Floating on her back, Kiara kicked lazily through the water. The sun was warm on her cheeks, and the sky a perfect blue dome, unmarred by even a single cloud. Dragonflies spun above her, jewel-toned and sparkling, and the birds in the trees serenaded her. One of the dragonflies dipped lower, dancing figure-eights just above her nose. The world smelled of wildflowers and summer, and she was happy.
A stone crashed into the water near her head, spraying her with water, ruining her sun-drenched reverie. The dragonflies fled. The birds stopped singing. Startled, she nearly took in a mouthful of water. Flipping around to see where the disturbance had come from, she spied her brother on the bank of the pond, one hand on his hip and the other idly toying with another stone.
"You planning on staying in there forever, lazybones?" he called, throwing the second stone. It flew far wide and the splash didn't even touch her.
"Good to know you still can't aim to save your bloody life," she shouted back, grinning. She swam toward him with great, distance-eating strokes. The air was slightly chilly when she pulled herself from the pond, and Carver held her warm, dry clothes out of reach a moment before relenting and handing them back to her.
"What are you doing here, Kiki?"
Kiara wrinkled her nose and shook her head, spraying them both with droplets. "I don't know anyone by that name."
Sitting next to her in a patch of sunlight, Carver nudged her shoulder with his. "Come on, K. There's no one here to hear it."
Fixing him with the most disdainful look she knew how to give, Kiara sniffed loudly. "I was having a lovely swim until some big thug ruined it."
Carver's smile seemed odd and out of place, too sad for the occasion. "I don't think you're supposed to be here, Kiara. Mother will be upset. Where's Amelle?"
Kiara paused, caught in the middle of wringing the vestiges of pond from her hair. "I don't remember." The water dripping down her spine was suddenly icy, and her hands trembled with cold, aching to the bones. Her teeth chattered as she sought Carver's gaze. Her brother seemed glum—more so even than usual—and Kiara reached out to grab his hand, but he pulled away.
"You can't stay here," he said.
"Why? You think this is your bloody pond now?"
"Not the pond, stupid. Here. Mother'll kill me if she finds out. You were supposed to be watching Amelle. What'll she say if you show up here now?"
Rolling her eyes, Kiara lay back. She still felt cold, but the heat from the sun began to warm her the instant she lay still and closed her eyes. Peaceful. Quiet. "Amelle's a big girl now, Carver. She can look out for herself. She'd probably prefer it, frankly."
Carver, she thought. Something sat just on the edge of memory, teasing her. Something about Carver. There was a flash—red and noise and anger and tears and Carver, wake up, the battle's over—but Kiara couldn't place it. "Carver? Don't be an ass. Let's go for a swim and forget about this, okay?"
Carver didn't answer.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone. This puzzled her only an instant and then even the confusion was gone, too. She was sprawled next to the edge of a different pool, one not nearly so sweet and blue and perfect. The pillow of grass had been replaced with hard stone. She shivered. Dank water dripped from above, filling the little basin. The air smelled slightly but persistently of sulphur. The mild phosphorescence of the stones would have seemed almost beautiful if not for the pressing darkness everywhere else in the little cavern. A lone fish, bright jewel-green and slender, twisted its way through the water of the little pond, pausing every time it passed beneath her gaze.
"Of course it would be you." The voice was strained and ragged and pushed to the limits of endurance. The sound send the fish darting away, and when Kiara turned her head, she saw Anders. He was naked, his body covered in dirt and grit and blood, his hair loose about his shoulders, lank with sweat and grime. "The Maker's sense of humor is a cruel one."
A spike of rage brought her to her feet, but as soon as she was standing, she couldn't for the life of her remember why she'd been so angry. Anger seemed so useless, really. And it wasted so much energy. When she spoke, her voice was even and steady and perhaps even a little bit genuinely interested. "What are you doing?"
Anders gazed at her, sullen and wary. "I should think it's fairly obvious. I'm trying to dig my way out."
He turned away from her then, and began scraping his nails along the stone. His fingertips were raw, mangled, hardly recognizable as human. For every furrow he managed to gouge out, a tiny rain of stones and earth fell from above, filling the grooves.
"I don't think it works that way," she remarked. "Why don't you just heal your hands?"
"Why don't you just shoot me and end this? Isn't that what you said you'd do if you saw me again?"
She held her hands wide. "I have no bow."
He mimicked her gesture, his lip curled in derision. "I have no magic."
The water dripped behind her, steady as a heartbeat, and she scratched her head. Something seemed strange here, too, and not just because she'd never heard of a mage losing his magic before. At least, not without becoming Tranquil in the process, and there was certainly nothing tranquil about Anders. The mage watched her with the intense glare of a caged animal, waiting for punishment. Growling a curse under his breath, Anders turned back to his futile digging. For every handful of dirt he loosened, another handful fell to take its place. Again, and again, and again.
"Is this the Fade?" Kiara asked. "Everything seems strange here. Not quite right."
"You're the one who's not quite right, Hawke. I'm just trying to escape."
"You always were."
Anders whirled at this, eyes very nearly glowing blue. Sparks of wrongness filled his gaze. For some reason, this didn't startle her. A part of Kiara—a very dim, very far away part—urged her to be angry, so very angry. But the anger was distant, wasn't really a part of her, wasn't worth worrying about.
"I deserve freedom. We all deserve freedom," Anders spat.
She shrugged, and Anders slammed a fist into the wall. She heard bones break, and then a deeper, lower, more menacing rumble. A fine rain of dust swiftly became a downpour of earth. She was covered to her knees before she knew it, and to her waist before she even attempted to move.
Unsurprisingly, she met with little success. The stones pressed in upon her, covering her breasts, her neck.
Anders laughed, wild and mad. "Freedom," he said the moment before the falling rocks covered them both. "Of course. This is the only way. It was always the only way."
"You broke it," Kiara whispered back as everything disappeared in a flash of red light and screaming and there can be no turning back. "You broke the whole world."
When she opened her eyes this time, she recognized the clinic in Darktown. Turning her head, she saw the filth had been scoured from the walls and windows. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating window-boxes above her bed, filled to overflowing with herbs and flowers. She recognized a few as things Amelle had always asked her to keep an eye out for: elfroot, Harlot's Blush, spindleweed.
Kiara tried to push herself upright and failed. Her arms remained frozen at her sides and her legs were anchored, immovable. Panic set her heart racing, but only for a moment. Then an eerie sort of peace fell. It wasn't so much that she stopped panicking—the panic simply… faded until she was aware of it, but no longer feeling it. She felt her heart slow within her breast, and she smiled, because at least she was in a pretty room.
"What under the Maker's blue sky are you doing here?"
Kiara's smile widened. "Amelle," she said by way of greeting. "Mely, I've been looking for you everywhere. Come over here. I can't see you. And I … can't seem to move just now."
Her sister wore a pretty blue dress—far too pretty for the clinic, certainly—and a troubled expression, not unlike Carver's. "Carver," Kiara said aloud, "How odd to think of Carver after all this time. Poor, stupid, heroic idiot."
"What do you mean you can't seem to move?"
"Just that," Kiara replied. She'd have shrugged if she could manage it. "It's not terribly important. I'm just so glad to see you. But are you unwell? You look so tired."
Amelle did look tired. Above the blue dress—blue as a sky, blue as a pond, blue as the gown of a favorite doll—her skin was too pale, her cheeks too thin. Even her green eyes seemed too pale, drained of their usual color. A little cat with bright green eyes leapt up onto the bed and padded over to Kiara's side. For a moment, she thought it was an orange tabby, but then the light shifted and she saw it was grey. Strange. But not strange enough to waste a thought on. Thoughts were so very hard to grasp.
Amelle touched the top of the cat's head and it leaned into her fingers. None of the worry disappeared from her sister's face. "Let me try healing you, Kiara."
"Don't worry," Kiara said. "I promise to hold still."
For some reason this struck her as the funniest thing she'd ever thought in her life, and she began to giggle. It was difficult. Her breath was hard to catch. When Amelle stopped, mid-gesture, and frowned at her, Kiara only giggled harder. "Don't you get it? I can't move. Of course I'll hold still. It's funny, Mely. You should laugh, because it's funny."
"Kiara…"
"Oh, you sound so concerned. It's fine, Amelle. Everything is fine. Mother won't be angry now I've found you. Carver was sure she'd be mad. But here you are, safe and sound."
Amelle pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed gentle circles there. Kiara almost asked her to do the same for her, but Amelle looked as though she needed it more. The cat, so small it hardly registered as weight, leapt onto Kiara's stomach and walked echoing circles before curling into a tiny ball. Kiara wished she could reach out and cup her hands around it, but her limbs remained resolutely fixed.
"Amelle? Do you remember that doll? The one with the blue dress?"
Amelle's eyes widened slightly and her hands dropped heavily back to her sides. "Lizzie?"
"You brought her everywhere with you. Carver used to laugh at you and call you a sissy. But you didn't care."
Amelle's lips quirked into a faint smile. "I loved that stupid doll."
"I remembered something though, when I was thinking about her dress. You would get mad at her. Whenever I got mad at you, you'd get mad at Lizzie. You'd say 'Grow up, Lizzie. Be a big girl. Be bigger and nicer and happier and Kiri will let us play with her. Be better, Lizzie. Be better.'"
The smile slid from Amelle's face as she bit her bottom lip, and her eyes were oddly bright in the clinic's golden light. "I don't remember that, Kiara."
Kiara found she could not even move her neck now, but she could still smile. Apologetically. She rather wished breathing didn't hurt quite so much, but as there was nothing to be done about it she merely took what breath she could and said, "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Mely. Sometimes… I was jealous of that doll in her pretty blue dress." Kiara paused, considered, continued, "And I was jealous of you. Your secret magic lessons with Father. His eyes lit up. He doted on you. It was… Carver took it worse, but that look on his face. The pride. He was so proud of you. So sometimes I was mean to you, and I'm sorry for it."
"Kiara, please, you sound… very odd. Your breathing. Your… words. Let me just…"
"No, there's no time. I have to go to sleep or I'll never wake up, and Sebastian will be angry."
Kiara felt the faintest hotcold thrum of Amelle's power as she closed her eyes, but then, like everything else, it too was gone. Gone in a moment of pain at her cheek, and blue eyes, and silence.
This time when she opened her eyes—or thought she'd opened her eyes; it felt as if she'd opened her eyes—she was met only with darkness. No familiar faces or places. No water or dragonflies or glowing stones or clusters of medicinal herbs. No sister or sweet little kitten. She could feel the dark against her skin, slithering and cold and wrong, like a million insects with a million legs and bellies and wings, but she could not move. She could do nothing but stare and blink and pray to wake, gasping and pulling for each breath while the dark pressed in and her heart beat on, too slowly.
She'd always been so very afraid of the dark.
#
Because he couldn't be at her side every moment of every day, and because he didn't trust that some fear-mongering fool wouldn't slip in and try to end the Champion of Kirkwall for good, Sebastian had guards—guards Captain Elias trusted—posted at all times. One outside the door, and a second inside.
He knew how easy the palace walls were to scale, after all. He used to do it himself, when he was hiding from nursemaids and avoiding court functions. He rather wished he could do so now. On the first day he'd been utterly overwhelmed with requests for audiences and meetings and calls for him to preside in judgment over some case or another. On the second day, there was another burning in the city. By the time he dispatched Captain Elias, the victim was dead and the crowd dispersed. He asked for more patrols. He was cynical about how much they'd help.
Also on the second day, Sebastian had been somewhat relieved to find his father's steward, Corwin, still alive, and he wasted no time restoring the man to the post Goran had chased him from. The man was an invaluable font of information. He knew exactly which requests were important, and which could be shuffled to lower lords and magistrates and secretaries. Sebastian, a little wild-eyed, let the man do as he wished, listened when he spoke, heeded his advice, and began to feel a little like his new position might be manageable after all.
Hawke had been… sleeping for three days. He refused to even think the word dying, though he knew the antidote—had it been viable—should have shown signs of working long before this. While he attempted to make sense of his new role, while he organized staff, while he fought off fawning attempts at ingratiation, she slept, and struggled to breathe, and—he had to believe—fought.
When he wasn't reading missives, hearing reports, or answering questions, Sebastian prayed. He recited the Chant with as much fervent belief as he'd ever felt. His knees ached and he was exhausted from lack of sleep, but still he prayed.
And for as many hours as Steward Corwin could steal for him each day, he sat at Hawke's side. He prayed there, too.
But on this, the third day, Corwin had orders to turn everyone away. And Sebastian took himself to Hawke's room, to wait.
Sebastian inclined his head to accept the guard's salute before entering the chamber. The second guard also saluted, and Sebastian thought he recognized the same dark eyes as he remembered from the trap. Before he could ask, however, the knight inclined his head and closed the door, leaving Sebastian alone with the healer.
Turning away from the bed, the healer curtsied hastily. She was a small woman, her dark hair liberally threaded with silver, over a face he imagined must have been considered beautiful in her youth. It was worn now, as though time had not been kind to her, but her eyes were still large and pale and lovely. He found he could not meet them for long; their color reminded him too sharply of Elthina's eyes, of Hawke's.
Her brow furrowed and she clasped her hands before her. "Y-your Highness, I would have sent for you if there was any change. She is… as she was, I'm afraid."
He nodded, unsurprised but still wounded by her assessment. "Thank you," he said. "You have been very dedicated, and I'm afraid I don't even know your name."
"Jessamine, Your Highness."
Sebastian sighed as he crossed the room. Hawke rested pale and unmoving, her labored breaths coming too few and far between. The scratch on her cheek had faded so much he had to squint to see it, and only managed to spot it because he knew where to look. Her hair had been washed, brushed, and fanned out around her, a bright cloud. Too bright, really. For someone on her—no.
"Your accent, Jessamine. You're from Kirkwall originally?"
"Yes, Highness. Many years ago now, but… but I thought it might be safer. If I tended to her. I-I know what it means to be Champion of Kirkwall. I do not share the prejudices… so rampant in Starkhaven at present."
He regarded her steadily for a moment, willing to risk the sadness stirred by the sight of her eyes, before repeating, "Thank you. I will see you commended for your loyalty. But for now… for now you may go."
"Go, Highness?" the woman took a startled step backward and nearly fell when the back of her leg knocked into a chair. "Have I displeased you in some way?"
"Not at all. It's only… it has been three days."
Realization widened her eyes. "I… understand."
"I thought you might. I would… be alone, for this."
The woman curtsied again, deeply. When she rose, she hesitated a moment before gently pressing her fingertips to the back of his hand. "Your Highness. Try not to give up hope. Even if—it is important never to give up hope. We cannot know the Maker's plan."
He turned away before she could see the tears her words had brought to his eyes. "Thank you, Mistress," he said. "Whatever else happens—thank you."
The second guard left with the healer, closing the door quietly. As soon as they were gone, Sebastian sank to his knees beside the bed and took Hawke's cold hand between his warm ones. It seemed impossible that such delicate, slender fingers had the strength to handle even the most troublesome bows, but he'd never seen her lift a weapon she couldn't shoot. They were hands that couldn't fight their way out of this scrape, though. It troubled him these hands had spent nearly all their time warring. He… he wished she'd been able to see peace, for a time. There was… there was too much she'd yet had to do, too much life left to live.
Maker's Light always killed on the third day. Always. It wasn't hopelessness. It was reality.
"I pray you aren't suffering. I hate to think of you suffering," he told Hawke. Her eyelashes fluttered. "I-oh, Kiara. I am sorry. I am so sorry."
He knelt at her beside until the candles began to gutter. Then he rose, joints creaking their displeasure, and began to light a new round. He was determined she would go in light, in warmth. It seemed the least he could do.
"Mmm," came a soft noise from behind him. His heart stopped and only started thudding again when the taper he held burned the ends of his fingers. He dropped it and it extinguished itself before it hit the desk. He—it could have burned the entire palace down, and he'd neither have noticed nor cared. It was Hawke's voice, he was certain of it.
He'd never heard of a Maker's Light victim making noise. Never. Never.
"Mmmllle."
I've fallen asleep, he thought as the blood rushed to his head and the world around him began to spin. I'm dreaming.
But it was no dream. Hawke's eyes were sleepy but open, and she'd managed to turn her head in his direction. And he realized then her breath no longer sounded quite so strained. He stumbled and half-fell beside her, his fingertips brushing her hair, her brow, her cheekbones. One hand closed around her fingers. She was warm. She blinked at him, the corner of her mouth twitched, and she sighed a syllable that almost, almost could have been the beginning of his name.
He bent his head and wept.
It occurred to him he ought to have called for the healer at once, but… but for some reason he could not shake the strange feeling that Hawke's current wakefulness might be a miracle that would be shattered if another person witnessed it. He held tight to her hand, she kept blinking and breathing, and after an age she whispered, "Don'… cry. S-s-sorry."
Her voice was weak and rough and so very tentative, but it was hers. It was hers and she wasn't dead. He turned from her in a frenzy, nearly crashing into one of the posts at the foot of the bed. His hands shook as he poured water into a waiting glass. More liquid splashed to the ground and over his trembling hands than actually entered the glass, but he kept pouring until it was full. Then, as carefully as an acolyte thinking his cup full of Andraste's ashes, he crossed the room and set the glass on the table beside the bed.
Sitting next to her, leaning against the headboard, Sebastian tenderly eased Hawke from the bedcovers, shifting her until her still-unsteady body rested against his. She was warm. Her head lolled against him but he braced her with one hand while the other guided the cup of water to her mouth.
At first she could take no water. The liquid dribbled from her lips and splashed onto her nightgown, but Sebastian was patient. Cradling her, he waited a moment and then tried again. A little of the water stayed this time, and he was gratified—overjoyed—when she swallowed. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and then she managed to drink a little more. After a few sips, a few precious sips, he took the glass away. She was able to tilt her head and meet his eyes. Hers were clearer now, more aware, and when he whispered her name, she smiled.
"Amelle?"
He frowned, concerned. "She's not here, Hawke."
"Ki-kiara," she amended, with sleepy irritation.
"Kiara," he repeated, with the reverence of a benediction. "We're in Starkhaven. Amelle's in Kirkwall. She's safe in Kirkwall."
Confusion furrowed her brow. "Oh. N-not here? Thought… oh." Her fingers inched toward her belly, curling into a soft fist.
Tentative and terrified, he asked, "Do you—how do you feel?"
"'M'okay."
His breath caught at the apex, almost a sob, but he managed to hold himself together. "Okay," he repeated. "You have to rest now. You were… you were very sick. You must rest."
"Don'go."
"I won't," he whispered. "I promise." He tightened his arm around her shoulders and she turned her face, pressing her cheek to his chest. He felt her relax, and her breathing slowed—but naturally, this time, as one about to drift to sleep. Leaning his head backward, he rested the back of his skull against the bedframe. The pull of sleep was strong, and he recited all the most thankful, most grateful verses of the Chant to keep himself wakeful.
"S-sebastian? Your… clothes. Are so… nice."
The words were slurred and somnolent, but enough to bring tears to his eyes once again, enough to make him smile. "Sleep, Kiara," he said. "We'll talk when you wake. Sleep now."
She didn't move, but she pressed her face to him a little more firmly and sighed again. Without thinking, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Sleep," he whispered.
This time, he let the candles gutter. Then, and only then, with Kiara Hawke alive and safe in the circle of his arms, did he allow himself to join her in sleep.
#
Kiara woke to a woman's scream and the sound of breaking glass. Though she wanted to jump to her feet and reach for a weapon, what she actually managed was to open her eyes. Rather slowly. The lids felt heavy as lead, and it took a great deal of effort to keep them lifted. She was sleeping half propped-up, her face pressed into a pillow of white silk.
Warm white silk. Warm white silk that appeared to be breathing.
This was so startling she sat up before realizing being upright might be beyond her abilities. An arm attached to the white pillow reached out to steady her and she gasped when she recognized her pillow as Sebastian. Even half asleep and disconcerted, she couldn't stop the flood of heat that rushed to her cheeks. His eyes narrowed in concern and he shifted his posture, bringing his other hand to her warm cheek to help hold her head steady. She shivered even though the heat of her blush ensured she wasn't cold.
"Easy," Sebastian urged. "Easy, Kiara. You're safe."
A serving girl—the source of the scream, no doubt—knelt on the floor, carefully retrieving pieces of what had evidently once been a water jug. When she heard Sebastian speak, she jumped to her feet and curtsied deeply. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn't expecting—I dropped the water. I'm so sorry."
Sebastian smiled at the girl. "Please, don't trouble yourself. I wonder if you might be so good as to send for tea, though. And for the healer, Jessamine, if you would."
The girl bobbed in another swift curtsy, her skirt tinkling with the broken pottery she'd collected.
Kiara wasn't sure which part of her current situation rated as oddest. For a minute, she believed she was still dreaming. The room was richly furnished, but a little chilly—the fire had died, and she was no longer pressed up against her warm human pillow. Sebastian eased himself from the bed even as he helped her lean against the headboard. He was wearing clothes finer than anything she'd seen him wear before. Her breath caught. He was Sebastian and not-Sebastian—his clothes and his manner and the subtle expectation in his voice that his requests would be attended to instantly—and she'd almost have thought him a stranger if not for the familiar concern in his familiar eyes.
She had no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there. She thought she remembered an arrow, but it hadn't really hit her, had it? Everything had gone blue. She'd heard of things going red or black, but blue seemed atypical. Her arm moved slowly, stiffly, but it did as she asked. Bringing her hand to her cheek, she felt the faint, raised mark the arrow had left in its wake.
"It was poisoned," Sebastian offered. She blinked at him, hearing the words and still not quite comprehending their meaning. "Have you heard of Maker's Light?"
Kiara's eyes widened. "It's a myth."
He shook his head. "I assure you it isn't. Not in Starkhaven. Not amongst the Royal Archers."
Her throat was dry and no amount of swallowing seemed adequate to the task of moistening it. "So I…?"
Sebastian pushed a hand through his hair and shook his head. "I don't understand it. I knew we gave you the antidote too late. It's not a forgiving poison. I thought you… yesterday…"
Kiara stared into the palms of her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers just because she could. The longer she was awake, the more she felt her sluggish blood quickening. "And we're… in Starkhaven?"
"Aye."
"This… isn't an inn."
"…No."
"Sebastian?" She pondered something a moment, something about the serving girl and the curtsies and the words she'd spoken. "She called you Your Highness. And she meant it."
"Aye."
For some reason his troubled expression only amused her. "You've been busy while I was sleeping, Your Highness."
Sebastian was not amused. "Not you. Not that. Please."
Her mirth was impossible to maintain in the face of his wretchedness. "Are Varric and Isabela here?"
Sebastian shook his head again, hands clasped behind his back as he paced to the table that ought to have held an ewer of water and didn't. He then turned to the fireplace and began building a new blaze, stacking kindling and logs with the precision of a carpenter building the frame of a house. "No," he replied. "I—they saw you go down. I tried to tell them to escape. I hope they did. I had only the one hope of getting you an antidote in time, and… and to be honest, I rather thought we were doomed."
"Oh," she gasped. "But—Amelle was here, wasn't she? She had a cat. She looked so tired."
He regarded her steadily for a few moments before shaking his head. "Are you feeling quite well?"
"Of course." Fragments of images—a pond, a cave, a clinic—chased each other through her mind. "She… wasn't here?"
"She's in Kirkwall, Kiara. Even if I'd sent for her right away—which I did not, with the state of the city, and knowing it would be both futile and dangerous—she'd still be en route."
And even though she was still confused—she remembered talking to Amelle, didn't she? She would have sworn she'd talked to her sister—she couldn't help smiling. He hadn't reverted to the more remote Hawke since she'd woken. And she… liked the sound of her name on his lips. His accent did beautiful things to the last syllable.
The tea arrived then, brought in by a different serving girl. Her eyes widened when Sebastian moved to take the tray from her, and she appeared caught between protesting and being afraid protesting might get her in trouble. Sebastian gave her a gentle smile and lifted the tray from her hands. "Thank you," he said. "I believe I can handle it from here."
"Y-your Highness?"
"I do have a task for you, though. Would you find the Steward for me? Ask him to attend when he's able, and inform him the Champion of Kirkwall has woken."
The girl left, and Sebastian poured the tea. She found herself surprised when he added just the amount of milk and sugar she preferred without having to ask. Then again, given their experience in Hercinia, she could hardly be surprised at anything Sebastian knew about her. He'd known about her love for her mother's tea-set, after all. It was only a very short step from tea-set to how-one-takes-that-tea.
"You're… who are you?" she asked wonderingly.
The cup rattled in the saucer, but he caught himself before the tea spilled. Perching beside her, he offered the cup. She thought she felt his fingers tremble as she took the tea from him, but mostly she was only overwhelmingly pleased she could hold the saucer on her own. The first sip tasted of perfection and she closed her eyes, sighing happily as it soothed her throat and warmed her belly.
When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her intently, his expression caught between unhappiness and distress and resignation. "I am just the same as I ever was," he insisted. "I comprehend the responsibility I've accepted, but in some ways it is no different than—" he searched for a proper example and then waved, taking in his fine garments, "—than these garments I wear. Trappings. The things I value—the beliefs I hold—a crown doesn't change them. It will not."
Her lips parted and she cast about for the right words. "I never thought it would," she finally said. "For some it might, certainly. Not for you. I… I always believed that. Even when… even when this wasn't what you wanted."
"Want," he observed sadly, "has very little to do with any of this."
"You're… unhappy? I know you… wanted to stay with the Chantry."
"I cannot be unhappy, not after you…" Sebastian faltered, and his cheeks colored faintly. "I asked the Maker for a sign. He sent one. It does no one any good to defy Him. Perhaps I have been stubborn, but I have learned my lesson."
This time it was her trembling that set the teacup rattling in its saucer. "The last time you spoke of a sign from the Maker you were vowing to bring the might of Starkhaven down on Kirkwall."
Even as she spoke, she wished she could take the words back. She bit the end of her tongue and pretended the slight pain she caused herself was the source of the sudden prickle of tears in her eyes.
Sebastian stared at his folded hands so long she began to believe he would not answer at all. When he did speak, it was in a low, urgent voice. "I was wrong then, Kiara. I spoke in the heat of anger and despair. I knew I was wrong half an hour after I walked away from you." He rubbed absently at the spot of the wound Amelle had struggled so much to heal. "The Maker saw fit to punish me for my transgression, for my presumption. He was wiser than I, but kind enough to let me live to put right my mistakes. I am… trying." He closed his eyes, pained. "I will do all I can to prove myself once again worthy of your good opinion, even if it is impossible for you to grant it."
Kiara sipped the dregs of her tea to buy herself a moment. Then she replied, "I will not lie to you: what you said then hurt me. Walking away without giving me a moment to explain myself hurt more. But I… forgave you a long time ago, Sebastian." Her lips turned up in a wry smile. "Surely you don't think I would travel from one end of the Free Marches to the other for someone who didn't already have my… good opinion."
"I wondered if you weren't keeping an eye on me."
She snorted lightly. "If I'd thought I was going to require an executioner, I'd've brought Fenris. We both know you're a better shot than I am, after all."
"This is hardly a joking matter—"
Reaching out, she grasped his hand in hers. "Of course it's a joking matter, Sebastian. We've been making ourselves miserable on account of misunderstandings for weeks, and now we don't have to do it anymore. It's worth laughing about."
She wasn't sure if it was the lovely tea's work or having had her worst fears assuaged at last, but she felt a great deal better. She rolled her shoulders and twisted her neck and dared to dream about actually rising from her bed without believing it an utter impossibility.
Sebastian silently refilled her cup and then joined her with one of his own.
Some of the anxiety had faded from his brow and he looked about to speak again when a soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of a woman Kiara didn't know. She wore a soft blue robe with some kind of official-looking insignia on the breast. Even from her posture, Kiara knew this was no meek servant—the woman carried herself proudly, shoulders back and chin lifted. Still, she curtsied when she saw Sebastian. Kiara put the pieces together and realized this was likely the healer he'd sent for—it made sense. For all her bearing, she had a kind face and it was already wearing an expression of concern.
The healer didn't seem familiar in any way until she spoke. Then Kiara had the oddest sense of having already met her, somehow. She supposed—Amelle always insisted on speaking to her patients. Perhaps this Jessamine, too, had spoken to her often whilst she slept.
"A miracle after all, Your Highness." The healer then bowed her head to Kiara. "Champion, it warms my heart to see you so recovered."
"I—you watched over me? Your voice seems… I know it sounds strange, but it seems so familiar."
The woman smiled and laughed a gentle, warm laugh. "I do tend toward the talkative while I work. At one point I believe I related the last hundred years of Starkhaven's history. It's possible you had very boring dreams. Now, how do you feel? Your color is good, and I'm pleased to see you sitting, but may I offer you a potion? A reviving draught, perhaps?"
Kiara waved this away. "Oh, no. Thank you. I hate the way those things taste, and they always leave me feeling a bit muddled afterward. I feel quite well actually. Tea has worked wonders, as it does. Give me another hour or so and I imagine I'll be up for a turn on patrol or a jog about the royal gardens."
"You'll do no such thing!" Sebastian retorted.
Kiara sent him a wry smile. "Joking. Again. But good to know you're so concerned."
The healer looked back and forth between them before saying, "It has been rather a stressful interlude for both of you."
Sebastian stood, allowing Jessamine to step close. Kiara submitted to the woman's poking and prodding and questions. When Jessamine was satisfied, she added, "I hope you'll allow me to check up on you, Champion. I have… never seen a recovery quite like yours."
Kiara shrugged one shoulder.
"Thank you," said Sebastian. "And perhaps… perhaps it would be good for you to have someone with ties to Kirkwall to speak with. At least until Starkhaven comes to better understand you."
A slight clearing of the throat came from the doorway, where a elderly man in perfectly pressed tunic of Starkhaven white and gold waited. "I may have an idea on that score," he said. Then he bowed deeply to Sebastian, followed by a second, slightly shallower bow to Kiara, and introduced himself. "Steward Corwin, my lady. Welcome back."
"An idea?" Sebastian asked.
Corwin's wispy white hair danced as he bobbed his head. "Indeed. I believe you should present her to the court. Formally. And be certain to indicate the full extent that she is under the protection of Starkhaven and its Prince."
Sebastian looked thoughtful, then nodded, and Kiara felt a strange nervous thrill run the length of her spine.
"Tomorrow," she said firmly, as if decisiveness alone could make it happen. The healer clucked disapprovingly, but Kiara ignored her. "The sooner the better. I'll be ready tomorrow. First, though, let me write to my sister. If… if she hears news of my illness from any hand but my own, there's no saying what she'll do."
Jessamine crossed the room and found pen and ink and paper within the desk. "If you'll permit me the impertinence, my lady, would you allow me to send the letter on your behalf? The couriers are used to me sending letters to Kirkwall, but… they do not know you. Many would think they have cause to fear you."
Corwin frowned. "You believe a letter sent from the Champion might… go astray."
Jessamine winced. "I fear a courier might not… hurry to do the Champion's bidding." She inclined her head apologetically, "Or even yours, Your Highness. But I have never given them cause to doubt me, and asking them to send a letter posthaste would not be strange. I still have family in Kirkwall, after all, and… recent events have made it more important for communication to be swift and secure."
Sebastian's expression was dark, but Jessamine reached out and laid gentle fingertips on his forearm. "It's only that you're… still finding your place, Your Highness."
"Thank you, Jessamine," Kiara said. "It's a kind offer, and I do need this letter to reach my sister as soon as possible. I would rather not take risks with the couriers, and if you think they'll fly for you…"
"It is no trouble, my lady."
Corwin and Sebastian spoke in low voices about the court presentation while Kiara wrote her letter, attempting to find the words her healer sister might find most soothing. She opted for honesty, but also pleaded with Amelle not to come to Starkhaven. She pushed away the wretched memories of their last fight. A letter delivered by an anonymous hand was no place for apologies, no matter how much she felt the need. When she was finished, she folded it and sealed it, pressing her ring—Hawke crest, as her Amell seal was in her desk in Kirkwall—into the warm wax. Jessamine left to see it sent off at once. Corwin followed, and when Kiara and Sebastian were once again alone, he sat near her, perched on the edge of the bed.
"Things are more dangerous here than you feared," she stated.
"Aren't they always?"
She waited for him to speak further, and when he didn't, she asked lightly, "So, do I get to hear the story?"
"The story?"
She gave him a skeptical look. "Please. You always insisted it would take an army to regain your throne, but here you sit. You must have done something right. Or spectacular. I'm rather hoping for the latter, to own the truth."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "It was a page torn from your book. I wouldn't have—if things had been any different—but it worked."
Kiara grinned. "I've been a terrible influence."
Sebastian met her eyes, but instead of the return smile she expected, his expression was serious. "No," he said. "Not terrible." Then, finally, a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. "You're going to like the part when I shot him through the hand, though. It was exactly what you would have done."
"Maker's breath, Sebastian!" Kiara gasped, with faux astonishment. "Varric won't even have to embellish."
This bought another brief laugh, and even with the grand room and Sebastian's finery, even with the unsettled city and missing friends, for what felt like the first time in an age she almost, almost felt happy.
