Sebastian wasn't certain if he felt better or worse as Amelle's healing magic faded away. Oh, his wound wasn't bothering him as much, but he felt drained beyond exhaustion. Though he wanted to, he could not even find the voice to thank Amelle as she lifted her hands from his chest. He heard the sisters speaking to one another, but could make no sense of their words.
Strange images flashed through his mind, so hazy and indistinct he was almost tempted to explain them away as dreams. He remembered hearing Fenris return from his evening at The Hanged Man. Sleep had been elusive, and he'd thought it a good idea to rise and begin some of the repairs the house so desperately required. For hours he'd dragged decomposed corpses from open rooms and hallways, storing them in the kitchen—it was coolest there, with its never-lit ovens and long-abandoned hearth—for later disposal. He winced even now, thinking of it. But at the time it had seemed imperative. It had seemed the least he could do.
Poor Fenris, living amongst the dead for so long.
They were all living amongst the dead, now. Shades of people they'd known, people they'd lost, hovered in every corner, and no mere dusting could erase them. All the repairs in the world could not bring them back. They were caught between worlds, lingering on in every word spoken and in every silence where no words were enough.
He saw the dead on the rare occasions he allowed himself to meet Hawke's gaze; the ghosts of those she felt she'd failed.
He wondered if she saw the dead in his eyes, too.
And this morning, for whatever reason, it had seemed so terribly important to remove the constant reminders decaying in Fenris' rooms.
Amelle rose before he found his voice, and her concerned, weary expression—he had done that, again—was replaced by Hawke's harder to read visage. He closed his eyes at once, and turned his face away, not because he wanted to dismiss her, but because he could not bear her compassion. She said nothing, and after a moment he felt her fingertips gently massaging the warmed potion—Amelle had mentioned a potion, he remembered that—into the skin around the wound. The pain was no longer sharp and insistent, but even with her light touch, the ache went deep. Sebastian shuddered under her touch and squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut. His lips moved, silently reciting verses of the Chant—prayers for grace, for hope; prayers for forgiveness.
"I'm sorry," Hawke said, her voice as gentle as her hands. He remembered her shouting at him in the market—foolish to have attempted such an excursion; he could see that now—her eyes blazing with fear and worry and other things he could not put name to. How different she sounded now. "Am I hurting you?"
He shook his head, a tight, terse motion. Find the words, he thought desperately, urgently. She deserves them. She deserves better than this. She deserves better than your silence.
But the only words that came were words of the Chant, and so he whispered them fervently under his breath. "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm."
Hawke added the next line, "I shall endure," and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees, to beg her forgiveness. Instead, he opened his eyes, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It pained him to see her so troubled. He wanted… he wanted to ease her worry, not add to it, but he didn't know how. Her expression, even now, was so much more guarded than it had been before. She looked at him as though she didn't know him, didn't understand him, and he felt a sinking pain in his breast that had nothing whatsoever to do with the errant sword of a desperate templar.
This time she was the first to glance away. She set the empty potion bottle down on the bedside table and reached for the prepared dressing. He felt her hands trembling and heard the faint catch in her breath as she inhaled.
I have done this, he thought. I have wrought this.
"What I did… it was unforgivable." His voice sounded somehow alien to his own ears, and the words were still not the right ones. As soon as they were spoken he longed to take them back, especially because they elicited a startled look from Hawke, and they stole the color from her cheeks.
After too long a pause, she replied, "Shouldn't you let me be the judge of that?"
"Hawke…"
She swallowed audibly, and still did not allow herself to meet his eyes. Her hands continued their work, winding the gauze carefully, expertly, with great attention to his comfort. "At the very least," she said, "you might consult your own faith. Forgiveness rates highly enough there."
He didn't know what to answer to this, because of course she was right. He wanted to tell her he preferred her anger to her compassion, but those words were wrong, too. They were too much about him. Too much about what he wanted, what he deserved. She finished wrapping the bandage in silence before averting her eyes and handing him his shirt.
He sat up gingerly, expecting pain, but Amelle's healing was good; he felt not even a twinge. He accepted the shirt, but did not move at once to dress himself; he felt his moment slipping away, and was afraid once it was gone it would never come again. There was a mend in the shirt's collar; he hadn't noticed it before. He wondered whose were the stitches. For that matter, he wondered who'd supplied the shirt. He was taller and broader than Fenris; it could not have been the elf. It seemed strange that he hadn't wondered earlier.
"Do you know where he is?"
Hawke didn't bother asking who he meant. "Gone."
"But alive."
Her voice took on a harder edge, almost defensive. "Thrice I spared his life. It will not happen again. But yes, as far as I know, he is alive." She patted at the spot where her quiver usually lay. "I carry an arrow with his name on it. He knows that now. I… do not expect to ever see him again."
Before he could speak, she added, "You blame me."
He'd have physically recoiled if he wasn't already propped up against the headboard of the bed with nowhere to move. His eyes snapped up to meet hers and he shook his head weakly, holding the shirt to his chest. "No, Hawke. I was distraught. Angry. Heartbroken."
"You think I wasn't? You think I'm not?"
Again he shook his head, all the wrong words racing through his brain. He swallowed them, again and again, looking for the right ones. "Killing him then would have martyred him. That was why you didn't do it."
A flash of something like triumph burned across her face, just as quickly replaced by the heaviness of distress. "I believe martyrdom may even have been his desire all along. I can make no sense of his actions, otherwise."
"He… wanted to become a… a symbol."
Hawke rose and began to pace again, though her steps were not so frantic. Thoughtfully, she said, "We went to the Templar Hall often enough. If… if he'd truly been looking to harm those who were harming the mages, why did he not start his massacre with Meredith? With the templars? Why the chantry? Why… why the innocents there?" She pounded one fist into her thigh before continuing, "I made no secret of my respect for the Grand Cleric. I feel… I can't help feeling he may have chosen her because of it. To ensure his death at my hands." Hawke faced him—truly faced him, clear-eyed and straight-shouldered—and said, "And I wanted to kill him. Part of me still wants to kill him. As I said the other night, part of me is sorry I did not. In the end he was no different than so many others who met their ends on my arrows. He was worse. But I could not martyr him."
"And now there will be war."
Hawke's eyes widened as though he'd slapped her.
"You do plan to return to Starkhaven, then? To bring your forces down on Kirkwall, on the mages? All of them?"
Sebastian lifted his hand but did not quite bring it to his wounded chest. "No," he said. "No. I was mad with grief. I meant—the Divine—not me, not Starkhaven. Hawke… Hawke, I could never—I would never have—"
"Would never have what?" she snapped. "Posted a notice on the Chanter's Board looking for someone to help you exact your revenge?"
He bowed his head, point taken.
"It's not me you have to apologize to, Sebastian. It never was."
"You're wrong, Hawke."
Her head snapped up and she arched an eyebrow at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Sebastian looked once again at the shirt in his hands, linen soft with wear and holes so expertly mended, and then answered very slowly, very evenly, "You are wrong. You are but one person of many I must apologize to. But—"
"Sebastian—"
Clenching his fingers in the fabric he growled, "For Andraste's sake, Hawke, would you let me speak?"
Her mouth snapped shut in surprise and she nodded once, curtly.
"I am aware that many of those to whom I owe apologies are beyond hearing, beyond caring. But of the living, Hawke, you are one to whom I must—"
She started to speak—he saw her lips twitch—and then she closed her eyes and swallowed her words.
He continued softly, "I betrayed you. I ought to have stood with you. I must live with my regret, but I would have you know how keenly I feel it, and how much I… I would change, if such things could be changed."
She stared at him, unflinching, her expression impossibly hard. "Vengeance is powerful. How am I to know you will not heed its call, if the opportunity arises?"
He could hear the loss of trust in her voice, and it took all his willpower not to look away. He could only hope she was looking for truth in his face; it was all he could offer. "No one is entirely immune. Anders slaughtered every man, woman and child in the chantry and aye, at that moment I would have done the same to the mages—to all the mages—but I… did not. And I will not."
"How noble of you. How magnanimous. You will no longer hold every mage accountable for the actions of one. I suppose Amelle can breathe a sigh of relief."
He flinched. "I would never have harmed her."
"Just everyone else. Good to know where your line is drawn."
"I spoke rashly. I accept that you may punish me for it all the rest of my days. All I can do is offer my apology, Hawke; my sincerest apology. To you. To our companions. To your sister."
Kiara straightened her shoulders, and when she spoke her voice was carefully neutral, but she would not meet his eyes. "And after you've said your apologies? What will you do then?"
He frowned.
"You've been torn between your options as long as I've known you, Sebastian," she continued, gazing a little past him, at a spot on the wall just above his left shoulder. "Will you stay or will you go? Will you find another chantry to affiliate yourself with?" She swallowed, and her voice took on a strange quality, one whose tenor he could not quite make out. "Will you return… home?"
Is that what you want me to do? Or is that what you fear?
He did not know how to reply, so he asked, "Do you know what you will do?"
Shaking her head, she pushed a hand through her hair. Her fingers lingered, pressing her brow as though it caused her pain—headaches again, he knew. He recognized the signs. She pinched the bridge of her nose and replied with more honesty than his own deflected question deserved, "I have yet to decide how best I may use my… skills. Notoriety. I don't know. My connection to the events here—my connection to Anders—will be known. I am afraid others—Amelle, especially—may be dragged into danger with me. I am not certain if staying in Kirkwall will help, or if it will only cause more harm." Her eyes narrowed in a pain he understood all too well, and it had nothing to do with headaches. "I… I do not wish to cause more harm. I would disappear entirely if I thought it would help, but I am afraid there are those who would use my name if I am not here to speak for myself. I have been… too much in the public eye."
The words I would disappear entirely stunned him momentarily, and so his reply came after too long a pause. "You… for so many years, you listened to my endless indecision. Again and again you were patient. You advised me well. You… cared about what I wanted." His throat felt tight, but still he forced words through it. "I am ashamed, Hawke. I have never bothered asking what it is you want."
She grimaced, her lips turned down in an ugly little twist. "Does it matter?"
"It does," he replied.
She blinked, as though she had not expected him to reply to a question she thought rhetorical. Then she said, "I didn't want this, you know. Power. Politics. Champion. I was never interested in it. I wanted a home. I wanted my family to be safe. Simple things. Quiet things. And one by one those things have been taken from me. Because of struggles for power. Because of politics. Hiding my head in the sand won't bring those things back. The things set in motion—the things I helped set in motion, whether I knew it or not—someone must be an advocate."
"You would… accept that role, though it is not what you want?"
She tilted her head, and color rose in her cheeks. For one moment she looked so utterly baffled, he almost wanted to take his words back. Then she shook her head slightly and said, with no small amount of bitterness, "Someone has to do it." She winced, as if hearing her own venom. With a helpless gesture she said, "I may not have made Anders' decisions, but I didn't stop him, either. I… I protected him. For too long, even when the holes in his stories were bigger than the stories themselves." She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples once again. "You are not the only one who feels amends must be made, or apologies spoken."
Sebastian swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. His heart raced, but for once it had nothing to do with his injury. Humbled by the rawness of her emotion, Sebastian swallowed and at last carefully slid the shirt over his head, wrapping the fabric close. Swallowing did little to moisten his suddenly-parched throat. Clenching his hands around his knees, he said gravely, "I have… I have always respected you, Hawke. Always. But never more than I do at this moment. Truly. You… asked me what I will do, and I did not answer."
"I noticed," she replied.
He inclined his head. "Would it help you to have the prince of Starkhaven as an ally? I will… I would return to that duty, if it aids you. If nothing else, as prince I would be better able to offer you protection that meant something. For you, and for Amelle. For all those who might fall under suspicion because of Anders. I cannot promise it will be easy, but I—I would try. And this time I would not let myself be dissuaded by nobility too cowardly to stand with me. I am, after all, the last of my family. Blood speaks. I am the rightful heir."
Whatever response he'd been expecting, it was not the one he received. Hawke gasped, and then put one hand to her mouth as though she wished to push the sound back inside. The other she pressed to her side. She went the color of milk and her eyes widened until he could see the whites all around her pale irises. She stumbled a few steps until she looped an arm around one of the bedposts to keep herself upright. Indeed, her response was so startling—so terrifying—he was up and at her side before he could tell himself it might not be the wisest course of action, what with the recent dose of healing magic still making his brain hum and his limbs tremble.
Hawke jerked away from his hand, tossing her head, her eyes squeezed shut.
"What did I say?" he asked urgently. "Hawke, whatever is the matter?"
"I… can't. Not—you're not well. It's not safe. It's too soon. You'll only—I can't, Sebastian. I can't."
He put his hands on her shoulders before she could pull away again, but still she turned her head, unwilling to look at him. It was baffling. He was of half a mind to call—loudly—for Amelle when Kiara groaned and said, "But no, I… it's wrong of me. To keep it from you. Promise me you'll wait until you're well, Sebastian. Please promise me."
"Wait for what?" he asked. And then, "Kept what from me, Hawke?"
He felt the shudder ripple through her, and he stood so close he could not help see the pain in eyes that welled with tears. "The day after the memorial," she whispered, her hand sneaking back to her side. "I had a letter."
"About what? Anders? It doesn't matter, Hawke. Please. Sit. You are unwell. Let me fetch your sister."
"No! No. Just… no. Not Anders. It may mean nothing. It may… I'm sorry, Sebastian, I should have told you. I know I should have told you. I've been carrying it around in my pocket for days, but I couldn't make myself come. And now here you are, so earnest and so broken, and there may be nothing at all for you to return to. Or there might be everything, I suppose, but not what you expect."
Tears ran freely down her face now, and these were more disconcerting even than her words, or the mercurial shifts in her emotions. "Kiara," he said evenly, and the use of her given name brought her eyes—her wide, frightened, weeping eyes—to meet his. "This letter. It concerns me?"
She hunched forward as much as his hands on her shoulders would allow, biting her bottom lip between her teeth. "It… it concerns Starkhaven," she whispered. "And it… and I think it concerns you."
#
Amelle closed the door quietly, took three steps, and looked up to see Fenris standing before her, carrying a basin of water. She blinked.
"The… kitchen was full of corpses," he said. "I thought it best to go to the well. Forgive my delay."
She'd have smiled if she wasn't so bone weary. "I don't need it. I thought… I suppose I thought it wasn't going to be so bad. But it was more than a patch job." She put a hand to her head and stumbled past Fenris to sit on the top stair. She had no intention of sharing just how badly off Sebastian had been—again—but she knew all too well; she would not be so dizzy, so drained, if the infection hadn't been bad.
Behind her, she heard Fenris lower his burden. The water sloshed. A few moments later he sank next to her, hands on his knees. He'd removed his clawed gauntlets, she noticed, and the tattoos running the lengths of his fingers were delicate, glowing ever so slightly in the dim light.
"Amelle. Are you unwell? Can I… is there anything I may do?"
She chuckled a little, but didn't look up. In a few moments enough of her mana would return, and she'd be able to heal some of the fatigue plaguing her, but until then… "I'm not the patient."
"Perhaps, but the question seems appropriate nonetheless."
"I'm fine. I will be fine. In a moment. I just need to sit."
"And Sebastian…?"
"He'll live. Whether he likes it or not. Moving corpses. Patching walls. It's madness."
Fenris was silent, and when she cast a slantwise glance in his direction, she found she could not tell if he was angry or sad. Perhaps it was both. She understood that dichotomy all too well, after all.
"I do not understand," Fenris said at last. "He was… he seemed well enough this morning. Pale, as I said. Nothing to—" Fenris swept his hand in an arc, taking in her weariness.
She grimaced. "He aggravated the old wound. I think he was probably… downplaying the pain. Masking it. Pretending." Fenris' eyes narrowed, and he looked ashamed of himself, but Amelle added, "It's not your fault, Fenris. He's not your responsibility."
"And you believe he still… questions his place?"
"That's a pleasant way of asking if I think he's borderline suicidal."
Fenris flipped his hands over, staring down into his empty palms. "He seems… his condition was so much poorer, then. Surely, he—"
She snorted lightly. "Maker, Fenris. I've said it before: you've a talent for understatement. He may not have been in a pool of his own blood when I healed him just now, but the threat remains. Maybe I… I don't know. I've never healed someone who was… who was as close to death as Sebastian was."
"But you did—"
"Fenris," she said evenly, turning to face him and leaning her spine against the cool stone wall in the process. "Anyone else… anyone else would have seen a dead man lying there in that alley. His heart was not beating; his lungs held no breath. I could… sense, I suppose, that his spirit was clinging stubbornly, so I suspect at least part of him didn't want to die, but it was a very near thing. I have no idea what kind of repercussions that kind of brush with death has on a person. None whatsoever."
Something dangerously close to awe—she supposed awe was better than animosity, but still, it was nothing if not foreign—slid over his features. "You are… you are able to do that?"
Amelle made a face. "I managed it once. Because we weren't too late. And because… because it was Sebastian and I… refused to give up. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done, and I still don't know how effective I was. No one should take so long to heal with the amount of power I've applied, near-mortal wound or not."
"It will heal. I have… you are proficient at your craft. It will heal."
Amelle smiled slightly at his word choice. She had the feeling proficient coming from Fenris was akin to a glowing recommendation sung from the rooftops from anyone else. "I would not have thought to hear you speak so about anyone using magic for any purpose."
Fenris shrugged uncomfortably, his armor creaking. "You have given him a second chance. I… I hope he takes full advantage of it."
It didn't escape her notice that he did not quite respond to her words. She supposed admitting proficiency was also still worlds away from trust. It was something, though. "Maker, so do I. I think it's going to take time, though. The guilt he carries is a heavier burden even than the wound itself."
Fenris said nothing, but raised his eyebrows expectantly and she explained, "I don't claim to be an expert, but I'd venture a guess that his guilt is hurting him just as much as patching holes or dragging corpses or taking a morning stroll around the market did. The body is a funny thing. If he doesn't feel he deserves to have been saved…"
"He will be his own end," Fenris supplied gravely.
Amelle sighed. "Precisely. So… so let us hope it doesn't come to that."
"I rather suspect your sister will not allow it to come to that."
Amelle bit her bottom lip. Of course. And what Kiara wants, Kiara gets. Very softly she said, "I'd rather someone's life not come down to a battle of wills, even when one of the wills is as determined as my sister's."
Fenris nodded, and they sat in silence a while. When Amelle felt steady enough, she allowed a breath of rejuvenation magic to feed her flagging resources. She was then forced to shift her power into a healing spell for the headache that had started to pound forward after healing Sebastian—you're pushing yourself too hard, rabbit; no mage's reserves are unlimited—but afterward she felt almost human again, and she decided it was worth it. She just needed a full night's—or full week's—sleep.
She also needed to sort things out with Kiara, but the sleep seemed a more attainable goal.
Finally, Fenris said, "Speaking of clashing wills, there is a great deal less… shouting than I expected."
This startled a chuckle from her, and the sound echoed eerily in the quiet corridor. "Oh, nothing's worse than Kiara when she's quiet." Fenris inclined his head as though he understood this all too well—and he did at that, Amelle supposed. "I imagine Sebastian is wishing he were dead right now."
"Should we… intervene?"
Amelle gave him a wry look. "I think I've done quite enough, but I take your point. Best rescue him again before she does damage I can't so easily undo."
Like with her words.
She was still a little unsteady when she rose—definitely in need of sleep, definitely—so she grabbed hold of the banister. A moment later she felt Fenris' unarmored fingertips at her elbow. She sent a grateful smile over her shoulder, but his expression was inscrutable and somehow reserved, and her smile faded. She imagined he simply didn't want her to tumble headfirst down the staircase to add to his diminishing collection of corpses. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders, pulled her arm away from his tentative grip and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her dress before crossing once again to Sebastian's door.
After a quick knock, she peered in. Kiara was leaning against one of the bedposts, Sebastian's hands on her shoulders.
"Oh, good," Amelle said with a lightness she did not quite feel. "No more bloodshed. When it got quiet we started to worry."
And then Kiara turned. And worry was too insignificant a word for what Amelle felt.
Behind her, Fenris said, "Ceasing your concern may be premature, Amelle."
Amelle sank down into a chair, folding her hands in her lap. Fenris moved to stand behind her; she felt oddly comforted by the solid presence of him. Sebastian was pale again, though it was a different sort of pale and it did not immediately cause Amelle to think of illness.
It was… worse, somehow. His eyes were haunted, the blue far too bright over the dark shadows beneath.
"When can I travel, Amelle?" Sebastian asked, his voice eerily calm. She felt a shiver run the length of her spine. Fenris' fingers closed tightly over the back of her chair. She looked from Kiara to Sebastian and back again.
"You're not serious. What do you—?"
"When can I travel?"
Wide-eyed, their current animosity forgotten, Amelle gazed searchingly at her sister. It was… Kiara's face was composed now, but Amelle knew her sister's complexion well enough to recognize Kiara had been crying, and not gently.
"Answer him."
Flustered, Amelle said, "I—don't—I've never healed an injury as significant as yours, Sebastian, and if today's relapse is any… you survived against all odds. The spells, the potions, they can help, but time is the only—"
"When?"
For an instant Amelle saw not the chantry brother, not Choir Boy—Varric and his nicknames—but the prince of Starkhaven. And he… he frightened her.
"Another week," she answered reluctantly. "At least. I'd be happier with a fortnight, and even then there's no guarantee—"
"A week," Sebastian growled, eyes flashing with barely-controlled impatience.
"Much happier with a fortnight."
Sounding almost defeated, Kiara pleaded, "Sebastian. Don't. We can send another letter, wait for a proper reply. You can't go dashing across the continent on the weight of a rumor. Not in your condition. Don't be… don't be foolish."
Sebastian removed his hands from Kiara's shoulders and clenched them into fists at his side. Amelle was almost certain he was physically restraining himself from hitting something. Maybe even Kiara. "My brother Connall has returned from the dead and you want me to wait?"
Amelle's jaw dropped, but Kiara's swift look begged her not to ask.
"What good will it do to run in blind? Half dead? What difference can another fortnight make? If it is your brother, he will still be there in two weeks. And if it isn't… it could be a trap. Think about the timing!" Kiara's voice rose with every sentence, increasingly desperate.
"She's… right, Sebastian," Amelle said reluctantly, ducking her head when Sebastian's glare found her again.
"On all counts," Fenris added, without a tremor of doubt in his voice. Amelle was grateful for that, too. "You would be wise to listen."
Sebastian scoffed, "All very easy for you to say, Fenris, Amelle. Hawke."
Fenris' voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Do not think for a moment I underestimate the importance of family."
"Sebastian," Amelle said, using the same tone she'd use with a skittish animal, "if it is your brother, he will understand your delay. You are hurt. Badly hurt. If it's not your brother—if it is a trap of some sort—and you were to rush in, in your condition?" Amelle shook her head. "Please… please think this through."
"A week," he repeated, speaking the word as though it tasted foul in his mouth.
"At least a week before you can physically travel!" she amended. "You never said anything about… confrontations."
Again she flinched when the full force of his stare met hers. "And if you were in my place?" Sebastian glanced between the sisters. "If either of you were in my place, would you be content to sit and wait, not knowing the truth? Not knowing if the brother you thought dead yet lived?"
"I daresay I could wait long enough to send a letter and wait for a reply," Kiara snapped, though the retort was weak, and Amelle could see her sister's certitude wavering. "I would… I would wait until I knew for certain."
Amelle glanced away from Sebastian's piercing gaze, staring into her palms. There was still soil beneath her fingernails, leftover from her planting. "No, you wouldn't," Amelle said softly, remembering sand beneath her cheek and Grace dead beside her, remembering the wild look in Kiara's eyes and the blood spattered across her face. Behind her, Fenris huffed a quiet groan of displeasure, and she heard Kiara gasp. "And neither would I."
The silence that followed her admission was sudden and eerie. She wondered if they were all remembering that day on the Wounded Coast. Kiara still wouldn't speak of it, but Amelle knew damned well restraint—and even common sense—had not been high on Kiara's list of priorities on that particular occasion. Once she'd learned what Thrask and Grace had done... Kiara had not even waited for Aveline and the guard. Amelle had little doubt Kiara would have hared off entirely on her own, if she'd not had companions with her who refused to let her do so. And Maker only knew how that might have turned out.
The only sound was breathing—Sebastian's inhales had a little hitch on the end, and Amelle rose from her chair, crossing the room to settle her hand on his forearm, even though she was not entirely recovered from her earlier efforts. Her hands glowed briefly, and his breath eased just enough to sound normal again. He gave her a grateful look, but it disappeared the moment she whispered, "At least a week, Sebastian. You'll never know the truth if you die en route."
"Perhaps," Fenris offered tentatively, "one of us might go in your stead?"
"No," Sebastian growled.
"Yes," Kiara replied, brightening just a little. "That might work." Her expression turned self-deprecating. "It's already been established that perhaps a small break from Kirkwall might not be the worst thing for me right now."
"No," Sebastian repeated. "This is nothing to do with you."
Kiara stiffened and shot him a warning glance. "That's funny," she said in a voice that was distinctly not amused. "You wouldn't know anything about it if not for me; I think that involves me. My contacts. My information. Be reasonable, Sebastian."
He began to protest, stopped mid-syllable, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, Hawke. Elthina scolded me on more than one occasion for allowing myself to be blown about like a weathervane; perhaps this is only another example that would prove her assessment accurate."
Kiara narrowed her eyes, and Amelle felt herself echoing her sister's distrustful expression. It was… too calculated, too swift a change in tone. But instead of arguing with him or calling him on it, Kiara looked away and nodded at Amelle. "Will you check the dressing? I want to be certain it's correct."
Amelle did not mention the dozens and dozens of perfectly adequate bandages Kiara had tied before.
"Fenris?" Kiara said. "A word?"
Without a backward glance, Kiara strode from the room. Fenris followed at a more sedate pace, shaking his head slightly. When the door closed behind them, Sebastian released a sigh. "She means well," he said, more to himself than to Amelle. "But she's infuriating."
"Welcome to my world," Amelle retorted, gesturing for him to lift his shirt again. She checked the bandages, and he remained still while she worked, but of course there was nothing to change—they were tied perfectly, with exact care.
She shrugged and turned to head for the door herself, but Sebastian's voice stopped her. "Amelle, I…"
When she looked over her shoulder at him he cleared his throat and ducked his head, a different person entirely from the angry prince of only moments before.
"Yes?" she asked, a little hesitantly, half-expecting a mercurial shift back to ire. It did not come.
"I believe I owe you an apology."
"Just give it a week. Or two. You're a stubborn patient, but you get one free relapse. Any more after this one and we'll have to have words. Unpleasant ones. I may even glare."
"That… isn't what I meant."
"I'm fine, Sebastian. Just a little tired—it's not all down to you, you know. What I've done today should hold, provided you don't get it in your head to start patching walls or moving any more corpses about. I'd even recommend avoiding—"
"Amelle."
The insistence in his voice brought her fully around to face him, and she cocked her head. "Yes?"
"Please allow me to… I do owe you an apology. After what Anders did and… I know what I said, and it wasn't only your sister I was… please, let me apologize."
Amelle let out a soft sigh and rocked back slightly on her heels. Then she looked down at her hands, her lips pursed in thought.
Sebastian took her silence as permission to continue. "I will understand if you choose not to forgive me. My words were said in anger and—"
Amelle shook her head. "You weren't the only one who was angry, Sebastian. To be frank, angry doesn't begin to cover what I felt. What I feel. He… he betrayed all of us. Oh, Kiara shoulders the weight of it because that's what she does, but I daresay I feel it as keenly. He proved the point everyone else was trying to make: mages are dangerous. The power we wield is dangerous. After some of the things I've seen since arriving in Kirkwall…"
Amelle swallowed hard and cast a quick glance at the door to be certain Kiara and Fenris were still deep in conference. She could hear the soft exchange of their voices without, but could not make out their words.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "I am ashamed to be a mage at all. I… wonder if I will falter. If I will turn out like they did. Like he did."
"…You don't say his name."
She was startled by her own vehemence when she snapped, "I don't want to say his name. He deserves no such attention, from me or anyone. I want him forgotten. He is the worst of what we are, and yet he had the gall to speak for us. For me. Some days… some days I think I'd be content to give up my magic entirely, if it didn't mean becoming Tranquil to do so."
"I, for one, am glad of your skills," Sebastian said, touching the bandage at his breast briefly. "We would not be having this conversation, otherwise."
She was reminded suddenly, keenly, of the conversation she and Fenris had had upon the stairs. "Yes. Well. There is that, I suppose." Then she crossed the length of the room again and laid a hand on the back of Sebastian's bowed head. He twitched under her touch but did not pull away. "For what it's worth, Sebastian? I do forgive you. But it is not my forgiveness you truly require, is it?"
He shook his head.
"And it's not Kiara's either," Amelle added.
"No," he said. "It is my own. And I do not know if I can grant it. Even now."
"You can try," she replied gently. "That's all any of us can do, really. Try."
He nodded beneath her hand, but she could feel the reluctance in him, deep and dangerous as poison.
#
Kiara paced, waiting for Fenris to follow her out and close the door, fighting the urge to put her fist into the wall. She knew well enough the wall would come out the victor of any battle she attempted to instigate, but the desire still remained.
It was something about the way Sebastian's eyes had lit up that had her so distressed. She'd known at once that with such a possibility in the world there would be no reasoning with him. It was why… it was a large part why she'd kept the information from him. She couldn't pretend not to understand. If it was his brother who now sat on the throne of Starkhaven, she would be glad for him, truly, but his hope had flared so brightly, and… there were too many questions, and too many flaws in the narrative.
Brothers didn't come back from the dead. It was too bloody convenient.
After Anders, Kiara had become exceptionally skeptical of stories with obvious holes in them. She trusted her source well enough—Shira and Tad were old friends of her mother's—but Shira was only able to relay the little information she had, and she wasn't privy to the inner workings of Starkhaven's court. So they were only rumors. It was only hearsay.
Rumors and hearsay were going to get Sebastian Vael killed.
She didn't hear Fenris approach—she never heard Fenris approach—but she felt the faint eddy of movement in the air as he drew near. Without looking at him, she said softly, "He's going to try and sneak out. Perhaps not tonight, perhaps not tomorrow, but certainly before the week is up."
"Yes," Fenris replied evenly. "I thought so as well."
Kiara took a deep, steadying breath. "I am going to… go with him."
"Of course," Fenris said at once, as though the possibility of anything else had never occurred to him.
But this was the hard part. Kiara turned, and whatever he saw on her face creased his brow in confusion, his green eyes sharp under dark brows. "I'd like you to stay."
She saw him stiffen and she knew him well enough to recognize the spark of anger in his eyes as close kin to wounded. The tattoos on his ungauntleted hands flashed silver-bright as he clenched his fists. "May I ask why?"
"It isn't what you think, Fenris." Kiara pulled her hands through her hair. Her headache was now so blinding even her eyes hurt. "The situation in Starkhaven may be dangerous—"
Curtly, Fenris interjected, "And you doubt my usefulness in potentially dangerous situations?"
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The gesture did nothing to ease the pain. "Maker, Fenris, you know that's not true." She picked carefully through the words buzzing in her skull, trying for the right ones. "I don't feel good about this. Any of it. It all feels… off. Wrong, somehow. But I doubt I can get to the bottom of it from here."
"Amelle and I were not present for the explanation, Hawke. It is something to do with Starkhaven, and something to do with one of Sebastian's… brothers?"
Kiara bit her lip, and at least the new pain distracted her somewhat from the other. "I think it's more likely someone seeks to pull the wool over the eyes of a city already in mourning and disarray, but yes. I received word that a new prince sits on Starkhaven's throne, and that the prince claims to be Connall Vael. Sebastian's dead brother Connall Vael."
Fenris frowned thoughtfully. "It seems unlikely that anyone so… important would have been allowed to escape the Flint mercenaries without…"
"Without someone knowing about it? Without some rumor reaching Sebastian in the intervening years? Yes. I know. But you can imagine how…"
"Yes," Fenris said. "I can imagine. Sebastian hopes, and you think it is a trap."
She sighed. "No one will be happier if I'm proven wrong, but yes, that is what I suspect. I wasn't going to tell him. Not yet. But then he caught me off-guard and I… well. You saw."
Fenris crossed his arms over his chest, gazing down at a basin of water inexplicably sitting in the middle of the hallway. Then again, most aspects of Fenris' mansion's appearance were inexplicable. "We might all go, Hawke. Apart from Aveline, there is… little tethering us to Kirkwall now. It might even be best if we go."
"I… considered that. But… Amelle has the… she has the clinic, now. It makes her happy, and it is a good outlet for her skills. It's safer than some things she might choose, in any case. And although Kirkwall still has its dangers, at least they're dangers we know." She inhaled and exhaled, unable to escape Fenris' calculating expression. "I… do not intend to bring her with me, when I go."
Fenris narrowed his eyes, plainly assessing her. "This has nothing to do with your argument on the day of the memorial?"
Kiara winced, but did not attempt to lie; Fenris would spot any falsehood and take her to task for it, anyway. "Amelle's dearest wish is to be out from under my shadow, Fenris. She said as much. This is me granting that wish."
"She will not thank you for it. Especially as you intend to leave a… watchdog."
Kiara waved dismissively. "Oh, I intend to leave several. But that's not interfering in her life, Fenris. It's just common sense. And part of being an older sister. I… I expect she will be angry with me at first, but… perhaps the distance will do us some good." Scuffing her booted toes against the stones, she added softly, "I… had not realized how much she chafed. I am not making this choice to injure her, though I doubt she'll see my actions in as kindly a light as I intend them."
She couldn't quite parse the expression he wore. Thoughtful, yes, but something more than that. Troubled. Wary. A little unhappy. "You are asking me to keep this from her. She will not thank me, either."
Kiara inclined her head to accept his point. "Ahh, but she likes you, Fenris. You'll be forgiven much, much more quickly than I will." With a weary smile she added, "I notice you're not denying my request outright. Does that mean you'll consider doing it?"
Fenris was silent. After a long pause, he said, "I would be happier if you discussed it with her, but I… I believe I understand why you will not. Your sister feels responsibility keenly, and she would consider it her duty to go with you. You wish to… relieve her of the obligation."
"I want her to be happy, Fenris. And I want her to be safe. I want her to… to smile the way she smiled the night she delivered that baby, all the time. She deserves her own life, and I fear she cannot have one as long as she's the Champion's sister."
Too late she heard the meaning in her words. Fenris did, too. "She will always be your sister, Hawke."
"That isn't what I—I know. I just think it is better this way. You've trusted my judgment before. I suppose I'm asking you to trust it again."
He gave her a long, considering look. "Very well."
"You'll do it?"
"I will. But I will not—as you say—interfere with her life. I will watch, and I will guard. If she sends me away, I will go. And if she does not wish my presence, I will not force her to accept it."
Combined with her headache, the sudden rush of gratitude was nearly blinding. She smiled broadly, but pinched the bridge of her nose at the same time. When she bullied the pain back—mostly by applying her teeth to her bottom lip again as a distraction—she found Fenris watching her evenly, and with no small amount of concern.
"Let Amelle see to your headache."
But Kiara shook her head, ignoring the pain even this slight motion evoked. "No time. Things to do. Places to go. Travel to arrange." She reached out, grasping Fenris' bare hand and clasping it tightly between both of hers. "I know you will keep her safe, Fenris. I know you will. I… I cannot thank you enough."
Fenris' lips twisted in a wry smile. "Pain makes you maudlin, Hawke."
She twitched one shoulder in a little shrug. "What doesn't make me maudlin?"
He snorted lightly. She was halfway down the steps when she heard him call out, "Hawke. Wait."
Turning her head, she canted an eyebrow and he added, "I have… I have heard Isabela say she would like to see Starkhaven. Perhaps she might… aid with the travel plans."
"I'll miss you, too, Fenris," she replied, smiling faintly.
