There must be something strangely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.
―Sand and Foam, Khalil Gibran

—

The princess kidnapped Fenris that evening.

He had just finished dressing, Druvond already sent away for his regular nightly charming of the court, when he heard a tap at his window. He paused; the tap came again, and then the tinkling crack of broken glass. "Oh, damn," he heard the princess say, and then, "Captain? Are you in here?"

"Your Highness," he said severely, coming to the window. She was standing on his balcony in the gloom of late twilight, dressed in leather leggings and that same lavender tunic from the day they'd met, and not at all as though she intended to go to formal dinner with her royal parents in the next fifteen minutes. One of the diamond panes had cracked sharply, and she peered at him through the finger-sized hole. He unlocked the narrow door and went out.

The night wind was cold, but her cheeks were flushed. "Good. How badly do you want to have dinner in the hall?"

"How badly do you wish to break your neck? Go back down. Your Highness," he added belatedly.

"I fought with my mother today and I don't want to spend my last meals in my home watching her be angry with me. You don't have to come, but who knows what disreputable mischief I might encounter without Starkhaven's captain overseeing the adventure?"

He scoffed. She laughed, a lovely sound in the dark, and reached out a hand for his, but he hesitated. "Not wearing this."

"Shed the gold frogs. And the medals, and the cup and chain. We'll dust up your boots on the way."

Was this madness? His every ounce of training revolted at the idea, appalled that he would even consider it. But her eyes were bright and glad, her face framed by stone and the wild ivy that grew on this side of the castle, and perhaps there was some part of him that still remembered how to creep away quietly in the dark. He tossed the coat to his bureau, pulled over his head the chain of his office with the small engraved cup dangling from it, and pooled it in shining gold in its dark case. He went back to the window and took her hand.

She led him in an awkward step over the balustrade, then down a narrow stairway built into the castle wall overlooking a small rocky garden. It was steep but blessedly short, emptying into the crenellations of a lower tower, and from there she took him down a servant's stair into the bailey, where they could distantly hear the feasting inside. A pair of horses waited for them in the shadows by the open gate—"Thank you, Bodahn," she said breathlessly—and then they were off into the city along the main road, winding down, down, down. The smell of foundry smoke grew stronger, comforting in its stalwart industry; they passed places he now knew to be homes of gardeners, of sailors, of Hawke's cousin Charade where she lived with her lover.

In less than an hour they drew reins at a squat, wide tavern with a familiar hanging effigy above its door. "The Hanged Man," Hawke said, and laughed. "Let's have a drink, Captain!"

"All this way," he said, dismounting and tethering the reins to the post, "for this?"

"For this and no other." The wind cut through the thin fabric of his shirtsleeves, only his vest keeping him warm in the cool night air. He scuffed his boots twice on the path as they entered, and Hawke raised her voice. "Corff—Norah! Good evening!"

A sandy-haired man behind the bar lifted a glass; the waitress, brown-haired and with a pinched mouth, called hello through the crowd and bustled on her way. It was loud but not raucous; as far as Fenris could see it was mostly workers from the mines, dusted black and smiling, with a sailor or two in white caps among them. A pair of fiddlers stood near the fireplace, playing a bright country song he didn't know.

Hawke led him to a sufficiently shadowed table in the corner, nodding to more than one passing welcome on the way. They knew her here, he thought, even in this low place in her city; and even here her presence seemed worth so little notice. He had learned enough of her habits this should not have surprised him. And yet—

"There," she said as they sat, smiling. "One last time."

"Your mother does not know you are here."

"My father does. Or he'll have guessed. He'll cover us when we're missed."

And Druvond would laugh at him, and Murena would raise her brows. A problem for another time. "My boots seem to have stuck to the floor."

"An occupational hazard, Captain. Keep a weather eye out for flying tankards."

"I see."

"This is what you expected of me after all, isn't it? Don't lie. Some graceless Kirkwall woman who prefers a sticky, smelly tavern on the edge of the city; and you, the noble representative of shining Starkhaven, kidnapped and stripped of all your trappings of office. Your poor prince." He could not deny it, but she was smiling. "Never fear, Captain; I hold no grudges. In fact, I acknowledge that all which passes here in this terrible place will be directly relayed to Prince Sebastian, and yet I've brought you anyway. I demand you enjoy yourself."

He gave a reluctant smile as Norah set two large, frothing mugs at their places. "You have more in common with the prince than you believe, Your Highness."

"Oh? Does he often squirrel you away with him on illicit trips to seedy bars?"

"Nothing so palatable." Fenris was silent a moment. "Quieter places. There is a glade in the woods not far from the palace. He goes there sometimes to pray."

Her face softened. "And you? Where do you go when the Starkhaven cup is put back in its case?"

He did not know what to say. There had never been much time for such things in Sebastian's service, and none at all in Danarius's. "To…my rooms, I suppose," he said at last, though it felt empty. "Somewhere silent. Alone."

"And what do you do there? Write books? Sing songs?"

"I run from room to room, choreographing routines."

Hawke gave a shocked, delighted laugh, and Fenris looked down. The mead's creamy head still frothed untouched in his mug. "Captain," she said, voice merry, "you astonish me. I suspected there was a sense of humor hidden away in you, but I didn't expect this to be the place that brought it out."

"You invite discomposure," he said acidly. "In fact, I begin to think you revel in it."

Her smile fell away. It took the sting from Fenris's own embarrassment—he had not meant to accuse her—but she drank and set her glass on the table again without rancor. "My mother said something similar to me today. She fears I will disgrace the prince of Starkhaven, that all our ambassadors' work will be undone by my inability to maintain the standards of his court."

He was taken aback by her frankness. "It's not such a cesspit as the queen believes. You will not be thrown into the river for a fan turned the wrong way at a ball. Such things are saved for the shining palaces at Minrathous."

"And I, unpolished as Kirkwall mountain rock, with all the humility of unbending iron and half its grace, will do my best not to bring shame to my people." She shook away her despondency like a dog in a stream. "But enough of that. What about you, Captain? This isn't the first time you've spoken knowledgeably of Tevinter, and there's no Starkhaven brogue in your voice. I don't think you sprang up full-grown from a fountainhead in the Vael family garden."

His heart seized. He took a long drink, warring with himself, but the tavern was loud and Hawke's face was still, open, like a pool between pines. Sebastian would tell her someday, he told himself, out of necessity or warning; better that she knew from him directly. "I was raised a slave in that great empire," he said at last, and drank again. "I fled ten years ago. I hid on a ship which should have had nothing but cargo, but Prince Sebastian was there in secret. He found me in the hold. I expected to be thrown overboard or brought back to my master, but…"

"Goran's rebellion, the cousin who stole the crown. I remember. You fought with the prince?"

"Yes. He was returning to his country to reclaim it. He asked me for my help, and I was willing. And when he had retaken his throne I decided to stay." He set down the mug. "A week or two at most, I thought. Perhaps a month. Then a year had passed, and two, and then ten, and I was still there."

"Much to the prince's great delight, I assume. His letters speak so highly of your friendship."

He smiled unwillingly. He knew she meant it as a compliment, knew that Sebastian would have never written unkindly of him. Still, to hear he had been discussed with such openness made him inexplicably uneasy; in Tevinter it had always been safer to be forgotten. No one glanced twice at a poker propped against a wall. "The prince is a good man, even to those who do not deserve it."

"You say it as if you mean yourself. What, were you standing over him with a sword when he wrote to me?"

"Hardly." He snorted. "Certainly not where it would be seen."

Hawke laughed again. "I have no doubt, Captain. Regardless, thus far—besides a little natural reticence—you have been everything he said and more."

"Reticence is not an undesirable trait in the prince's palace. It is too easy to overlook a wall with ears. Or knives."

"How insidious you make it sound."

He winced, lifted his mug again to his mouth, and found it empty. "I don't mean to do so. Prince Sebastian is kind, and he fosters the same kindness in those who surround him, whether or not he means to. There has never been cause for true alarm, not since he retook the throne and won the north. My own suspicions, nothing more."

"You, suspicious? Captain, I can't imagine."

"A natural talent."

She smiled, then turned serious. Her fingers linked together atop warped, stained wood. "What happened to your master?"

Fenris laughed, short and bitter. "I don't know. It's too much to hope that he is dead. He sends slavers after me sometimes, to bring me back to him, or at least my skin. Fewer since I took the captaincy of the guard, but he's never stopped. Will never, I suspect, until I am dead."

The princess leaned back in her chair, black brows furrowed. "It's very nice skin, I freely admit, but I can't see why he would want it so badly."

Was it the mead? Stronger, perhaps, than he realized; or the smoky air of the tavern, or the heady familiarity of flight. He took her hand and placed one of her fingertips on the inside of his wrist, just below the cuff of his sleeve. She let him, unresisting, and he shut his eyes. The power was ready for his call, as always, and he pulled the thinnest thread of it to the surface. He felt the thrum of power slide into her skin; she tensed but did not withdraw.

"What is that?" she asked, her voice soft, and he opened his eyes in time to see the faint light fade. No one from the nearby tables had spared even a glance. "What's it meant for?"

"I kill with it," he said shortly. "Quickly."

"I see," she said. Her eyes were wide, but he could not read fear in her voice, only curiosity. "Is it painful?"

He blinked. "No. Sometimes," he amended. "When I must use them too often, or when the weather sours."

"How inconvenient. Fenris, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "They are mine now, for better or worse. Danarius may come for me if he wishes, but he'll get nothing but death."

"Good." Her voice was hard; he liked that better than sympathy. The fiddlers' tuned changed to something brighter and more familiar, and the princess turned her head in sudden recognition. She listened for a bar or two; then Hawke seized his wrist. "Captain, dance with me."

"What—?" he managed, and then she'd pulled him to his feet, through the crowd, and to the end of the two short lines forming at the center of the tavern. "Your Highness—"

"Everyone here is drunk," she said, her own eyes shining, "and those who aren't couldn't care less. One dance, Captain, and I'll free you of the obligation."

The fiddlers drew bow in the long, high starting notes of "Those Sweet Brown Eyes, Oh," and the crowd let out a cheer. Hawke stepped back into her place, watching him expectantly. He could not move—he wished desperately to be anywhere else—he wanted—to be here, right here, dancing with the woman who would marry Sebastian and rule well with him. The mead burned in his chest. When the fiddlers called, he bowed with the rest of the line.

Hawke's face lit, delight blazing like a torch. She took his hand across, turned under his arm with the other half-dozen women in the line, and the dance began.

All his life Fenris had been set apart. For Danarius he had been a prized tool, a sword made of iron and ivory to be kept close at his side for ready use. Sebastian's friendship had made him a man instead, but in many ways the friendship of a prince was no easier than the service of his master, and being captain of the White Guard left very little room for his soldiers to invite him to drinks and dancing. He would not have accepted if they had. He had been made for a singular purpose, and such distractions could only blunt a honed edge. But here—

Here he was only one of many. Slightly drunk, stamping in time with a dozen others, reaching for Hawke's hand and meeting it, over and over. The fiddles demanded no more of him than anyone else and did not care if he walked away; that made it easier to stay, and to meet Hawke's eyes each time she searched for him.

The fiddles climbed abruptly to impossible heights, then finished with a flourish. The tavern cheered; dancers took their partner's hands and withdrew, laughing, from the floor. The empty spaces around them filled with people like water, and conversations resumed, laughter eddying like the smoke in the air.

"Lady Merrill was right," Hawke said, lifting her hand from his shoulder. "You do dance very well."

"Sword forms, Your Highness," he said in inadequate explanation. "Steps in time, nothing more."

"You say that, but you've seen Carver dance. Oh, dear."

Her eyes had slid past his shoulder; Fenris followed to see a familiar woman in the door, arms crossed. Her face was strong-jawed and heavily freckled; her thick hair, the color of polished copper, was held away from her face with an orange band. Her leather jerkin was padded as heavily as any of Kirkwall's guard, but it was brown instead of black, and her wool shirt was pale yellow and trimmed in gold thread, the only mark of status for Kirkwall's guard-captain out of uniform.

Corff met Aveline's eye and gave a wave to where they stood on the floor. "Traitor," Hawke hissed, but she tossed her head and met doom without flinching. "Aveline! What a nice night to see you. Here. Of all places."

"Your Highness," Aveline said levelly, and her gaze slid like the edge of a lifted blade to Fenris. "Captain."

"Guard-Captain."

Hawke fluttered a hand. "And a very merry evening to you, et cetera. Unfortunately, we can't stay to chat; it's getting late, and Starkhaven keeps early hours."

"So they do," Aveline said, inexorable as a shield. "How lucky we seem to be going the same way. Your mother will be glad to see you home safely."

"My mother," Hawke began with a heat that surprised Fenris, but it diminished as soon as it came. "All right," she said quietly, yielding, and Aveline placed her hand on the princess's shoulder in open sympathy. "Home, then."

"Come on, Hawke," she said, and though her voice was low it was warm and bracing. "Buck up. We'll ride back, return the captain to where he belongs, and get blazingly drunk in your rooms. Your brother has four bottles of Nevarran spirits already waiting, and even Anders has agreed to retire the cause for an evening."

Encouraging the princess to drink heavily the night before a long journey was not exactly Fenris's preference, but Aveline seemed steady enough to prevent any serious disaster, and he said nothing. The princess laughed wanly. "Oh, how you spoil me, Aveline."

"One last time," Aveline said, and her smile was sad.

Aveline had brought a horse of her own, a tall white stallion bridled in brown leather, and they mounted together and set off for the castle in silence. The city had hushed with night. Here and there stood pockets of activity, pools of warm light and distant cheers noting other inns, other gatherings, other homes overspilling with dancing and laughter. In between these the road was solitary, their horses' hooves on stone the only sound other than wind over mountain rivers and the distant, steady sigh of the sea. The night sky was clear, the mountain stars strange and cold, and as the mead's heat faded Fenris began to wish for his coat, gold frogs and all.

Hawke shivered at the head of their line. He waited until they had crossed a stone bridge, where the rush of the mountain stream would cover their voices, and rode up alongside her.

"Are you cold?" he asked, and she looked at him, and he saw in the moonlight that she was crying.

"I'm sorry," she said, covering her eyes with a hand, and he looked swiftly ahead to where the road began to turn back on itself, towering shale and rock on their left, the city below laid out to their right, mountain ash and pine ahead. The lamps hissed and flecked along their path. "I'm sorry," she said again eventually, less damp. "I'm all right."

He chanced a glance her way. Her eyes glittered still, but no more tears fell, and her answering smile was not forced. The moonlight shone cool on her face, catching in the curve of her cheek and along her throat, and he realized what had happened.

"You loved those places," Fenris said. The words hung in the air. They had known her, the people of this mountain, and she had known them: the gardeners, the mineworkers, the children at the orphanage. The man at the tavern and his waitress, and the patrons, and the guard-captain who had come to fetch her. She had loved these places and brought him to them, so he too could see what she loved, what she was giving up. "That's why you chose them, instead of the rest."

The reins twisted in her hands; she looked up, searching the stars, and then shut her eyes. "I didn't mean to," she said haltingly, "not at first. But then—I thought—if you understood, if you could see, then perhaps—Sebastian—" She fell silent, then looked at him again ruefully. "Please don't tell him."

It was an unkind request, and he understood why she had asked. "I won't," he said, the gentleness clumsy and unpracticed. "But you must."

A tear slid down her cheek; her horse whickered, the moon catching in the toss of its mane. "I know."