Thank you to Mary, without whom most of you would be scratching your heads at several parts of this chapter, and thanks also to Haggardjax: for some reason, the site is not allowing me to reply to reviews/PMs at the moment, so I'm sorry for not getting back to you.

~o~O~o~

"Off to the market again, Mother?" Bethany's seemingly innocuous question was loaded with insinuation and Leandra knew it, but she played innocent.

"Hm? Oh, yes, dear. I thought we could do with a new tablecloth; this one is becoming rather tatty."

"I see," replied her daughter as she cleared the breakfast plates away. "Well, just so you know: we have plenty of carrots. As we did yesterday, when you brought back another bunch, and nothing else, despite being gone for over an hour."

"Yes, I used them for the carrot cake, didn't I, dear?" The amused lilt of Leandra's voice coincided with Bethany's poorly-hidden smile, before a grunt came from a corner of the room.

"Who is he?" Gamlen sniped from his armchair, his arms crooked as his hands rested on his thighs.

"He, Brother?"

"Yes, he. You've been walking around here for the past week like a moon-faced simpleton, singing to yourself and staring into space. It's embarrassing for a woman of your age."

Incensed, Bethany placed her hands on her hips and stared at her uncle until he looked at her. "If Mother wants to walk around singing and staring dreamily at the moon or whatever, I'm happy for her, whatever the reason. And if the reason for that happens to be that she's met a man at the market," she said with emphasis, "then I am also happy about that. I would have thought you'd be pleased for your sister, Uncle."

"Let's not fanny about with reasons, Niece," Gamlen bit back. "Your mother has met a man; that's obvious. What I'm concerned with is her notoriously poor taste in men. She always did go for the ne'er-do-wells."

"Are you talking about my father?" Bethany stormed. "You didn't even know him, and you sit there and dare to make judgements about him? And while we're on the subject of ne'er-do-wells, Uncle, I don't see any women breaking down your door! Now, why is that?"

Gamlen shot up out of his chair, causing the book he'd been reading to crash to the floor. "Because, while your mother pissed off to Ferelden with your father, I had to stay here and look after your grandparents, remember? How did I have the time to meet anyone?"

"Oh, so it's nothing to do with you being a wretchedly miserable no-account who despises everything and everyone, and looks like the arse-end of a mabari?"

"Daughter! Gamlen!" Leandra exclaimed, her palm slamming against the breakfast table. "I will not abide cursing in this house, from either of you! I think apologies are in order!"

"Well, I will abide it, because this is my house!" Gamlen flung his arms up in the air and paced back and forth. "You two aren't bringing a copper into this house, and you tell me what to do in it?"

"Brother, I've told you that when Fletcher returns-"

"If he returns," snapped Gamlen. "Of all the bloody reckless things to do! Why couldn't he just get a labouring job like everyone else? Oh no, he has to be the dashing hero, going off in search of gold and riches while the rest of us have to make do on my wage! It apparently hasn't occurred to him that if he gets himself into trouble down there, he'll leave his mother and sister without a breadwinner! And you needn't look at me! I can't keep you two forever!"

Gamlen snatched up his jacket and toolbox and headed for the door. "Now, I'm off to the docks. Someone has to earn a crust around here!"

Jolted by the slamming of the door, Leandra drew a deep breath and picked up Gamlen's book, as well as straightening a picture next to the door.

"Mother, I'm sorry about that," Bethany sighed. "I just feel like I'll go mad, cooped up in here! I haven't been out for three days! How much longer will it be?"

"I don't know, dear," answered Leandra sadly, placing the book on the table and walking over to her daughter. "I'll see if I can find a friendly-looking templar at the market and ask. Something's happened at the Gallows, but nobody seems to know what. It's just too risky for you to be out with such a strong Templar presence about. I know how frustrated you must be, but hold on for just a little while longer."

Bethany groaned and took a seat at the table, and Leandra joined her. "Being stuck in here has made me think about Fletcher and Varric a lot, as well," she said with a sigh. "I hope they're all right."

"I'm certain they're up to all manner of mischief," Leandra answered brightly, forcing a smile and hiding her own worry. "When I return, we'll do the baking together, take your mind off things."

"Yes, I'd like that, Mother." Bethany moved her chair closer to Leandra's and tapped her mother on the arm. "So, tell me about these trips to the market of yours," she cajoled, hoping to lift both their spirits. "I suspect there are more to them than just carrots."

"Oh, it's nothing, dear," Leandra said, her cheeks growing pink. "I have met someone, but he's just a friend. He's at the market every day; he buys supplies from Mistress Jade's."

"Mistress Jade's? Is he a mage, then?"

"I think so," whispered Leandra, "but I haven't asked. I've been trying to get a good look at his hands." Both women laughed, before Leandra's expression turned serious. "Don't tell Gamlen, whatever you do; I'll never hear the end of it."

"I won't," Bethany assured her. "But…if he's a mage, how come it's all right for him to wander around in front of the Templars, and not for me?"

"Well, he doesn't dress like a mage, and he doesn't carry a staff. He looks just like everyone else, but he has bought a few unusual things at the market. That was what got me talking to him in the first place: I was looking at the Earth Stars at Jade's. Your father used to use them in some of his infusions. While looking at a particularly pretty one, I was tapped on the shoulder; a gentleman asked if I knew what they were. When I told him I did, and why, he seemed pleased, and told me he's a herbalist."

"A herbalist? Isn't that rather a dishonest way of saying he's a mage?" asked Bethany suspiciously.

"Well, if he's dishonest, then so am I; I told him that I have two children, but failed to mention that you were mages. One can't be too careful, darling, and I expect he was exercising similar caution."

"I suppose so," Bethany conceded. "So, what else did you discuss, besides fungi?" she prodded with a playful nudge to Leandra's arm.

"Oh, nothing exciting," laughed Leandra. "Family things, and the like. He lost his wife only a year ago, and I told him about your father, and you and Fletcher, but only minor details, you understand. I didn't mention Carver…not-not because-"

"It's all right, Mother. You hardly know him. I understand."

Leandra clutched Bethany's hand and smiled. "Well, I see him there most days," Leandra went on, "and we always exchange pleasantries. He's a very nice man, but just someone I pass the time with. I do look forward to our chats, though; he's a very nice man."

"So you just said," Bethany commented.

Leandra tutted, shook her head and stood up, but couldn't hide her smile. "Well, I should get going. I have carrots to buy. Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine, and I hope you enjoy buying your carrots," Bethany joked, and she also stood up, kissing Leandra on the cheek.

"I will, dear. When things have settled down, and the templars have gone, perhaps you'd like to come with me and meet him? You'll like him, Beth. He's…"

"A very nice man. I get it," Bethany chuckled. "I'll look forward to that. Try to find out what's going on, won't you?"

"I'll do my best," Leandra promised. "Perhaps I should ask Messere Carrot; maybe he'll know."

"Messere Carrot? Don't you know his name?"

"Well, no, dear. I wondered if it would be too forward of me to ask."

"Oh, Mother! You really are daft. I'm sure he'd prefer you ask his name than call him Messere Carrot!"

"Oh, I know, Beth, but I'm rather inexperienced when it comes to things like this," Leandra said with a shy shrug. "I've only ever known your father, and I don't know how to…well. I suppose enough time has passed, though, and I know your father wouldn't have wanted me to be lonely."

"No he wouldn't, Mother, and neither do Fletcher and I," Bethany encouraged. "Just be yourself, and you'll charm the pants off him!"

"I don't want to do that!" exclaimed Leandra, blushing, and they laughed together. "I'll just charm him a little bit…I know exactly how to get around the name problem. How do I look?"

"Lovely!" Bethany chirped, smoothing down her mother's hair. "Now, go and charm those pants off!"

"You are naughty!" scolded Leandra, heading for the door. "I'll be back a little later. I'm…quite excited, now," she confided, laying a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

"Don't rush back!" Bethany called, and shooed Leandra out. Once the door had closed, her smile faded and she sighed, resting her chin on her hands. She sat back and looked at the four walls that were starting to feel like her prison since the mysterious 'incident' at the Gallows, before rising and entering the kitchen to wash the breakfast plates.

~o~O~o~

The two men stood stiffly in front of the desk, waiting for their commander to speak. She had her back to them, her arms held at her sides, as she stared out of the window in her office. Her subordinates wore the same uniform and armour of the Templar Order, but their demeanours sharply contrasted: the dirty-blond man with the large sideburns was relaxed, confident and at ease, while his red-haired counterpart stood awkwardly, his eye twitching as a bead of sweat ran down his temple, but he dared not wipe it away.

Presently, a heavy rap came at the door, and a dark-haired elf, wearing a black robe, entered. He laid his black, gnarled staff against the wall and stood next to the red-haired templar, clearing his throat.

"Excuse my tardiness, Knight-Commander."

The commander slowly turned around, her blue eyes lent the appearance of glass as the sun caught them, though when she spoke, her tone was anything but warm. "Thank you for finally joining us, First Enchanter."

The two templars continued to wait while a silent game was played out between the leaders of the Templars and the mages of Kirkwall. Knight-Commander Meredith waited for an explanation of First Enchanter Orsino's lateness; an explanation that the elven mage had no intention of supplying. At length, a huff was heard, and the blonde Knight-Commander leaned forward, resting her palms on the desk. The red-haired templar took a small step back.

"The ringleaders are still at large?" she demanded of the red-haired templar.

"Yes." He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Yes, Knight-Commander. The rest of the mages have been captured or killed, but Grace and Alain have not yet been located."

"I see," she said flatly, turning her gaze on the other templar. "Ser Karras, what have you discovered about this 'First Enchanter Hawke'?"

"I can tell you that," Orsino interrupted, undeterred by her cold glare. "There's no such person. If you had come to me first, we would have saved a lot of time. First Enchanter Raddick was killed in the fire at Starkhaven. I corresponded with him regularly, as I do with his successor, First Enchanter Bloom."

"As I was about to say," Karras cut in, "we have established that Hawke was an imposter. He did seem genuine in his desire to turn the apostates over to us, however, he had accomplices, some of whom seemed dubious about his decision."

"And what of Thrask?" asked the knight-commander.

"He claimed that his arrival at the cave had coincided with that of this Hawke person," said Karras. "I can't verify that, as they were both there when I arrived." Karras produced a piece of paper, which he unfolded and read. "My investigation has turned up a Hawke family living in the slums of Lowtown. We've had the house watched; over the last couple of days, a man and a woman of mature years have been observed leaving and entering the house. After bribing a few drunks at the local tavern, I've determined that the woman has a son matching Hawke's description, who walks around quite openly wearing mage's robes; apparently he earns a living as a hired sword, or staff, if you will.

"And that's not all," Karras went on, obviously pleased him himself. "Her son has just left for an expedition into the Deep Roads with a man matching the description of the wanted apostate, Anders."

"Anders," Meredith hissed, her eyes moving to the red-haired templar. "You know him, don't you, Knight-Captain?"

"Only vaguely," answered Cullen, painfully aware that his cheeks were flushing. "I spoke with him on occasion when I served at Kinloch Hold."

"I want him," Meredith commanded, jabbing the desk with a gauntleted finger. "Find out when this expedition is scheduled to end. That man made a mockery of the Templars at Kinloch Hold; he will not find escape from the Gallows so easy. And if the man calling himself Hawke is with him, I want him brought in for questioning. I want to know who he is, and what influence he had upon Grace and Alain."

"It's my understanding that Anders is now a member of the Grey Warden Order," Cullen supplied, his calm voice belying his churning insides.

"Then let their leaders come to me; they can either re-conscript him, or he can remain here. He will not, however, be permitted to roam around Kirkwall, thumbing his nose at authority!"

"It will be done, Knight-Commander," said Karras with a bow.

"Continue to watch the Hawke house, and have someone observe Thrask, as well," ordered Meredith.

"Is…that really necessary, Knight-Commander?" asked Cullen. "Thrask is not under suspicion, as far as we know."

Meredith's jaw tightened, but her voice retained its icy calmness. "Thrask spent an undetermined amount of time in the company of the apostates – who revealed themselves as blood mages when they assaulted four of my men during their recent escape, I'll remind you – as well as a mage who masqueraded as the First Enchanter of Starkhaven." She tilted her head, her eyes locked with Cullen's. "Perhaps you think I should promote him for that, Knight-Captain?"

"Of course not, Knight-Commander. I retract my demurral."

"There is no need to placate me, Knight-Captain," Meredith said quietly, and stood up straight, folding her hands behind her back. "One more thing. I want to know why no apostates have been captured along the coast recently. We know that there is a link of some kind to the undercity, but all activity seems to have ceased for the time being. Find out what you can; post operatives there if necessary." She sighed and her shoulders rose as she stifled a yawn. "You have your orders: I want Grace and Alain found, and any information pertaining to Hawke, Anders and this expedition brought to me forthwith. Maintain the watch on Hawke's house, and have someone observe Thrask. Dismissed."

Cullen and Karras bowed and left the office, leaving Orsino and Meredith alone. "Was there something more you wanted?" Meredith asked the first enchanter.

"You sent for me," answered the mage, folding his arms.

"The Templar-Mage covenant dictates that you are present at all meetings of this nature," she informed him as she turned her back on him, again facing the window. "It would appear that on this occasion, your input was not required. Good day to you, First Enchanter."

Angered but loath to let her see it, Orsino took up his staff. "My day has just improved dramatically, Knight-Commander. I hope you enjoy yours." With that, he swept out the office, leaving the door open.

Turning a corner, Orsino spied Knight-Captain Cullen standing in a recess, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The templar startled as Orsino silently arrived beside him.

"Yes, First Enchanter? May I assist you with something?"

"Weren't you relieved when Meredith didn't ask if you'd seen Anders since Kinloch Hold?" asked the mage.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," whispered Orsino. "You may have commanded the rank-and-file templars to keep their mouths shut, but the mages come to me. I know all about your deals with apostates, Cullen. I know all about Hawke, and Anders, and the rest of them."

"If you are attempting to blackmail me, then-"

"If you believe I'd blackmail one of the more moderate templars at the Gallows, then you're a fool, Cullen. I'm trying to help you, man. If Anders and Hawke are brought here, do you really think they'll keep their mouths shut about your hand in their freedom?"

Cullen swallowed hard, and said nothing.

"Just as I thought," said the mage. "And you think I want Anders brought here? He'd cause chaos. That breakout the other night will be nothing compared to the discord he'd sew. We need to warn him, and Hawke, and let them make arrangements."

Cullen folded his handkerchief and put it in his pocket as he glanced around to ensure they didn't have company. "And why would you – an outspoken advocate of mages' rights – want to prevent any further escape attempts?"

"How many of those escaped mages were brought back alive?" Orsino demanded. "Three? Out of seven? There's your answer, Cullen. Mages' rights, I'm in favour of. Mages getting stuck with a templar's sword, I'm not."

Cullen's eyes closed momentarily and he sighed. "What would you suggest, then?"

"You need to get a message to Hawke's house," Orsino began.

"I need to?"

"Well, I can't do it, can I?" protested the mage. "I can barely take a piss around here without permission!"

"And how am I supposed to get a message to his house if it's being watched?"

Orsino rolled his eyes and groaned impatiently. "You're the knight-captain, aren't you? Send the men on an errand, distract them, whatever! You need to think of something!"

"Actions like that will be questioned."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't bother, then," snapped Orsino. "You may be prepared to martyr yourself, but you need to think of Thrask, as well. I won't lie to you, Cullen: my interest in this is purely selfish. We need templars like you and Thrask at the Gallows; you treat the mages like people. You can't deny that Meredith is slowly replacing people like you with people like Karras and Alrik. I know you're a good man, Cullen; you can't allow yourself to be squeezed out."

"I am not going to discuss Knight-Commander Meredith's methods with you," Cullen retorted.

"Do what you think's best," said Orsino. "But just imagine for a moment if you and Thrask are moved on, and Anders is brought here. A very delicate balance is maintained here, Cullen, and things are changing; you know it, and I know it. A change like that could be enough to tip things over the edge. If you don't want to be responsible for that, then I suggest you do something, and fast."

Cullen knew he was being manipulated, but, much to his chagrin, he also knew that Orsino was right. "You must be busy, First Enchanter," he said crisply, walking away. "I won't keep you."

Orsino smiled darkly as he turned and headed off in the opposite direction.

~o~O~o~

Holding his frying pan over the fire, Fletcher grinned over at the sleeping elf who lay a couple of metres away. Every so often, Fenris's nose would twitch, or he'd mumble something incomprehensible. The mage had had to restrain himself from laughing in delight when Fenris had whispered "Fletcher," a time or two.

As soon as Fletcher cracked the eggs in the heated pan, Fenris's nose started to move in earnest, and he fidgeted a few times as the irresistible aroma of something other than porridge wafted into his nostrils. Shortly, Fletcher caught a glint of green as Fenris's eyelids slowly opened and his eyes homed in on the mage.

"Beat you this time," Fletcher said with a smile, and Fenris pushed himself up with a groan, his blanket pooling around his hips and revealing his tight belly, the muscles of which tapered down into a V-shape, the blanket only barely preserving his modesty. Fletcher coughed and averted his gaze, sniggering quietly to himself. "I managed to rustle up a few eggs that are still okay, plus I knew that Varric had a stash of salted bacon. I managed to persuade him to give us some. And by persuade, I mean I wouldn't tell everyone else about it," he laughed.

"You…have been out? When did you return? For how long were you gone?" Fenris asked with a frown.

"Not for long. Don't worry; if I'd got stuck in the hole, I would have had you here to help me. I just didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful."

Fenris snorted, a gentle smile curving his lips as he leaned back on his hands. "You will have to forgive me," he said to the mage, "but it is customary for me to be somewhat…grouchy in the morning; is that how you would say it?"

"That's exactly how I'd say it," joked Fletcher, his eyes lingering on the elf before he turned his attention back to the pan.

"Then you are fortunate; I doubt anything would cause me disquiet on this morning." Fenris moaned quietly as his head fell back and he rotated it, slowly stretching his torso, and then his legs, one by one.

"Maker," Fletcher whispered to himself, his eyes once again on Fenris as the elf's muscles and sinews rippled beneath his skin. Setting the pan aside, he got onto all fours and started to crawl over to Fenris.

"What are you doing?" Fenris asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"I'm not in the mood for eggs," Fletcher replied as he reached Fenris's legs, and the elf leaned farther back. "In fact, I rather fancy a bit of elf for breakfast. Have you ever tried one?"

"I cannot say I have," Fenris drawled, both eyebrows raised this time.

"Well," said Fletcher, slowly tugging the blanket away from Fenris's lower body, "they're quite tasty, light, easy on the eye and very, very satisfying, from what I hear."

"Dolt!" Fenris laughed, leaning back on his elbows as the blanket was fully removed, uncovering his naked body. "The-the breakfast," Fenris stuttered, then, as he felt hot breath on his belly.

"Help yourself. I'm not stopping you," said Fletcher, looking up briefly, before planting a kiss on Fenris's navel, and slowly running his tongue downwards, stopping when he reached the base of the elf's tumescent member. He looked up again. "Still hungry, Fen?" he teased.

Only a shuddering gasp came from the elf as he lay on his back, one knee drawn up to rest against Fletcher's shoulder, and one of his hands found its way to Fletcher's head, his fingers tangling in the mage's hair.

All thoughts of breakfast – and pretty much anything else – fled Fenris's mind as Fletcher once again lowered his head. The mage did not speak again for a while.

~o~O~o~

"Master, there is no news, I fear. All avenues of investigation have been exhausted. It would appear that Fenris has…gone into hiding. I-I am sorry."

Lifeless, cloudy eyes bored into the messenger, who shifted nervously under the relentless stare of the message's recipient. As still as a statue, the recipient lowered his eyes, affixing the polished marble floor with the same piercing stare.

"All avenues?"

"Well, perhaps…perhaps there is something we overlooked, Master Danarius. We-we will redouble our efforts."

Danarius's eyes moved to his hands, which lay, neatly folded, in his lap. "Where is Hadriana?" he asked the messenger, his voice low and quiet.

"She…did not return from the Free Marches, Master; do you remember?"

"Of course I remember!" bellowed the magister. "What do you take me for, a senile old fool?" Accustomed to such outbursts, the messenger lowered his head and uttered apologies. Danarius fisted his hands to hide the tremor that had developed in recent months. "Bring me my tonic!" he ordered.

The messenger scurried out of the magister's chambers, where a clamour erupted as several voices were heard at once. Presently, a blond, blue-eyed elf – who wore exquisite white and silver armour and carried a magnificent broadsword on his back – entered, carrying a goblet full of clear, golden liquid.

"Ah, Vionet," breathed Danarius, taking the goblet from his head bodyguard. "Your company always soothes me. Sit with me for a spell."

With an elegant dip of his head, Vionet crouched and sat upon a small stool at the magister's side as his master sipped at the concoction. "I have received distressing news," Danarius confided in his bodyguard. "The trail has gone cold. He has evaded my grasp once again, and Hadriana has not returned. What do you suppose that means?"

"He killed her, Master," said Vionet.

"So it would appear."

"I will kill him for his treachery, Master," the elf promised solemnly.

Vionet stared ahead, waiting for his master's next word or command. When, after a few minutes Danarius said nothing, Vionet's eyes slowly moved to the magister, who was staring at his hands, which were shaking violently.

"Master?" Vionet cautiously rose to his feet and stood in front of Danarius, who looked up at him with confusion and anger in his eyes.

"What-what are you doing here?" Danarius asked, his eyes darting from side to side. "Where is Hadriana? I need my tonic!"

Vionet took a deep breath and removed an ornate dagger from his belt, and knelt in front of his master, holding out the knife with both hands. "Master, forgive my impertinence, but you have already taken more tonic than is recommended. I humbly submit that you need something…stronger to sustain you."

Danarius nodded, panting as he took the dagger and hastily rolled up his sleeve, only to be stopped as a small hand clasped his wrist.

"No, Master…your physician advised against blood loss while you are…not yourself. Use me." Swiftly removing his vambrace, Vionet presented his bare arm to the magister and braced himself, gnashing his teeth as the blade cut into his flesh.

The dagger clattered to the floor along with the blood that spilled from Vionet's arm, which formed perfect ruby droplets on the smooth, white floor. Vionet clasped his arm to stem the flow and straightened up as a laughing female form materialised in front of him.

"Again?" she purred, sauntering over to the trembling magister and prodding him on the shoulder.

"He's having one of his turns," Vionet told her listlessly, looking over at the door. "Help him, and make it last longer this time."

"He's on his way out," the demon hissed. "You know it as well as I do. I cannot do the impossible! He grows ever more demanding."

"You will be paid," said the bodyguard with obvious disdain. He walked over to the door, still holding his bleeding arm, and opened it.

"Send in the bearer of ill-tidings," he commanded one of his underlings.

The messenger from Kirkwall was pushed into the room, followed by two more bodyguards to ensure there was no struggle. The messenger gasped at the trail of blood that led from the elf, and then dropped to his knees, praying to Andraste, when he laid eyes on the demon. With a nod from Vionet, the two bodyguards dragged the unfortunate messenger to his feet.

"You have disappointed your master," said the elf, his head twitching as a brief spasm rocked his body.

"Maker, help me! W-what are you?" cried the messenger as Vionet advanced, a pale blue light streaming from his eyes, nostrils and ears.

"I am the messenger of death," said the elf in a flat monotone, and the sickening crunch of bone was heard as he drove his fist through the man's chest to grip his heart.

The messenger slumped to the floor, and Vionet looked down at him without emotion. "Get rid of him," he commanded the other guards, and the messenger was silently dragged away, leaving a thick, bright trail of blood in his wake. Vionet then turned to the demon. "You have your wages. Now, begone."

"Until the next time," hissed the demon, shaking her head. "I cannot keep him from insanity for much longer." Vionet stared blankly at her until she melted into the wall, and he gingerly stepped over the trail of blood, taking care not to slip, until he reached his master's side.

Danarius's chest rose and he cried out, his hands clutching the arms of his chair, and Vionet waited patiently until the light had returned to his master's eyes. After a moment, Danarius rose and reached for Vionet's arm, sending healing magic into it, closing the wound.

"Dear Vionet," he whispered, resting his now-steady hand against the elf's cheek. "You have done well, and will be rewarded for your loyalty." Removing his hand, he clapped loudly, twice, and the doors were opened by two of his servants.

"Give him whatever he wants; wine, food, women, men. Bathe and massage him," commanded Danarius.

"And clean this up," Vionet added, his eyes dull as he stared balefully at the floor.

"I will come to you later," Danarius murmured to Vionet.

"And I will await you, Master." With a bow, the head bodyguard was led out of the chambers, and, with a slow blink of his eyes, his latest victim was pushed into the darkest recesses of his memory, and forgotten.

~o~O~o~

Leandra smiled to herself as she spotted her new friend enter the market, and turned away, not wanting to appear too eager. She rifled through a few trinkets on one stall before moving onto the next.

"I had hoped to see you here. Good morning, dear lady," said the man with a small bow.

Leandra turned around and smiled at him, nodding her head in return. "And good morning to you, messere. I was not certain I would see you here today, with so many templars around."

"Oh?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eyes as his smile broadened. "And why should I be concerned by that?"

"No particular reason," answered Leandra with a knowing look of her own. "Have you heard what's happened? No one seems to know."

"I am not certain; they appear to be searching for someone. I would surmise that one, or more, of their mages has escaped."

"That's what I thought," she replied quietly. "I wish those mages all the luck in the world."

The gentleman tilted his head and looked at Leandra thoughtfully. "As do I, dear lady. If I might venture…was your husband also a herbalist?"

"My husband was many things," she answered with an enigmatic smile.

"Of course," he said apologetically. "Forgive me; I did not mean to pry."

"No, no…you didn't. It's just that, as I'm certain you are aware, one must exercise caution in times such as these."

"Indeed one must. You are wise, as well as beautiful," he said kindly.

Leandra hung her head and smiled, a blush burning her cheeks. "My mother warned me about charmers and flatterers, you know."

"Then I see where your wisdom comes from."

Leandra cleared her throat and attempted to push her smile down. "Well, what brings you here today, Messere…?"

"Please," he said, extending his hand. Leandra took it, the tips of her fingers brushing over the rough patches on certain parts of his palm: a dead giveaway that he was a mage. Her stomach fluttered, and she looked up as he raised her hand to his lips, softly kissing her knuckles.

"Please, you must call me Quentin," he insisted.

"Well, in that case, you must call me Leandra," she replied as he released her hand.

"Leandra. What a lovely name." He crooked his arm, and Leandra rested her hand on his elbow as he led her around the market.