After no small amount of effort and using every stealthy skill she'd ever managed to pick up, Kiara finally found herself blessedly alone. It was Tasia who'd put the thought in her head, casually mentioning that although there were many, many manicured paths in the royal gardens, there were also a few swathes left untouched by the gardeners and these were usually unvisited by palace folk. She might even be able to visit them without guards, if she was careful. Not, of course, that Tasia would suggest or condone such a thing.

It was in one of these swathes Kiara found herself now, in a small clearing beside a pond, where willows draped their long branches over the water, conveniently hiding a great deal of the clearing from casual view.

Breathing a sigh of relief at her momentary reprieve, she freed the bow from her back and proceeded to empty her quiver into the trunk of a distant and obliging tree. Every shot reminded her where she'd come from, and the strange steps that had brought her to Starkhaven's royal gardens, shooting unsuspecting trees. Some seemed impossible, others merely improbable, and yet here she was.

She was growing impatient for news from her sister.

She hoped Amelle wasn't still angry and refusing to write out of spite. Now when Kiara remembered the time in Kirkwall just after the battle with Meredith, she found the memories came back in sharp, horrible little bursts, and most of the time she hardly recognized herself. She'd been angry, yes, and hurt, and so desperate to keep everyone—Amelle—safe. But there were blurry bits, too; moments she saw and remembered and didn't understand. She'd drawn her weapon on her own sister, and for what? Because she'd had the temerity to speak her mind?

Her arrow flew wide and she cursed it, but it also reminded her no good would come of turning the same thoughts over and over. She had to believe she would hear from Amelle shortly, and…

A slight cough brought her back to the clearing with its willows and its birdsong, and she saw Sebastian leaning casually against a tree, eyebrows raised. She could tell by his smile he'd been watching her far longer than he ought to have been able to, had she been paying attention.

"You found me," she said.

"Tasia rather insinuated I might find you here. Were you meant to be hiding?"

"Not from you. Just from everyone else. I didn't much feel like an audience today." She lifted her bow and gestured to the tree already sporting a thicket of her arrows.

His voice took on a serious cast. "Too much of that lately?"

"I'm—not used to it. I thought being Champion made me too visible. This is… something else entirely. I noticed three different women trying to copy my hairstyle last night at dinner. Isn't that ridiculous? I didn't have the heart to tell them I keep cutting the fringe out of necessity when the front pieces dangle in my eyes. It's hardly high fashion."

He stepped close, running his fingers through the aforementioned fringe. "You have lovely hair, Kiara. Of course they want to emulate it."

She tried to think of a joke—something amusing and witty—but mostly she just wanted him to keep doing exactly what he was doing. She wasn't… used to the ease of his touch. She still found herself unable to breathe properly when his fingertips brushed her lower back or his hand took hers under the table. Now, with him standing so close, his hand caressing her, she considered it a supreme masterpiece of wit that she managed to utter a contented sigh.

He said, "Are you having second thoughts?"

She blinked. "N-not at all. Just finding time for myself. Terribly good for the sanity."

He inclined his head. "Shall I leave you then? I… wouldn't want to intrude."

She laughed. "Oh, Sebastian. You can intrude whenever you like."

Cupping her cheek in his hand, he bent until his lips were almost—but not quite—touching hers. "Can I?" he asked. "But I wouldn't want to distract you from your practice."

In that particular moment, with those particular lips hovering just an inch above hers, Kiara couldn't have cared less about practice. When she tried to close the inch of space between their lips, however, Sebastian pulled back and smiled down at her, and his smile was frustratingly mischievous. "Ahh," he said. "Already you're allowing the distraction to win. Now, now, pretend I'm not here."

"You… want to watch me practice?"

"Not at all," he replied agreeably. "I want to help you practice. Go on."

She scoffed and turned, drawing her bow. Before she could release the arrow at a tiny knot on a distant tree trunk, however, Sebastian's warmth was once again too close, and he trailed his fingertips along the skin at the nape of her neck left bare by her piled hair. All the hairs rose, she shivered, and the arrow flew wide, skittering into the underbrush.

"No fair," she retorted. "I wasn't expecting—"

He laughed, low and thrilling, "One doesn't expect distractions. One deals with them. Now, you've killed some poor innocent bystander. Try again. You were aiming for that knot?"

She nodded, already trying to guess what he'd do next. Her corset suddenly felt all too restrictive, and she swallowed hard, narrowing her focus on the distant tree. Her bow was an extension of her arm, the arrow an extension of her will. She adjusted slightly to take the wind into account, and when she was ready, when she was utterly focused, she drew the fletching back.

Sebastian bent his head and blew lightly in her ear. Kiara yelped, and the arrow killed a deadly patch of grass dozens of feet from the tree she'd been aiming for. "S-sebastian," she gasped. "No one's going to distract me like that on a battlefield."

He pressed a soft kiss to the juncture where jaw met neck. She leaned into the touch, but he pulled away again. "They will if they know how effective it is. Maker, that grass hardly deserved death at your hands."

"Very funny."

"Go on, try again."

Inhaling deeply, Kiara shifted her stance just slightly and focused. This time, before she could even get so far as drawing, Sebastian ran one hand proprietarily down the curve of her waist before lightly pinching her hip. She jumped, turning on him. "You—"

His expression was all innocence. "Your center was off," he said evenly. "You'd have shot wide."

"I would not have—"

"You would have. Look." He drew her into the circle of his arms, moving her gently back into the same stance she'd been holding before. She… tried to pay attention to what he was doing, tried to follow the line of his arm and the feel of his hand as he adjusted her grip on the bow, but mostly she wanted to close her eyes and lose herself in the warmth of him, in the way his body curved around hers. When he'd finished, she recognized the slightly-off tilt of her hips and knew he was right—she'd have shot wide.

He splayed one hand across her stomach and used the other to nudge her left hip just slightly. Every inhale brought his chest flush with her back and she found herself breathing too heavily even as color rushed to her cheeks. "There," he whispered, "better?"

"Mmm."

"Eyes open, Kiara. Shooting blind's never your best option."

"Practice," she murmured, tilting her head up toward him. "'Sides, I've done it before. As you well know."

He laughed again, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to stay where he'd put her. She wanted to turn in his arms and throw her arms around his neck. Her bow-arm trembled, and her fingers clenched around the grip.

"Now, now," Sebastian said, and just the sound of his voice made her want to groan. It was entirely unfair what just his words could do to her, even when they were mock-chiding. "Don't strangle the poor thing." His fingers danced out, and he traced her raised knuckles soothingly until her hand ceased its death grip. "Now," he said gently, hardly more than a whisper, his voice like a caress, "listen to me very closely and we'll see to it you make that perfect shot."

"I can—"

"Oh, you've proven you can't. Are you ready to listen?"

She nodded. She felt rather than heard the faint huff of his silent laughter.

His arms came around her again and he echoed her stance so his hands rested atop hers, one hand on the bow, the other on the arrow. Very precisely, he drew her arrow-hand with his, nocking the arrow, pulling the bowstring taut. All the while he whispered to her, and though of course she knew how to properly draw an arrow, how to properly grip her bow, something about his words, his voice, drew her in, until all she heard was him, all she felt was him, and all she saw was the target. Still, he teased her with words, drawing out the descriptions. She didn't think she was imagining the extra emphasis he gave words like shaft and belly and head. "You're pinching the nock," he said—and she was, how embarrassing; a beginner's mistake. "Relax, love."

"M-maker, Sebastian…" she pleaded. "Just let me shoot already."

He chuckled against her hair and released his hands; the sudden freedom was a mixture of heady and bewildering. Before he could speak, before he could touch her or kiss her or whisper in her ear, she aimed and released. She waited only until she saw the arrow hit its mark—square in the center of the bole—before flinging her bow to the ground and launching herself at him. He laughed as they went down in a tangle of limbs and skirts, his cloak and her quiver. She didn't care. She brought her lips to his and kissed him hard, bringing as much of her body flush with his as she could manage.

She was gratified when it was his laughter that shifted to a groan this time, and when his arms tightened convulsively around her waist. His kiss turned from amused to hungry and she clutched at him, afraid he'd dart away again. Even as she lost herself to the sensation—his lips, the subtle shift of his body against hers, the caress of his hand against her back, in her hair—she thought how… how different this was from what she'd known before. She hadn't known, hadn't had the slightest idea a kiss could make her feel so…

Alive, she realized. He made her feel alive.

After a minute or an hour, she pulled away. He lay content beneath her, resting his head on his folded arms. His smile made her want to kiss him all over again—to consider more than merely kissing him—but instead she rolled to her side and curled next to him, putting her head on his chest.

"You're getting grass-stains all over your lovely archery gown."

"How the—bloody Tasia."

"She told me especially to mention the archery gown. She said you were reluctant to believe her."

"It's a dress. Just like all the rest."

He laughed. "You're wrong there."

"Oh?"

"This one's not nearly as low-cut. Perhaps that's what makes it suitable for sport?"

She sniffed. "Depends on the kind of sport."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "You're beautiful when you're irritated, you know."

"Is that why you were trying so hard to irritate me just now?"

"Of course." She felt him smile. "It was also good to see you miss. I'd forgotten you could."

"I'd like to see you do better with whispers in your ears and hands all over you."

"You may distract me however and whenever you like, love."

Her breath caught, and she nestled closer to him.

He brought one arm around her shoulders in a brief embrace. "Does it bother you? That word?"

"N-no," she stuttered. "It's only… I—told you, there was only the one, and it was so long ago, and I know now I didn't have the faintest idea then what love was. And I-I just keep waiting to wake up. I had thought… I had almost convinced myself it didn't matter. I was in love with someone unattainable, after all, and now it's… I keep waiting for you to change your mind. And I suppose I—I—"

"You're protecting yourself."

"It's habit," she said weakly. "I've spent my whole life protecting things. My family. Amelle—Amelleshit, Sebastian!"

Kiara sat bolt upright and put her face in her hands, feeling the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. Sebastian sat, too, and gently pulled her hands away. She glanced to one side, unable to meet his gaze. "…Kiara?"

"You can't marry me," she whispered. "You can't."

"Why, pray tell?"

"Because my sister's an apostate mage. How would it—it would ruin—you can't—oh, Maker."

"Kiara…"

"Why didn't I think of it? I was just so—Why didn't I—?"

"Kiara."

"It was bad enough with stupid Jaran and the stupid templars and now it'll be all of bloody Starkhaven and she won't be safe and I can't—she still—I love you, but I can't choose you over her—I have to be able to see her, I have to be able to protect her, and—"

"Kiara!"

She stopped mid-rant and gaped up at him. His eyes were serious and his expression concerned, but—he did not in any way look as though he was preparing to agree with her. Her breath hitched in her chest as he brushed her tears away with his thumbs. "Are you quite finished?" he asked gently. "May I speak?"

She nodded. A little reluctantly.

"We cannot pretend it would be entirely safe for Amelle here just now, but this is a temporary situation. Things are getting better. You know they are. We see evidence of it daily. She will be welcome here, always. And not just for your sake. She is… she is dear to me, also." He glanced away, unable to hide the shadows that crossed his face. "I—you know, I never had a sister. I should like the opportunity."

Kiara sniffled. "Well, she is the best sister. I suppose it's only sporting of me to share. But you don't think—"

"Kiara," he groaned. "At the risk of having you draw the inevitable comparison between pots and kettles, you worry too much. All we require is a little more time."

But time, as it happened, was the one thing they did not have.

#

Amelle had clearly wanted to walk with them at least partway to Starkhaven, but it was Varric who volunteered to take them as far as the main road. Fenris found it odd, but did not argue with the dwarf; Varric frequently had reasons for doing the things he did, and now was no exception. Once they were far away from the camp only the sounds of the horses' whinnies carried on the wind, Varric turned to them, thick brows drawn warily together, his mouth set in a firm line.

"Okay, you two," he said, crossing his arms. "There's more to the story about Hawke and Choir Boy than we let on, mostly because I didn't want Firefly to worry any more or any worse than she's already worrying. But you have to know the last thing Isabela and I saw." He went on to describe Hawke, looking more than half-dead as a pair of guards carried her to the palace, and Sebastian, surrounded by a full complement of guards.

"That isn't quite the same thing as Sebastian biding his time getting kicked out of pubs and taverns," Fenris told him darkly.

"That's not even all of it, Broody," he said.

Under his breath, the Knight-Commander murmured, "Why does this not surprise me?"

Varric shot the templar a look, but only said, "I heard one of the guards—the guard captain, maybe—call him Highness."

"So his identity is known to Starkhaven," said Fenris.

"Isn't this good news?" asked the Knight-Commander. "Or at least not-horribly-bad news? If the guards are referring to Sebastian by his rightful title—"

"Could be good news," Varric agreed, "or it could be the Void's waiting for you on the other side of the city gates. It depends on whether whoever's on the throne's a friend or foe." The dwarf blew out a breath. "It's a sodding mess is what it is."

The templar's brows furrowed into a troubled frown. "You realize arriving at a potentially hostile palace in a potentially hostile city is a far cry different from questioning people in pubs, Varric."

"Don't I know it. If you want my advice, get that letter handed off to the healer, just in case asking around after Hawke and Choir Boy gets you the wrong kind of attention."

"You mean," Fenris interjected, "in the event that asking the wrong kinds of questions lands us in a dungeon."

"There you go, elf. Think positive."

"Varric has a point," said the templar, though the words did nothing to ease the crease of his frown. "Better to hand the letter off to Amelle's contact first. That way, if something… unforeseen occurs—"

"There's three of us to break you out," interjected Varric, nodding, "and we'll have a line on the inside."

"If it's all the same to you," the Knight-Commander said, "I think I'd rather avoid the dungeon altogether."

"That makes two of us, Turnip."

#

After all Varric and Isabela's warnings, the thing most noteworthy about Starkhaven was that it was hardly noteworthy at all. More than a few people—city guards, merchants, a chantry lay-sister—all turned a wary eye to Fenris' markings, but he was accustomed to such scrutiny, and paid it no mind. It was not that people were watching him uneasily that was strange, but that there were people in the streets at all, women and men in the markets armed with heavily-laden baskets or paper-wrapped parcels, worshipers and lay-sisters coming to and from the chantry, a mother scolding her children as they ran recklessly through the town square. Down one side-street, a woman hung laundry, white linens catching the pale beams of sunlight. This was hardly the tense and fearful city Varric and Isabela had described. It was, in fact, startlingly normal.

"Is it possible," the templar began, his voice low, "Varric was… exaggerating?"

Fenris considered his words, remembering the look in the dwarf's eyes when he'd confronted Fenris in the stables, and even more recently, when he'd seen them off barely an hour before. "I doubt it. Though he is prone to embellishment, I believe he was in earnest."

"Then either that was an off day, this is one, or something's changed."

"Or perhaps not," Fenris said, steps coming to a stop. He gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the ground, where the cobblestones were vaguely discolored. Something ominously dark had worked its way between the stones, either packed so solidly or ground in so deeply that no amount of rain would wash the darkness away. Fenris had seen its like in Kirkwall, marking Hightown with an indelible shadow cast over the stones.

"Ash," the templar murmured, expression growing dark. "Or worse."

Fenris had an excellent idea of what or worse could have been, and did not want to contemplate it any longer than he had to. "Come," he said sharply. "Let us move on."

Their strides suddenly determined, the two passed through the square and along the winding cobblestone streets leading up to the palace. The Knight-Commander pulled from a pocket on his belt the letter Amelle had written for the healer, the woman's name written in Amelle's flowing script on the front of the envelope.

As they drew closer to the palace, two young pages bounded past and the Knight-Commander called out to them. The two boys stopped some yards away and turned, shooting each other curious looks before one of them shrugged and took a few bold steps closer. His eyes widened at the sight of the templar insignia on the Knight-Commander's chest, and went even wider at the sight of Fenris' markings.

"Yes, messeres?" he began cautiously, evidently unsure as to how to address them. The child was indeed wary, but it seemed a more natural uncertainty, lacking the suspicion heaped in the adults' looks.

"Excuse me," began the Knight-Commander, "but we've a letter to be delivered to one of the palace healers."

The page scuffed one booted toe against the stones. "'S a lot of healers in the palace, messere."

"This is for Mistress Jessamine. Are you familiar with her?"

The boy nodded once, and smiled, "She's nice."

"It's from Kirkwall, and I believe she's expecting it."

At the mention of the city, the boy brightened. "Kirkwall? You brought a letter all the way from Kirkwall?"

"Indeed," replied the Knight-Commander, holding out the envelope. "Can you see she gets it?"

The little page bounded forward, his smile widening to reveal a missing tooth. "Aye, I can bring it to her." Once he had the letter in his hands, he looked up at them both. "Haven't you got anything for the Lady Kiara? She's been waiting for a letter from Kirkwall. Waiting and waiting and waiting. I heard her say so, once, after she told us stories, but I don't think I was s'posed to hear."

At this, Fenris sent a slantwise look the templar's way, to find his expression reflected in kind. Lady Kiara was expecting a letter from Kirkwall? Fenris did not think for a moment it was a different Kiara—her given name was hardly common. And yet it seemed inordinately strange that she should be waiting for a letter. Indeed, the first letter she'd sent Amelle had no forwarding information, no location Amelle could send a reply, and been sent before Varric and Isabela so abruptly departed. Why, then, was she expecting a missive?

After a second or two, the Knight-Commander coughed into his fist. "Lady… Kiara, you say?"

"Aye," the boy said again. "You sure you haven't got anything for her?"

"I'm afraid we haven't, exactly. But would it be… possible to gain an audience with her?" A breath of time passed, and in those scant moments, Fenris quite clearly saw the templar's thought process as it sketched across his face, ending with a small, resolved nod. "And Prince Sebastian?"

The boy tilted his head. "It's a bit early yet for the bounty court," he said.

"We are not here for the… bounty court," Fenris said, trying to piece together and make sense of what the boy was saying. "We merely wish an audience with them."

"Well, I can't do that," the page replied, scuffing his foot again. "Better luck if you go ask the guards." He looked behind him at the men guarding the front gate. "Though you might ask for Captain Elias, if he's around."

"Captain Elias," the Knight-Commander echoed. "Thank you, we'll do that. You've been most helpful, young man." With that, he withdrew a piece of silver from a pouch on his belt and gave it to the boy, who brightened at his unexpected good fortune.

"I'll bring that letter to Mistress Jessamine right now," the page said, beaming at them before turning and scampering off, whispering in excitement to his cohort who looked unaccountably envious of the boy's newfound wealth.

When they stated their business at the gates, Fenris and the Knight-Commander were immediately remanded into an almost-friendly sort of custody, but it was custody nonetheless. They were sent with a heavily armed escort to the palace, where they were parted from their weapons and ordered—politely, but it was an order all the same—to wait.

And so they waited.

The room was comfortable, furnished with fine chairs neither of them used. Food and wine appeared almost as soon as they arrived, though neither he nor the Knight-Commander partook of these, either. For all its finery and politeness, the room was a prison, and they neither of them knew what faces their jailers would be wearing when they entered. Or what intentions those jailers would have.

Fenris paced—it was fifteen long strides from one end of the room to the other—and envied the Knight-Commander his seemingly indefatigable ability to stand perfectly still for endless periods of time. Fenris couldn't stand still. He'd tried, and lasted all of five minutes. The longer they remained away from camp, the longer they left Amelle—

"Fenris," the templar said calmly, as though reading his thoughts, "she'll be fine. Varric and Isabela—"

"—Weren't enough to keep Hawke from coming to harm, if you'll recall."

"Yes, but as Varric tells it, Hawke was hardly lying low at the time. Amelle knows better. I am certain she will await our return before attempting anything mad."

Fenris glared at the man, but the templar was unperturbed, returning his gaze to the spot on the wall he evidently found fascinating enough to have spent the better part of an hour looking at it.

After another interminable lifetime of waiting, the door flew open, rebounding loudly off the wall. Even the unflappable Knight-Commander startled at the suddenness of the sound, and Fenris dropped into a crouch, prepared to battle with his bare fists anything that came through the door.

Whatever he'd been expecting—and from the tone of the letter Amelle had received from Starkhaven's healer, it had certainly been nothing good—it hadn't been the door flung wide and Hawke panting breathlessly, covered from head to toe in leaves and grass-stains. Fenris had to look twice to be certain, but apart from the strange fashions she wore and the unfamiliar style of her hair, the bow in her hand was unmistakable.

"Where?" she gasped, sounding as though she'd been running at full-tilt for half an hour. "What the—where? You idiots. You bloody idiots."

Sebastian, similarly festooned with verdure, lagged only a few steps behind. Fenris did not miss the subtle intimacy of the man's touch as he laid a hand on Hawke's waist and guided her fully into the room. Under different circumstances, it would have been enough to make Fenris smile, but he'd spent too long pacing, worrying… fretting to feel anything like happiness.

Once the door was closed, Sebastian said, in a voice not much calmer than Hawke's, "Tell me she isn't in the city."

"She isn't," the templar replied, his brow furrowed. "After what Varric and Isabela told us—"

"It's not safe!" Hawke cried, raking her hands through her hair and pacing the same path Fenris had been marking for an hour. "What are you doing here? Maker's blood, Fenris, you of all people I expected to have the good sense to—"

The guards had removed their physical weapons, but Fenris did not require a mere blade to be effective. Before Hawke could finish her sentence, he leapt for her. She yelped, and both Sebastian and the Knight-Commander took steps toward him, but not before he threw her to the ground, pinning her arms to her sides with the strength of his thighs. Hawke struggled, cursing at him creatively in several languages, but she ceased the moment he allowed his right hand to glow white in preparation.

"Fenris," she breathed. "Fenris, what are you doing?"

Sebastian took another step forward, his hands clenched into fists, but Fenris only shook his head. "No, friend," Fenris warned, glaring up at him. "This is something that must be done. Do not attempt to obstruct me."

"What is something that must be done?" the Knight-Commander demanded. "Release her at once, Fenris. She is not—"

"The healer said she came back wrong." Fenris frowned at the terrified, infuriated, helpless expression on Sebastian's face, shaking his head slightly. "If she is an abomination—"

"What?" Sebastian cried. "Abomination? What healer? What are you talking about?"

"Sebastian," Hawke soothed, though her voice trembled on the final syllable of his name. "Please. Let him explain." Fenris felt how carefully she was holding herself still beneath him, but he did not relax his grip. He knew how crafty she could be, and if a demon was guiding her… He pressed the spines of his left gauntlet to her neck. She pushed her head back against the floor as far as she could, but still he held tight, bringing his other hand to hover above her chest.

Her gaze sought his and once she was looking at him, she did not look away. Her eyes appeared the same as they always had, clear and grey and intent, but he could trust them no more than he could trust her face or her words. "Fenris," she said, choking a little against his gauntlet. "How can I prove it?"

"You cannot," he said.

She blinked.

"Fenris," Sebastian growled, "if you think I will stand by and allow you to murder her—"

"Sebastian, shut up," Hawke hissed. "No one's murdering anyone. What healer?"

Cullen looked as though he wanted to step closer, but thought better of it, saying instead, "Fenris, she may only be lyrium-sick. This is—"

"Or she may be an abomination. Perhaps it only wishes for us to bring it to a mage host. We cannot take the risk."

Hawke's brow furrowed. "Lyrium-sick? Abomination?"

"If you are who you claim to be, why did you not send more than a single letter to your sister? Kiara Hawke would have known how Amelle would worry."

Her eyes widened. He did not believe the surprise was false, but he knew all too well the wiles of demons. "But I—"

"Kiara sent another letter," Sebastian said. "I watched her write it. It was very nearly the first thing she did after waking from the poison. Knowing what Isabela and Varric had seen, she did not want Amelle to worry. Or to come. She sent a bloody letter, Fenris."

Hawke's breath came swift and shallow, as though she feared a deep inhale would bring Fenris' glowing hand too close to her heart.

"This is not why we came," the Knight-Commander said, his face shadowed by something like betrayal. That look, too, Fenris hated to see on the face of someone he was very nearly willing to believe a friend. "We were meant to—"

"You know as well as I the dangers posed by abominations, templar. Do not claim you don't. You know better than us all, do you not?"

The Knight-Commander bowed his head, granting Fenris the concession he knew he would. "This is not what Amelle wanted," he said, shaking his head slowly. "She only asked us to find Hawke; she wanted to see her sister and judge for herself. She will not thank you for this."

This, too, Fenris knew to be true, and if the Knight-Commander wore betrayal upon his face, he did not want to know how Amelle would look upon him. He would gladly accept her anger, if that was the price he paid to buy her safety and her peace of mind. He knew Amelle would not hesitate to deal with a truly compromised Hawke. He also knew if she was forced to kill her one remaining family member, the act would haunt her. Amelle wouldn't likely forgive him for this, but he would rather the blood be on his hands than hers, if he could spare her.

The Knight-Commander said, "It is unlikely Hawke could even be possessed, Fenris. She's no mage."

"Unlikely is a slippery word, templar. So is assumption. Magic runs in the blood of her family. She was deeply unconscious for many days, likely wandering the Fade. Have you already forgotten what the mage Tahrone did to your own men? Amelle's alarm was enough to alarm me."

"Still," Hawke murmured, "if it's all the same to you, I'd vastly prefer if alarm didn't progress to crushing my heart in your fist."

"Surely Amelle didn't ask you to come here and…" Sebastian's voice drifted into silence, but his meaning was clear. Hawke blinked, and tears trailed from the corners of her eyes to dampen the hair at her temples.

"Amelle knows the risks posed by abominations."

"So do I," Hawke insisted. "I assure you—"

"Assurances mean nothing." Fenris shook his head slightly, his brow creased in dismay. "Forgive me, Hawke. Of anyone I would not wish you suffering, but I must be certain."

"And forgive me," she retorted, "if I'm concerned that just now being certain and killing me horribly seem to be the same thing." She swallowed; he felt the bob of her throat. "Please, Fenris. Please tell me why you think I'm an abomination? Please make me understand."

"The healer—"

"What healer?" Sebastian shouted, treading dangerously close to hysterical. The Knight-Commander reached out and laid a steadying hand on the taller man's shoulder. "The only healer who treated Kiara was Jessamine, and she—"

"That was her name," the Knight-Commander affirmed. "Jessamine. It was she Amelle heard from—a couriered letter sent post-haste, saying she feared Kiara was not entirely herself. It urged her to come at once. Then we met Varric and Isabela on the road and they corroborated the woman's story—said they'd seen you taken down, Hawke. Varric thought… and then Amelle was only more motivated to come quickly."

Still Hawke kept her gaze on Fenris, unblinking. It wasn't unafraid, but it was brave. He had to grant her that. "Fenris," she said softly. "I… think I understand. I'm not sure where the… misunderstanding happened, but surely you can wait until you speak with her? Will you let Sebastian send for her?"

Fenris nodded sharply. "Do not think to call your guards. Send for the healer and return. You have seen how quickly I can do what I do. Do not test me, not in this."

Sebastian fixed his gaze on Hawke and did not once look away from her. The lyrium glow of Fenris' tattoos cast odd, troubled shadows upon the man's face. Fenris felt for the man, truly; the expression upon his face and the wounded curve of his shoulders were to be pitied. All too well, Fenris understood feeling powerless.

Almost as well as he understood being in thrall to one who held power. He could not risk it, not even to ease the suffering on his friend's face.

But as Sebastian backed toward the door—slowly, like an old man or a convalescent, gaze still fixed on Hawke, the Knight-Commander reached out and grabbed Sebastian's arm. "Wait," he said, "Fenris, the letter."

"What letter?" Sebastian shouted, more strangled than angry. "All these bloody letters—"

"The one Amelle bade us deliver. Varric and Isabela told us how inhospitable the environment was to… to one such as your sister. Still, Amelle wished to speak with the healer. We brought a letter when we arrived. Jessamine may not be here to question."

Sebastian whirled away from the templar, and would have smashed his fist into the nearest wall if Cullen hadn't reached out and caught the blow in his own hand at the last moment. The Knight-Commander bent his head close to Sebastian's and whispered something Fenris could not hear. Sebastian closed his eyes, but none of the tension disappeared from his posture, though he did not attempt to lash out again.

"Not here?" Hawke growled, and the anger in her voice was tempered with fear. The kind of fear Fenris knew all too well. "You may not believe me, but—Fenris, listen to me, please. Kill me if you must—I mean that—but do it now and do it quickly. You must go. Something is very wrong here, and I'm afraid Amelle—"

Before she could finish, Fenris scrambled to his feet, and offered her his arm; after a moment's hesitation, she accepted it and he hauled her upright. She swayed before finding her feet, and rubbed at the back of her head as though it hurt her.

"We must get back to Amelle at once," Fenris said, already striding for the door. Six paces. Then the palace to negotiate, and the city. An hour by foot—they ought to have brought the horses—

"What?" The Knight-Commander's question stalled Fenris' frantic thoughts.

Perhaps they might borrow horses.

Hawke spoke before Fenris found his voice. "Clearly Jessamine's been lying to us all," she spat. "And I'm afraid Amelle's walked right into Jessamine's plot, whatever it is. She bloody-well opened the door."

"And we delivered the key," Fenris said, gut twisting in a way that no longer had anything to do with worry about abominations. "We told her exactly where to look."

"Shit," Cullen echoed, turning pale.

Hawke snatched up her bow with hands Fenris could plainly see were trembling. Arrows had scattered in their altercation and Hawke was collecting them as quickly as she could, though her fingers seemed intent upon disobeying her when she tried to grasp the slender shafts, the fletching quivering as she picked each one up and slid it hastily into her quiver.

"More arrows," came her feverish mutter. "I need more arrows — we need to move. Andraste's tits, I need more arrows, Sebastian." Her voice shook as badly as her hands, and she'd gone startlingly pale, her eyes too wide, too wild, too bright with tears Fenris knew she would not shed. The composure she'd shown only moments before was gone, swallowed beneath the fear, the worry, and the anger clashing in her eyes.

But Sebastian was already at the door, calling out for his guard in a strong, clear voice — his tone one that would tolerate neither being ignored or questioned — and demanding Fenris and Cullen's confiscated weapons returned as well. The small room was soon filled with armored, uniformed guards, led by an older, grizzled man wearing the air of command like a sword and shield, though he carried only a bow and arrows upon his back. Another guard burst in after the throng, carrying Fenris' and Cullen's weapons, handing the blades over with only the barest hesitation.

"Captain Elias, my bow." He cast a quick look at the rest of the guard. "And we require arrows."

"And perhaps horses," Fenris added. "The camp is some way out of town."

"We can't wait — we have to go," Hawke said, even as the captain of the guard gave a quick, decisive gesture and one of the guards removed his own full quiver, handing it over to Hawke, who took it, shucking her half-empty quiver and slinging this one on in its place.

"Highness?" Captain Elias said glancing at Hawke and back at Sebastian again, injecting a number of inquiries into the single word.

"There is an emergency," Sebastian answered. "We must depart. Now."

"With respect, Highness, do you… intend to see to this emergency yourself?"

At that moment the page who'd been sent for Sebastian's bow squeezed into the room carrying it and a full quiver of arrows. Sebastian gave a curt nod and took both items from the boy. "I do. Time is of the essence and we've none of it to waste."

"Alone?"

"I am hardly alone." He gestured toward Cullen and Fenris as he placed bow and quiver upon his back. "Too many men will slow us down—"

"I'm ready," Hawke announced, checking the leather strap now crossing her chest; the quiver was secure.

"Highness, it isn't—"

"By the Maker," Hawke growled, striding up to the guard captain, her eyes flashing, "if you say it isn't safe—"

"Kiara," Sebastian said in a low tone, placing his hand on her arm. She tightened her jaw and turned away, her grass-stained skirts swirling out most incongruously as she paced. A stray leaf tumbled from her hair and she stopped abruptly, staring at it as though she could not fathom from whence it came. Then she roughly pulled her hands through her hair and crumpled the leaves and grass her fingers caught in her fists.

Sebastian looked back at Captain Elias. "We're leaving now and we're moving fast, and for Andraste's sake, you must be discreet."

Elias nodded and looked over his shoulder, taking no more than a second to survey his men. "Kinnon," he barked. A shorter knight armed with a sword and shield stepped forward. "You and I will go. The rest of you, ready yourselves on the wall. There'll be horses ready in the yard by the time we get there."

Twenty minutes by horseback, Fenris thought. Perhaps less.

But the pounding of his pulse in his ears said they could not move quickly enough.