his mare. After he mounted, he cast one more look to the flowers, then nudged the mare into motion back to Starkhaven, the long ride filled with his memories.

A/N: I really like the format of slightly disconnected but overall linked stories. I write in increments as ideas hit me (like this one, which I'm strangely very fond of), and I completely welcome any prompts or ideas anyone else out there might have. This particular segment is slight AU of Bonds of Blood, but I can't and won't say why, but once I write up to it, you'll understand immediately.

I like to think there are a bunch of people out there impatiently awaiting the e-mail update with the new chapter of Bonds of Blood, and I promise I have the latest chapter in the midst of being typed up, and the one after that in the midst of being written. In the meanwhile, to placate you all, here's two more installments in one night of this series.