When the knock came, Kiara almost didn't open the door because she did not recognize the woman on the other side. However, the little peephole revealed Sebastian standing next to the newcomer, and that was enough to ensure trust. Of course, when she pulled the door open and looked closely, she realized the woman wearing the high-necked gown, hair pulled tidily back, and facial jewelry removed, was actually Isabela, and she nearly laughed, or fainted, or both.
"Don't," Isabela commanded, with a glower rendered somewhat less fierce by the lace beneath it. And the pink. And the ruffles.
"Don't what?" Kiara replied with mock innocence. "Comment? Giggle? Compliment you?"
"I'm charging you triple for every minute I have to spend wrapped in this revolting… thing." With a derisive snort, Isabela tossed her head. For a moment she looked startled, as though she'd expected to feel the familiar brush of hair on her shoulders. "Besides, if you think this is bad, wait until you see what you've got. Believe me when I say I chose the lesser of two evils. I don't know what lady-friend Castillon entertained on this ship, but her taste in clothing was appalling."
And from behind her back, Isabela presented the single most hideous article of clothing Kiara had ever had the misfortune of beholding.
"She, uh, certainly seemed fond of ruffles," Kiara offered. Isabela only grimaced, and pushed the offensive garment into Kiara's unwilling arms. "And… I'm sorry, is this shade chartreuse?"
"I've been calling it baby shit brown," Isabela remarked. "I bet you're longing for the pink one now."
Kiara smiled weakly. "Oh, not at all." She gestured vaguely at her hair. "I hear pink's no shade for a redhead. Or at least that's what Mother always used to exclaim, loudly and at length, whenever I showed any interest in it."
"Baby shit brown'll be much more flattering," Isabela agreed. "Think you can manage that alone? Or shall I leave you a maid?" She hooked her thumb over her shoulder at a horrified Sebastian—who was, Kiara noted, simply attired, with nary a ghastly color or ruffle in sight. Lucky bastard.
"I'll manage," Kiara murmured. "Though the offer is tempting."
Isabela barked a laugh somewhat at odds with her eerily ladylike appearance. "Isn't it just? Look how prettily he blushes."
Kiara rather regretted her decision, however, when she closed the cabin door and was left alone with the garment in question. After several minutes of struggle—and vehement cursing—she managed to wiggle into the dress and even do up half the buttons, but the other half defeated her. Opening the door, she peered into the dim, narrow hallway. Sebastian waited, arms crossed and expression carefully bland.
"Trouble?" he asked.
She glowered, lifting her hair and turning her back. "How good are you with buttons?"
His huff of laughter made her blush. "Better than you, it appears."
"You try doing up your clothes blind, with your arms all twisted behind you."
"No, thank you," he replied, even as his fingers reached out and deftly began to put her dress to rights. It occurred to her to wonder if even the skin of her back was turning pink. She feared it probably was.
"She did that to me on purpose, didn't she?"
Sebastian chuckled. "I imagine so." His fingers slowed before pausing altogether. "Hawke, look… your knowledge of the Marches is—"
"Sketchy at best," she interjected. "I know. You don't have to remind me. You did make yourself perfectly clear earlier."
He fastened three more buttons before adding, "Please, follow my lead here. I know it… doesn't come naturally to you, but—"
Twisting her neck, she glanced over her shoulder to find him frowning. For a moment he looked almost chagrined. "I hope I'm not so intractable that I can't see an advantage when it's presented to me. You know this place. I don't. It only makes sense to follow your lead, Sebastian. I'm not here to make trouble."
He finished the last of the buttons and dropped his hands back down to his sides. "You say that now."
Grimacing, she twisted her hair into a knot at the base of her skull, the way Isabela's had been done. "Is it slavery? Murder? Kicking puppies in the street? Truly, Sebastian, your concern is… alarming."
This time his brief laugh was utterly mirthless. "Good. And no, it's none of those things. It's subtler. In some ways more horrible."
"Like being forced to wear this dress?"
"It's not a jest, Hawke."
He spoke with such sudden heat that Kiara startled, dropping several hairpins to the floorboards. Sebastian bent to retrieve them, and when he dropped them into her hand, she saw his fingers were trembling. "Forgive me," she said. "I—you know me."
His eyes were sharp and shrewd and just a little frightened. "I do, Hawke. That's the problem."
Kiara closed her fingers around the pins and looked down at them. Drawing in a breath and letting it out, she then began inserting the pins into her hair, taking care not to jab her scalp in the process. Kiara felt Sebastian's eyes on her the whole while, and she saw the way his mouth tightened at the corners, the pinched look at his eyes, the furrow between his brows. She wondered how much of it had to do with Hercinia, and how much of it had to do with his lingering injury. Sebastian must have seen the way her eyes dropped because he sighed a little and shook his head.
"It is bothering me no more than it has been."
She nodded, tapping her fingers against her thigh, wondering why it had seemed so bloody important to leave Amelle behind. "You're certain?" she asked in an attempt to sound neutral, but not sure how well it came off; even she heard the note of concern in her voice. "You…" she cleared her throat and forced a smile. "Then something about this particular port makes you look as if you're in horrible pain. As Varric would say, sounds like a story there." She nodded at the coiled belt on her bunk. It was a prettily braided affair with a sheath on the side just the right size for her smallest dagger. "Why don't you hand me that and regale me while I finish up?"
Sebastian attempted a smile, but it came off more like a grimace, and after a moment he took a seat on the bottom bunk, raising the belt. It looked almost absurdly feminine in his hands, and something about the buttery-soft leather draped over strong fingers made Kiara's flush flare anew. She held out her hand expectantly, but Sebastian only coiled the accessory neatly and set it aside.
"You cannot take a weapon into Hercinia, Hawke."
She felt her eyebrow arch almost of its own accord. "I'm not taking a weapon into Hercinia, Sebastian. I'm taking a letter-opener."
But he only shook his head and gestured for her to sit down. "You don't understand. All weapons, any weapons, anything that could potentially be used as a weapon, is forbidden." He paused, looking briefly at the belt in question. "Even glorified letter-openers."
Kiara took a moment to let this sink in. It sounded strange, certainly, but nowhere near deserving of the level of Sebastian's distress. "You're… serious."
"I'm quite serious."
Kiara nodded slowly and looked for somewhere else, somewhere a little… safer to sit, but options were limited; she barely had room enough to turn around before sitting down on the bunk, allowing about an arm's length of space between them. "All right, then. Tell me. Tell me why I can't even carry the decorative dagger my sister gave me on our last First Day in Lothering."
"I… want you to understand that I'm not trying to be alarmist, Hawke. Only cautious. Hercinia is… in many ways it has the appearance of being… pleasant. The people here are unused to… anyone with…" Here, Sebastian frowned and looked at his hands, clasping them loosely between his knees as he searched for the right word. "They are unused to anyone possessing even a fraction of the… spirit that the Champion of Kirkwall possesses. And I fear the very thing that makes you unique will… cause problems here."
"Why do I feel you aren't referring to my wit and vivacity?"
He didn't laugh. If anything, his expression darkened even further. "In some ways I am referring to your wit and vivacity. But I'm also referring to your… propensity for jumping in to things head first."
"Implying that there's something about this place that's going to induce me to jump in to things head first?"
Sebastian uttered a brief, frustrated groan. "We ought to have gone to Estwatch. Isabela's history with the guard-captain there be damned. That, I think, you could have talked our way out of."
"Sebastian," she growled, and her tone made his chin jerk up. He blinked at her, and then glanced swiftly away once again. "Dancing around the question isn't going to make me forget I asked it. We're here now. We need supplies. Maker's balls, we need water. So tell me what I need to know."
When he clenched his hands into sudden fists, she didn't miss the wince of pain, however brief it was. "Hercinia is ruled by an Assembly."
"Right. Book of Laws. You said."
Sebastian nodded. "Only men may serve on the Assembly."
Narrowing her eyes, she said nothing, but she twitched her chin in a gesture for him to continue. Which he did. Reluctantly. "There has been an Assembly in Hercinia as long as anyone can remember. They have ruled by their Book. And there are… distinct stratifications in their society. Women rule the house. Men rule everything else."
The word everything sounded bitter, and Kiara swallowed hard, as though swallowing might somehow rid her of the unpleasantness. Sighing, Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose. "But it's more complicated than that. And what they call respect, I fear you will call… condescension. I can already see the war raging on your face, Hawke. I can see you hoping to offer freedom and equality to all, but it isn't like that. The Law is sacrosanct. No one thinks to question it. You will be horrified when you see a woman walking two paces behind a man. She will accept absolutely that her place is right and just and good and ordained. If you tried to… to speak to her, even, she would turn you in to the authorities. You must not speak out of turn. You must not… reach past your station. And here? Your station is… not what you have been accustomed to."
Twisting her fingers together in her lap, Kiara grimaced. "I don't know. It's not like I was accustomed to much back when I was a mercenary Fereldan refugee."
"A mercenary Fereldan refugee allowed to speak her mind and act as she wished and fight bloody tooth and nail to earn herself a higher place in the world, Hawke. It is not the same. This is… this is hundreds of years of—"
"Brainwashing?" she interjected.
Sebastian only nodded sadly. "Perhaps."
She bit her bottom lip hard—hard enough to cause pain, but not quite enough to draw blood. Sebastian wasn't wrong. Already she could feel the faint prickle of disgust and anger and the need to right wrongs like an itch under her skin. She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "We need water," she repeated softly. "We need provisions. We need to… what did Isabela say? Sleep in a Hercinian bed and eat at a Hercinian table? I… I can't promise I won't help someone who asks, but I… won't offer." Her stomach lurched and she added, "It's not like I haven't made a mess of that of late, either. I-I can mind my own business. And I will. I probably ought to have started doing so a long time ago."
She nearly flinched when she felt Sebastian's hand on her shoulder, heavy and warm and so very solid. It was an old gesture, a familiar gesture, something so clearly belonging to before—before Anders, before the Chantry, before—that Kiara nearly wept. Instead, she coughed lightly and pushed herself to her feet, even as she fixed a brittle smile to her lips. "No doubt Isabela is waiting with bated breath to behold the hideousness of this dress. We should—we should go."
He nodded, hand falling back to his side as he slowly rose from the bunk. "Hawke…"
Shaking her head firmly, she gestured toward the door. "When in Hercinia, right? After you. I'll just be two steps behind."
She'd meant to say the words in jest, but Sebastian looked so pained she knew they'd fallen flat. "We just need water," she reminded him. "Water. Food. Bed. This is not the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
She glanced away before she could see the expression on his face. She was all too certain it would be pity. And she wanted none of that.
#
It wasn't that Sebastian doubted Hawke, or thought her in any way incapable. She was very capable. The most obvious exemplar being her rise to prominence in Kirkwall, from refugee to Champion in what now felt like no time at all. She was the type of person who, when working hard did not yield the results she wanted, worked harder,found ways to make things work—through brute force if necessary, but more frequently through the liberal use of charm and wit and a well-turned phrase. In truth, it wasn't a surprise she'd managed to win over Kirkwall. Sebastian was of the opinion Kiara Hawke could win over any city she wanted.
Any city but Hercinia.
He couldn't fathom how Isabela had ever managed to make port there without incident. He certainly didn't understand how Isabela could ever have managed to make port there and afterward left with any urge whatsoever to come back. He supposed her relationship with the city of Estwatch must be very, very bad indeed.
But Hawke… Hawke's natural inclination was to win people over and put them at ease, and it was something she did well. Inordinately well, in fact. Though she had no thirst for politics, she had a talent for handling people, and she knew it. But all of the skills that had served her so very well in the past wouldn't only fail her here, they could doom her.
Now you are being melodramatic, he chastised himself. Hawke is not a fool. You have explained the danger to the best of your ability. She knows you are in earnest.
As they came up from below, Sebastian was mildly reassured to see the marked difference in demeanor between both Varric and Isabela. The pirate wore her meekness like she would wear any other costume — convincingly — but Sebastian had known her long enough to recognize the way she carried herself, the way she held her head and lowered her eyes and clasped her hands for what they were: a subtle mockery of the very customs and laws she knew she had no choice but to follow.
For his part, Varric looked troubled, though Sebastian was sure the dwarf was doing his best not to appear so. Of their entire party, Varric was the one Sebastian found himself least worried about. The Tethras family hadn't risen to mercantile prominence by making enemies, and Sebastian knew very well Varric was the savviest of them all.
Hawke followed him into the sunlight — the storm was a distant memory, and the sun burned away any lingering moisture in the air, catching her red hair and making it gleam like burnished copper. Sebastian found himself wishing her hair hadn't been pulled back, that it was instead down and loose around her shoulders, all the better to—
His thoughts stopped with a jerk and he shook his head. If his face had betrayed his thoughts — though he doubted it had — Hawke said nothing. Instead, she mimicked Isabela's posture and pose, still looking distressed. The pirate, however, cocked an eyebrow and smirked. Sebastian ignored her.
"Okay, so," Varric began, once Sebastian and Hawke joined them on deck, "we have the names of the people to see about provisions and water. The sooner we can do what we came here to do, the sooner we can concentrate on all the other stuff. Namely: not getting arrested."
A smile twitched at the corner of Isabela's mouth as she murmured, "Story of my life."
"And a heck of a story it is, Rivaini."
Her smirk broadened for a moment, before she once again adopted the mild, sweet expression so… utterly unlike her. Varric snorted lightly. "Andraste's ass, woman," he said on a laugh. "We should have been running theatricals out of The Hanged Man all these years. Had no idea you were such a talented actress."
Isabela fluttered her eyelashes in feigned innocence. "I am, as they say, a woman of many talents. Many, many talents."
"They say that, do they?" Hawke murmured, shaking her head slightly, a faint smile pulling at her lips. Isabela's fake guilelessness disappeared with an eyeroll and a rude gesture. Hawke laughed.
For a moment they were all silent. It was her laughter, Sebastian realized. What was once commonplace had been rendered so very rare. Even Hawke looked startled by the sound. Varric only reached out and patted her hand. "Good to know you still have it in you," he remarked. "So. Here's the plan. Rivaini and I'll take care of the business side of things, and we'll meet up later. Couple of hours should do it."
"There's an inn near the docks," Isabela explained. "Tends to cater to the foreign crowd. Little less… stolid. Not a lot less, but a little. Men and women are allowed to eat in the same room, for example. Very forward thinking."
Varric gave a theatrically put upon sigh. "More's the pity."
Isabela applied a swift kick to his shin—no small feat considering the heavily ruffled state of her skirt—and he yelped.
Smoothing her dress back into place, Isabela ignored Varric's wounded expression and said, "It's called The Dancing Dog. We'll meet up there in time for dinner. And mead."
Sebastian glowered at her and she held her hands up in surrender. "Not that much mead. We sleep. We leave at first light. Easy as can be."
It was Hawke's turn for an exaggerated sigh. "Maker's balls, Isabela. Does the phrase 'famous last words' have no meaning for you? What are Sebastian and I meant to do? Do you have a… a task for us?"
Varric and Isabela exchanged a brief look before Varric replied, "Nah, Hawke. You and Choir Boy take in the sights."
Isabela added, "Let him do the talking."
Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I've had the lecture. Thank you. I still think things would go faster if we split the duties up."
After another weighty exchange of expressions, Varric shrugged and shook his head. "Even your purse isn't bottomless, Hawke, and I've seen you shop. You don't have a bartering bone in your body and shopkeepers can sense it. Dockside merchants'll take you for everything you're worth. Best leave it to the experts."
Sebastian could sense her disappointment. He wasn't certain how, precisely. Nothing about her demeanor or her expression changed; she looked as calm and reserved as she'd done a moment before. Too many days and weeks of restless inactivity—of forced restless inactivity—were taking their toll. She was a woman used to doing and it had been a very long time since she'd been allowed to do much of anything at all.
Hercinia really was the worst city for her.
"We'll go to the town market," Sebastian said. "There's no reason we can't endeavor to have a pleasant afternoon."
Hawke's look was scathingly skeptical.
"Ooh," Isabela wheedled, "buy me a present."
Sebastian arched an eyebrow. "Something with ruffles, perhaps?"
Isabela glared. Hawke only turned her head and gazed at him steadily. When she spoke, her tone was dry. "Trust me not to get us swindled or arrested now, do you?"
"It's just the market," Isabela remarked. "What's the worst that can happen?"
Improbably, this made Hawke laugh again. "Maker's breath, Isabela. You do know how to tempt fate."
On a wink, Isabela said, "Yes, well. Tempting things is one of those many, many talents I mentioned."
#
Hercinia probably would have been charming if it wasn't so blighted creepy, Kiara thought.
Oh, it looked nice enough. The carved stone fountains were inlaid with vibrant mosaics, and the buildings, for all they were squared off and severe, had surprising little flourishes here and there: bright tile roofs and ornate balconies with intricate — and deceptively delicate — wrought-iron balustrades. Archways were studded with vivid blue tile that Kiara thought had to be indigenous to the area; it was everywhere.
Even the marketplace was a flurry of color — bright awnings flapping and rippling in the breeze, carts selling fruits the color of jewels — grapes so deep a purple Kiara thought for a moment they had to be fake — and flowers the likes of which she'd never seen or smelled. She gazed longingly at a cluster of blooms, rounded peach petals that looked impossibly soft, growing darker and more vibrant toward the center of the flower, where bright yellow pollen sad amid a deeply pink middle. Her sister would have loved them.
Then Kiara looked glumly at the expanse of Sebastian's back and suppressed a sigh. Mely would love the flowers, but I think she'd hate the view. Not that Sebastian's back was an unpleasant sight — his shoulders were broad and well-formed and tapered down rather nicely…
Kiara jerked her eyes back up to Sebastian's shoulders, wondering how many rules she'd just broken, then took a quick glance around to make sure no one had caught her out. No one, it appeared, had, which left only Kiara with the knowledge of what she'd been doing. She shook her head, silently scolding herself, then walked on, maintaining the increasingly despised two-pace distance behind Sebastian.
"I should warn you," he'd told her as they descended from ship to dock, "people will assume we are husband and wife. It would be best to not give them reason to doubt."
"Dare I ask why?"
"Otherwise they will wonder where your chaperone is. Believe me when I say this is the better path."
And Kiara believed him. As she snuck surreptitious glances around her, she saw other women following two steps behind their male companions, some accompanied by what might have been brothers or uncles. She wanted to find the men cruel and stern-looking, and the women pale and weak, but they all looked so astonishingly normal Kiara found it difficult to make sense of. It was, in many respects, like Kirkwall or Denerim — you could tell quite plainly who had money and who did not. The wealthier women's dresses were more colorful, though still of a modest cut, and they carried delicately ruffled parasols in colors complimenting their gowns to shield them from the sun's rays. But still they walked behind their husbands, they did not speak until spoken to, and they met no one's gaze. That in itself was enough to remind Kiara to jerk her eyes to the back of Sebastian's head.
She followed him to a fruit stall, managing to look around without falling too far behind. She saw almost immediately the fruit-seller had perfectly ripe strawberries for sale, and her mouth watered at the sight of them. Turning his head slightly, she saw Sebastian sneaking a glance her way, as if checking to see if she'd noticed the seller's wares. When he turned back to the merchant, Kiara could hear something like… something like amusement in his voice.
And then he bought her strawberries.
She considered it one of the greatest feats of willpower in her life she didn't simply reach out and cram the fruit immediately into her mouth. Sebastian, accepting the little basket as he handed over currency—the merchant raised his eyes at the stamp of Kirkwall, but pocketed the coins easily enough—smiled at her as though reading her thoughts and she blushed. It was, after all, only fruit.
But these were the brightest, most perfectly formed little berries she'd ever seen. She wanted to eat them. Right now.
Lowering her eyes demurely, she waited for Sebastian to move. Luckily, they did not go far. Benches ringed a central fountain. Sebastian claimed an empty one and sat. Kiara, startled, waited for him to explain what she was meant to do—sitting together and eating in public seemed awfully forward-thinking, after all.
"You may sit," Sebastian said, pitching his voice low. "To my right. Don't let even the ruffles of your dress touch any part of me. You mustn't initiate any sort of contact; that is always left for the man."
Swallowing any number of mocking retorts, Kiara did as he bade, and sat. She flicked a quick, sideways glance in his direction.
"I think they realized their marketplace would sell more if people were allowed to sample of its wares," he explained softly, turning the little basket between his hands. She nodded, temporarily indifferent to the injustices of walking two steps behind and speaking only when spoken to. The smell of the bloody strawberries was actually driving her mad. Keeping her eyes lowered, she watched through her lashes as he plucked the leaves from the top of a berry before extending his hand, pinching the little red fruit between thumb and forefinger.
Sebastian sighed. "I know it's undignified. You can take it from my hand. It is… permitted. I initiated the action."
Again, she swallowed the desire to be sarcastic, replying in a whisper, "Tell me I can use my hands."
He huffed a brief laugh. "Of course. Do try to be discreet, though. Though I'm certain it happens as much here as anywhere, no one in Hercinia likes to be reminded what goes on behind closed doors. And it goes without saying that you mustn't accept anything from anyone's hand but my own."
"It goes without saying," she repeated dryly, plucking the berry from his hand and popping it into her mouth.
Kiara was a connoisseur of strawberries. And she had never tasted anything like this one. It very nearly brought tears to her eyes. She wasn't even certain she could ever again call the old berries she'd known as strawberries by the same name, having now tasted these ones. In fact, fish pies and mead be damned, she was almost half-convinced to return to Hercinia at some point for the berries alone. What was a little indignity, when this was the reward?
"I did say they don't like to be reminded what happens behind closed doors, Hawke. The expression on your face is not helping."
She couldn't help it. She giggled. And then she covered her mouth with one hand, in case giggling was filed under Activities Punishable By Law. Sebastian only laughed, and when she gazed up at him, wide-eyed, she found his expression amused and fond, but not terrified-of-imminent-arrest, so she lowered her hand again, curling it loosely in her lap. He offered her another berry.
"Dare I?" she murmured. "My self-control is being heavily tested here."
He gestured again, and she retrieved the second strawberry. She tried to eat this one with more dignity, but feared she more or less failed abominably. "We'll save the rest for later, perhaps. Because your adoration does… rather border on the obscene."
"I really love strawberries."
"I know you do," he replied, his tone gone oddly serious after its previous amusement.
This time when she lowered her eyes to gaze at the hands curled in her lap, it wasn't entirely because she was in Hercinia and it was expected. Her cheeks felt warm from more than the sun. Bloody strawberries. Bloody Sebastian. Bloody… everything.
"Hawke…"
"I'm fine," she answered softly, still looking at her hands. Sebastian said nothing, and though Kiara didn't look at him, she could feel how much he didn't believe her in the weight of his gaze. Finally she clasped her hands together and said with a brightness she feared sounded too forced, "So, the Hercinians know their fruit. Anything else we should see while we're here?"
"They're quite known for their fabrics—"
Kiara gave the voluminous ruffles of her gown a pointed look as she murmured under her breath, "Yes, well, they need so much of it."
Sebastian schooled his chuckle into a cough and went on. "Hercinian honey is without equal, and there are a plethora of spices, woodcraft…"
"We're to look for a gift for Isabela, remember." She sent him a slantwise glance. "And I think the only way she'll take her honey is in mead."
"I fear there is very little available in a Hercinian marketplace that would appeal to Isabela."
Just then a husband and wife walked by, both dressed in rich, vibrant silks. The woman carried — entirely without irony — what was possibly the most absurdly ruffled parasol Kiara had ever seen. It had more ruffles than she could possibly conceivably imagine. It also had, to its Hercinian credit, a most fantastically carved wooden handle.
"Think I can get that in pink?" she murmured, keeping her head bowed and now folding her hands in her lap with mock-innocence rivaling the pirate's.
This time Sebastian didn't bother checking his laugh. "I think we can certainly look."
#
It hadn't been all that bad, Kiara reflected as she followed Sebastian to the inn where they were to rendezvous with Varric and Isabela. There had been one or two uncertain moments when Sebastian's softly murmured directions to her had been the very lifeline she needed to gracefully avoid causing an international incident, but aside from having to stay two bloody paces behind Sebastian, keeping her eyes averted, and never speaking until spoken to…
Well, she wasn't in any sort of a rush to return to Hercinia, unless it was a special trip, just for the strawberries. Or the parasols. Currently there was a box under Sebastian's arm holding one such item — Isabela's requested gift. And they had it on good assurance there wasn't a pinker, more ruffled parasol in all of the Free Marches. It was perfect.
As they rounded the corner, the mouth-watering scent of what Kiara suspected were Hercinian fish pies filled the air and her stomach gave a sudden growl. Sebastian's shoulders shuddered with a silent laugh and he shook his head. At that moment Kiara saw a great deal of use in having a parasol — if she'd been in possession of one at that moment, she could have given him a warning poke. Utterly by accident, of course.
"And here we are," Sebastian said on a sigh as they approached the door. Reaching for the doorknob, he paused to glance over his shoulder at Kiara, saying in that same low tone, "And we neither of us managed to get swindled or arrest—"
Then, suddenly and without any warning, the door swung open, as a swarthy man roughly the size of the Arishok barreled through in a foul temper. The door caught Sebastian solidly in the chest and he staggered back, dropping the box he held, his hand going immediately — and protectively — to the site of his wound.
"Sebastian?" she asked. "Are you all right?"
The Arishok-sized man didn't so much as pause—and honestly, Kiara thought, how isn't utter rudeness against Hercinia's hallowed rules?—but she didn't waste any time on him because Sebastian turned his head, his expression the picture of puzzlement, and began, "I'm fi—"
And then he went positively grey, his eyes went peculiarly unfocused, and she saw him begin to fall.
She didn't think. She didn't have time to think. Even hampered by her awkward skirts, Kiara crossed the two-pace distance in a heartbeat, already reaching out to catch him before he could land and do himself even more damage. Even with her feet braced, she still nearly went down. She was strong, but Sebastian wasn't small, and the fainting dead weight of him seemed twice as heavy.
Wedging her shoulder underneath him, she managed to make his fall more gentle, but they still ended up on the ground, and she was alarmed when he didn't immediately wake. Settling him so his head rested in her lap, her fingertips fluttered over his chest. No blood seeped through the white fabric of his shirt, at least, and though it was still a terrible color, his skin wasn't either clammy or feverish. His pulse was a little rapid, however, and even when she gently shook the shoulder on his unwounded side, his eyelids didn't so much as flutter.
She wasn't aware of the crowd until someone touched her shoulder. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin, and if she'd been carrying a weapon—any weapon, even her letter-opener of a dagger—she might have put it through the interloper's eye. The newcomer was a stranger, of course, a man with grim eyes over heavy, drooping mustaches. She vaguely recognized his blue uniform—she'd seen others wearing the same thing all over the city. Supposing him to be someone with authority, she pleaded, "Can you fetch a physician? A healer? My friend is injur—"
The man cut her off, shaking his head. "Your friend?"
Kiara blinked at him and, too slowly, amended, "My husband. My husband is injured."
His expression clearly conveyed his doubt, and Kiara felt her heart flip in sudden apprehension. "The Law speaks clearly. You will come with us."
Glancing around, she saw the man was not alone. Even armed she might have had trouble fighting all the blue-clad Hercinians, especially in such close quarters. Several of the inn's patrons stood around, watching without giving the appearance of watching. Kiara thought she saw a froth of pink ruffles, but she couldn't be certain and she didn't want to stare.
The last thing she needed was to involve Isabela and Varric in this.
"Please rise," the man ordered. "You must come with us."
Kiara took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm sorry. What part of injured are you having trouble understanding?"
"He will be brought with you."
She barked an unpleasant, disbelieving laugh. "You're not seriously implying he's in trouble, too? For what? Fainting on the street?"
"The Law speaks clearly," he repeated. "We must… investigate the inconsistencies in your story."
Kiara had never wanted to punch someone so much in her life. Instead she touched gentle fingertips to Sebastian's brow. This time he moaned lightly under her touch and she looked away from the Hercinian in time to see Sebastian's eyes flutter open. She didn't like how long it took him to focus, or that she saw his lips moving without sound. As soon as he realized where he was, he began to struggle to sit upright. "It's okay," she whispered, keeping one hand pressed to his good shoulder. "There's been a misunderstanding."
The journey from the inn back into the city proper was too long. Sebastian, deemed unfit to walk under his own power had several of the guardsmen assisting him. Several more escorted Kiara to Hercinia's Arch of Law — an apt name, Kiara couldn't help but notice; the only way into the imposing building was through a long, arched corridor, tiled from ceiling to floor in the vibrant blue tiles. Two guards walked on either side of her, one two steps ahead — why break with tradition? — and one two steps behind, which, from the appalled looks she was getting from a number of other Hercinians told Kiara she'd committed a grave offense, indeed.
We were so bloody close, she thought, glaring straight ahead and fuming at the bloody absurdity of it all. The combined footfalls echoed unpleasantly on the tile and Kiara decided though she'd initially found the blue stone quite pretty, she liked it just as much as she liked the rest of Hercinia. Not very much indeed.
Of course, if she'd had it to do over again, she wouldn't have changed anything. Maker's balls, would a Hercinian wife just stand her dutiful two paces back and let her husband faint dead away in the street? And what in all the Void kind of law was that to have?
A stupid one, Kiara decided.
Without touching her — without even looking at her — Kiara's cadre of guards led her down another and yet another hallway studded with heavy wooden doors. They stopped at one such door and the frontmost guard knocked solidly against the wood. Without hesitation, the door opened with nary a creak — it's probably against the law to have rusty hinges in Hercinia, too — and Kiara was waved into a plain, windowless room. The first man — the one with the drooping mustache — was inside waiting for her, looking grimmer than ever. The room was scantly furnished, with only a couple of heavy wooden chairs, crafted much like the doors, in the center of the room and a long wooden bench along one wall. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon, and no way out, save the door.
Kiara was beginning to feel sick.
"Sit," the mustached man said, waving at one of the chairs as the other guards stationed themselves around the room. "Your… companion," and, oh, she hated the inflection he gave that word, "will be along shortly. He is injured and requires extra assistance."
Kiara bristled; he told her this as if she hadn't been the one to tell him Sebastian's condition. Or worse, as if she'd caused it. A sharp retort burned upon her tongue, but she swallowed it, her conscience taking on Sebastian's voice as it warned her, You'll just make things worse. Don't make things worse. So instead of giving breath to the litany of colorful invectives perched on her tongue, Kiara nodded coolly and sat in one of the chairs, folding her hands in her lap.
The wait couldn't have been more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes, but for Kiara the time ticked by far slower, and it felt like an hour had gone by before another knock sounded at the door. The mustached guard strode over with an arrogant authority that made Kiara want nothing more than to trip him, and opened the door to reveal Sebastian. His color was slightly improved, but he still clutched one fist against his chest, and seemed to be rubbing the spot slowly. His eyes flicked over to her briefly and Kiara realized she'd been bracing herself for inevitable disappointment or censure in his gaze, but she found nothing but worry and concern in the blue depths.
"Sit, if you would, serah? I am Magistrate Drolett, and I have a few… questions to put to you and your companion."
Sebastian nodded and sat, without comment — without any sort of reaction at all. The magistrate stood before them, watching them both as if they were simply waiting for an opportune moment to filch the silver. It took approximately seven seconds of this before Kiara was biting back her irritation. She could see why weapons weren't allowed in Hercinia.
"From where do you hail?" Magistrate Drolett asked, but the question was directed at Sebastian, who, clearly, was expected to answer for both of them. Kiara tried not to sigh.
"I… beg your pardon?" Sebastian asked cautiously.
"You are clearly not Hercinian, which means you are foreign," the man barked. "From where do you hail?"
Then there was the slightest, almost imperceptible shift in Sebastian's demeanor. He sat up a little straighter, despite how much his wound had to be bothering him, and answered the question clearly and mildly, something that shocked Kiara, who was ready to rip that ridiculous mustache off with her bare hands. "We are most recently from Kirkwall, but both my wife and I hail from other lands. I from Starkhaven and she from Ferelden."
"Your wife, is it?"
"Aye," came the immediate answer.
"She first called you her friend."
But Sebastian only smiled. And then he lied through his teeth. "We are newly wed, messere. I fear it is a slip we have both made in recent days."
"Why are you in Hercinia?"
Kiara would have answered for the strawberries, but Sebastian only inclined his head and replied, "The ship we travel on was damaged in the recent storm. Our captain put into port here. I was familiar enough with your customs to know we had to partake of your hospitality." Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Not that it was a hardship. Hercinia is a beautiful city. I have visited before, but my wife has not. I wished for her to see the sights."
"What is your destination?"
"Starkhaven," Sebastian replied. "To visit family. On the occasion of our nuptials. As one does."
Magistrate Drolett's eyes narrowed, and for a moment his nostrils flared, as though he sought to physically sniff out their lies.
"Serah," he snapped, turning on her, "how long have you known this man?"
"Almost seven years," she replied.
"And yet you are only newly wed?"
She smiled sweetly. "Forgive me, messere, you asked when we met, not when we fell in love. Ours has been a gradual courtship."
The magistrate grimaced, as though talk of love was somehow distasteful. "Where did you meet?"
"Kirkwall. Outside the chantry, to be more specific. Things are… different there, as you may be aware. He was posting work on the Chanter's Board. I was looking for employment."
"What kind of labor?"
"Housecleaning," she replied without missing a beat.
Magistrate Drolett slapped one palm against his thigh before closing his hand into a fist. "This is an easy enough story to concoct. Perhaps you will not fare quite so well if you are questioned separately? Perhaps then your stories may not align so perfectly?"
Kiara's stomach twisted, but she kept her expression as close to neutral as she could manage. She hoped any fear that leaked out would be taken for a wife not wishing to be separated from her husband.
"That is hardly appropriate," Sebastian said. He no longer sounded cool and composed and reserved; the hard edge of anger was more than evident in his tone. "She has no chaperone. I told you, messere, I am familiar with your Book of Law. I would be remiss in my duty as her husband if I allowed you to remove her from my presence. She has no one else to stand as her protector."
What she wanted to say was I fought a qunari Arishok with a sodding bow! To the death! And I won! I should think I can stand as my own protector, thank you. Instead, she bowed her head, because she was afraid if Drolett looked into her eyes now, he'd see all the evidence he required to keep them in service to Hercinian Law for life.
After too long a pause, the magistrate asked, "You both write? You are literate?"
She almost snickered. Except she knew snickering would be very inappropriate. Literate? Maker! I run Kiara Hawke's School for Illiterate Elves, don't you know?
She nodded. Presumably Sebastian did the same; she didn't dare look at him, and he didn't speak aloud. If only she'd—but no, there was no saying what kind of damage such a jarring fall could have caused.
Even without looking up, she could hear the smirk in Drolett's tone. "Very well. You shall write your answers to my questions separately, and we shall see how well they match up."
One of the magistrate's guardsmen was sent off on the errand of finding pen and parchment, while Drolett stalked about the room, sending menacing glares their way. Kiara wanted to sigh. He was a petty bureaucrat, but hardly terrifying the way he imagined he must be. Sebastian kept his gaze calmly focused on the wall opposite him, not reacting to the magistrate in any way.
The guard returned a little while later bearing paper, pens, and ink. With no tables in the room, Kiara and Sebastian had little choice but to write upon their laps — messy and arduous, but by this point Kiara was determined to pass Drolett's test, whatever it might be. Her determination and annoyance with the man overshadowed even the lingering doubt and worry he might ask questions she could not answer.
Overshadowed, but did not eclipse completely.
A blotch of ink dripped from the tip of Kiara's pen as she waited for the magistrate to pose his first question and she watched it seep into the paper, possibly through to her skirts below — though she couldn't muster much of a care about that, given the hideousness of the dress.
"Are you both adequately prepared?" Drolett asked. Kiara looked down at the nib of her pen and wondered how deeply she could jab it into the man's throat before the guards pulled her off him.
"We are," replied Sebastian, sounding elegantly put upon. Kiara only nodded, not trusting her voice and not wanting to discover too late she was actually incapable of suppressing her scathing sarcasm.
"Very well. You will both write your names at the top of the page."
This was an odd order, but Kiara complied, remembering to give herself the Vael name. If Drolett thought to trip her up this way, the man's stupidity equaled his insufferable arrogance.
"Once you have finished," continued Drolett, now stalking from one end of the room to the other, "write down your most prized possession and that of your spouse."
Kiara blinked, staring at the page. Maker, is he serious? To answer for Sebastian was easy — the Starkhaven bow, given him by his grandfather. Indeed, it was harder to answer the question for herself. She thought for a moment before writing down, Mother's tea-set. It wasn't a bow or a dagger — and it wasn't even strictly hers; she and Amelle technically shared it — but it was the most precious thing discovered in the Amell vault.
Magistrate Drolett coughed. "If you are finished, write for me your parents' names, and the names of your spouse's parents."
Kiara pressed her lips together in a thin line, hoping the Hawke name and any notoriety — or infamy — related to it had managed to pass over Hercinia. It wouldn't surprise me if it had, she thought. Especially if how far Drolett keeps his head up his arse is any indication of things. She wrote down the names Malcolm and Leandra Hawke just above Meghan and Lachlan Vael, and waited, tapping the leaky nib of her pen against the parchment.
"Favorite food," Drolett said.
Strawberries, Kiara wrote briskly, and she somehow managed to refrain from adding, the only sodding thing you've got going for yourself in Hercinia. She smiled a little as she wrote, Freshly baked bread with honey-butter, remembering the way Sebastian had always smiled upon returning to the chantry after any number of errands or jobs she'd taken him on that had run too long, bringing them back to Kirkwall in the dark hours between late night and early morning. The smell of baking bread filled the air, even down to the courtyard, and more than once he'd procured one of the crusty loaves and shared it with her, slathered with the sticky-sweet butter.
For a moment Kiara forgot there wasn't a chantry anymore and sudden tears blinded her when she remembered. There would be no more midnight kitchen raids, or friendly conversations on the chantry steps until dawn. Giving herself a brisk shake, she surreptitiously dashed away the moisture at her eyes.
"Preferred position in which to… repose."
Both Kiara's and Sebastian's heads swiveled around to stare at the magistrate. Kiara felt a blush — equal parts embarrassment and anger at the impudence of the question — heat her entire face, all the way up to her hairline.
"That is hardly appropriate," Sebastian growled, his eyes flashing. "Neither is it any of your business."
"I must ask questions only a wife or husband can answer, serah," replied Drolett, sounding not the slightest bit apologetic. "Surely you understand."
This time, she couldn't help herself. With a smirk, she drew a lurid little illustration. Then she drew arrows and labeled the players. She even gave them speech-bubbles with dialogue. Well, as much dialogue as such situations afforded (along the lines of: Maker, yes! and More, more, harder!). She thought even Isabela might have been impressed. Perhaps Kiara could carve off her own niche in the friend-fiction market. Friend… illustration.
Then, underneath, she added: he'll say he likes me on top, but really, he likes me naked, end of story. I do look good naked. P.S. Really none of your business.
The magistrate seemed perplexed they hadn't immediately confessed to their lies. Kiara wished she'd made her drawing somehow even more explicit. Or given the lady heavy mustaches. That would have been terribly amusing.
Very coolly, Sebastian said, "Perhaps those are questions enough, messere? I doubt you can ask anything more intimate than what you've done already."
"Are you uncomfortable, serah? Afraid I will find you out?"
"There is little to find out," Sebastian retorted, with just the right dash of anger and affront. "Do you wish to know about the freckles on my wife's shoulders? The subject of our last argument? That she has a mole on her left hip? You are hunting for a falsehood that simply doesn't exist."
Kiara was glad she was still so studiously examining her sheet of paper, because her blush was reaching rather epic levels of heat.
How in the Maker's name did he know about the bloody mole, anyway?
But Sebastian was still speaking. "Aye, Magistrate Drolett, I know the names of her siblings. I know her favorite color. I know she prefers the left side of the bed, and that although I'd been accustomed to the same, I moved to the right to please her. I know she is the kind of woman who would never let anyone—husband or stranger—fall in the street. She is warmhearted and affectionate and forgiving, even when she has every right not to be. She is the best person I know, and you are treating her as you would treat the basest, most common criminal, because her tongue slipped, and because she had the gall to aid me before I could injure myself yet more grievously."
Kiara hazarded a slight glance in Sebastian's direction. She didn't like the raggedness of his breathing. His right hand was white-knuckled around the quill, but the left hung at his side. He didn't look at her. His gaze was fervent, and entirely fixed on the magistrate. His words made her heart ache. They sounded so… true.
"The Law speaks clearly," Drolett repeated, drawling the words with lazy cruelty.
"I broke your laws by tending him in the street," Kiara admitted softly. "Is that right? But he had fainted. He committed no crime. Keep me, if you must, but let him go. Please. Let him go back to our ship. Let him see a healer."
"Kiara, no." Sebastian said. Any other time it would have made her smile to hear her given name on his lips—it happened so rarely. "This can be resolved."
But she was already shaking her head. A heavy droplet of ink fell from her pen and marred one of her ruffles. "If someone has to pay for a crime, let it be me. I'm not afraid."
Drolett's eyes narrowed to slits, and his lips twisted unpleasantly. "The Law is not swayed by melodramatic pleas. I do not believe you. Either of you. Pretending to be wed when you are not defies any number of laws. You shall both pay for your crimes. Now let me see your papers."
