Though Laymia Vael had favored the attention of large crowds teeming with angry voices, the end of her life saw a small, quiet gathering. It seemed apt, Cullen thought, that such a woman should be denied fanfare of any kind.

After the trial, flanked on all sides by templars, he, Fenris and Amelle followed Sebastian, Hawke, and the Revered Mother, down a circuitous corridor leading to a small, walled courtyard. It looked like the sort of place the laundry-women did the wash or other mundane chores; perhaps it even acted as a thoroughfare — the cobblestones were worn smooth with age and use.

As they emptied into the courtyard, another came up from the rear, and when Cullen turned, he saw Ser Kinnon accompanying the man Amelle had healed on that horrible, horrible day. Joff, he remembered. The plain man in his plain clothes who'd nearly given his life for them all.

Joff looked suddenly unsure as he glanced around, taking in the motley assembly, until Hawke stepped forward and clasped forearms with him. With her garbed as princess from head to heel, it was a strange gesture, but it seemed to soothe Joff somewhat. She did not smile — this was not an affair that wanted smiles — but her welcome was both warm and reassuring. She bent her head, doubtless explaining in a low whisper the charge laid upon him, to pass on word of Laymia Vael's execution. He looked pale and slightly ill, but when Hawke released him, he straightened his shoulders and set his jaw.

A guard arrived, carrying the prince's longbow in both hands as though it was made of something impossibly breakable instead of sturdy gilt beech. Behind him, a little page carried a single white-fletched arrow with just as much gravitas as the man with the bow. Perhaps even more so. Cullen could not hear the words exchanged, but Fenris stopped Sebastian briefly as the prince reached for his weapon.

Sebastian shook his head once, firmly. Then he, too, offered his hand in a clasp. Fenris accepted it, but did not look nearly as mollified by the gesture as Joff had. Fenris returned to Amelle's side. Though Cullen knew there had been time enough for Amelle to have regained some of her mana, he was gratified to sense no magic from her. She raised a querying eyebrow, but Fenris only frowned, saying nothing.

Sebastian took the bow from his guardsman before crouching to accept the page's arrow. Cullen saw the boy protest as Sebastian sent him away, his eyes wide; a moment later the guardsman took the little lad by the hand and led him off.

When Sebastian turned, bow in one hand and arrow in the other, it appeared as if the weapon weighed a hundred pounds. Even from his place across the courtyard, Cullen could see the prince's white-knuckled grip and the tense set of his jaw. But Sebastian did not falter. His steps were sure, until at last he stood a mere ten feet from Laymia Vael.

Close enough to look her in the eye.

Hawke came to stand several feet to Sebastian's right — close enough to let everyone, Sebastian included, know where her support lay, but far enough away she did not appear to be encroaching. Mostly, Cullen thought, it was so Sebastian would not be the only one forced to watch the light leave Laymia Vael's eyes.

And Hawke would be one of the last images the woman saw before crossing the Veil. Maker help her.

Laymia Vael stood at the end of the courtyard, her pale eyes unflinching, her posture defiant, her expression scornful to the end. She didn't speak. None of them did. Fenris and Amelle stood a little behind Hawke and Sebastian; Amelle held tightly to Fenris' hand with both of hers, but Cullen didn't imagine for a moment it was because she was put off by the proceedings. No, one look at his friend's pale face, the shadows under her flinty green eyes, told him quite enough. Fenris' countenance was darker, but bespoke much the same sentiment — they knew how much they had nearly lost. One did not celebrate death, but Cullen was certain his friends would shed no tears today. Not over this.

Sebastian nocked his single arrow and drew his bow. At his ear, the pristine fletching was white to the point of glowing as the midmorning sun shone down upon them.

It was too beautiful a day for an execution.

Sebastian aimed. The harsh twang of his bowstring echoed through the air, the sound bouncing off the cobblestones and walls, still echoing as Jessamine's body fell, lurching back from the force of the arrow.

He had shot her in the eye. She was already dead when her body hit the stones.

#

Once the arrow found its mark, Kiara crossed the distance and bent to check the woman's pulse. It was unnecessary, of course. No one survived a shot like Sebastian's. Jessamine—Laymia—was still warm, but her heart was still and her breath gone. Her remaining eye stared, until Kiara closed the lid. As to the other… Kiara broke the shaft with a quick, expert snap and placed the broken end, blood-stained fletching and all, next to the corpse.

Before she could do more than wish for something to cover the body with, Sebastian was beside her, holding out his gold-trimmed white cloak. She accepted it and spread it out over the dead woman. Bloodstains appeared almost at once, and when Kiara glanced down, she realized she'd ruined the hem of her own gown. She spared a brief thought for Tasia's ire, but it was anemic. A dress was a dress. It was hard to care about a dress when the stain upon it was the end of a life, no matter how much that life needed to end.

Sebastian reached out to help her up, but once she was fully upright again, he did not release her. His hand was oddly cold, though the air in the courtyard was pleasant and sun-warmed. She felt him shiver as he turned away from the body, and she didn't think it had anything to do with his sudden lack of cloak.

"Kinnon," he said gravely, "have the Great Hall emptied. I don't want to impose curfew, but see that the guard knows people are to return to their homes and businesses. I want no trouble in the streets. Not today. And Master Joff is to be returned home unharmed."

Kinnon saluted, but his gaze was troubled as it met Kiara's. Her nod was minute, but seemed to soothe him, and he gave her a slight bow in return. Joff looked green and terribly pale, but he, too, offered a slight bow before departing at Kinnon's heels.

She felt bad for asking such a thing of him. But it was better than the public spectacle Starkhaven had desired. Joff was respected. After the debacle in the courtyard, he was a minor hero amongst the common folk. His word would carry. She hoped his word would be enough.

"Revered Mother," Sebastian continued, his body still alarmingly, too-carefully stiff beside Kiara. "Thank you for your words, and for bearing witness here today. I pray this marks a change. I pray today is the first day of a long peace for Starkhaven."

"My prayers echo yours, Your Highness," Illona replied, but Kiara did not miss the solemnity in her tone, either. This woman's death might temporarily end the madness in Starkhaven, but the world was still poised on a precipice.

We have set the world alight tonight, you and I, she had told Anders. The Maker only knows what will rise from the ashes. We have to live with that.

But they could still pray for peace. No harm came from prayer.

Then, softer, for Sebastian's ears, Illona added, "Justice was done here today, Sebastian. You mustn't torment yourself."

He gave no indication he'd heard her. None of the weariness left his face. His hand was still cold. There were creases at the corners of his eyes; Kiara wondered if they'd always been there, or if the weight of today's responsibilities had etched them new. "As to the rest," Sebastian said, "Morven will be dealt with later—tomorrow. There will be no grand dinner tonight, no dancing. There will be no celebration."

None of those assembled looked as though they wished to celebrate anything at all. Some would drink. Some would pray. Some would question. Some would embrace, holding tight to life in the face of death.

Varric and Isabela would host a card game, because some things never changed.

Some things never change.

It was almost enough to make her smile. Almost. She tightened her grip on Sebastian's hand, and was absurdly grateful when he squeezed back.

Tomorrow, perhaps, there would be smiling. Or the next day.

#

It was over. In an instant, and with a twang of a bowstring followed by a whistling rush of an arrow, it had ended.

Amelle stayed rooted to the spot, clutching Fenris' hand; the gauntlets pressed uncomfortably against her fingers, but she could not quite make herself care enough to release him. And when Jessamine fell to the stones, it was the horrible, hollow echo of his body collapsing upon the wooden platform she heard. In Jessamine's blood, dark and spreading slowly outward, filling the grooves between the stones, she saw his blood as it slid from the poisoned wound, glittering like dark rubies in the morning light.

She squeezed his hand more tightly. He squeezed back.

She'd seen too much death lately—they both had—and so much of it in vain, so much of it senseless, that at one point Amelle had begun to wonder if she hadn't become deadened to it, to the horror of death; the notion had left her deeply cold. Caring for and tending to the dead was a necessity, and yet it made her ache with sadness all the same. But it was sadness that could be relieved by healing. Healing—restoring the clinic and tending to the sick and injured there—was how Amelle dealt with death, with the finality of it. If she could ease or reverse another's suffering, if she could heal an injury or an illness, if she could forestall death, then she could cope. She could accept the balance of life and death and likewise accept that there were some she couldn't save.

Jessamine was beyond saving. She was beyond healing—beyond everything, and yet Amelle would not have healed her, even if it had been within her power.

She wanted to feel bad about that, wanted some semblance of regret or remorse twinge beneath her breast. She wanted to feel something other than relief that the woman was dead. Instead, she was every bit as cold and worn down as the stones they stood upon, but beneath that chill, Amelle was still relieved. Jessamine was no more. The memories would not be so easily banished, though, and that was the worst of it. They would fade in time, but for the foreseeable future, they remained, horribly vibrant, in her head. And now, as Kiara crouched by the body and felt for life, Amelle knew this moment had already been added to those memories. The snap of the shaft seemed disproportionately loud, and she flinched. The woman was dead.

And still, Amelle was relieved. It didn't seem right.

Fenris tugged gently at her hand, pulling her out of her reverie.

"Perhaps you might rest now," he said in an undertone.

Amelle shook her head, never pulling her eyes from that prone form. Blood crept across the stones, seeping into the hem of her sister's dress, bleeding upward, staining it as it had stained Sebastian's cloak. Blood didn't wash—didn't wash easily, at any rate—and the memory of spilled blood was somehow even more indelible than a physical stain. This courtyard would forever be marked, as other places had been. Amelle thought suddenly of Viscount's Keep, Viscount Dumar's head rolling horribly and unevenly across the floor, his blank eyes staring sightlessly forward. Even the chantry, before Anders had taken it in a blast of light and magic, even the chantry had been stained by lives taken within its walls. That vile woman Mother Patrice had left a similar stain upon its stones.

But this… this had been no spectacle. This had been no show. There had been no lights or magic, no posturing, no threats. Simply Sebastian, his bow, and one single arrow.

"Amelle," Fenris said again, frowning.

She looked at him. His frown deepened.

"You have not been sleeping," he reminded her. "You look unwell."

So much for 'stunning,' she wanted to say, but the words felt flat, and she wouldn't have meant them anyway; she felt unwell. But Amelle doubted it was anything a mere nap would remedy. "Where will you be?"

"I… will assist Sebastian in… disposing of the remains, if he wishes it."

A terrible, hysterical giggle nearly burst forth, but Amelle covered her mouth with her hand and was surprised to find tears blinding her instead. Fenris only cocked his head, inquiring eloquently with nothing more than a look in his eyes and the slightest arch of one dark eyebrow. Her lips trembled, and she shook her head, tears falling free though she swallowed against the tightness in her throat and stepped closer to Fenris, wanting to rest her head against his shoulder, wanting to kiss the warm, beating pulse in his neck, wanting to embrace him and remind herself that he lived. They both did.

"You?" she managed finally, in a choked whisper, even as her tears tracked lines of moisture down her cheeks. "Helping dispose of corpses?"

Fenris bowed his head and exhaled a soft breath of something mirthless that wasn't quite laughter. "Sebastian assisted me in a similar fashion once. It seems only right I return the favor."

Dashing away her tears, Amelle took a step back and nodded, wrestling her emotions under control again. She was exhausted and felt strangely frayed; the not one but two templar cleanses she'd been exposed to hadn't done her any favors. It chafed, but Fenris was right—she needed to rest.

Well. What she truly needed was to forget this day and most of the week before it, but that wasn't going to happen.

"Fenris is right," Cullen said, and Amelle looked up with a start, wondering how long he'd been standing there. How long he'd had his hand upon her shoulder. With a touch of wryness, he added, "You look as if you've been to the Void and back."

"I feel like I've been to the Void and back," she admitted, rubbing at her eyes.

Cullen nodded at nothing in particular, and said, "Then go on and get some sleep."

Amelle looked down at Fenris' hand, still in hers, and she let out a shaky exhale. "You're ganging up on me again," she said, but without rancor.

"We are," Fenris answered.

"Unrepentantly," added Cullen.

"Very well." Still, prying her fingers away from Fenris' hand was more difficult than it had any right to be. "You both win. I will go and… attempt to rest."

"Shall I walk you up?" Cullen asked, nodding at the arched doorway.

"Go on ahead. I'll be along in a moment."

Cullen went without comment to wait just inside the corridor, and Amelle turned to Fenris and leaned forward, brushing a kiss across his cheek. "Come find me when you're finished," she said, her voice low. "I… I am not sure I really want to be alone."

She hated how needy the admission made her feel, but the last thing she wanted — the last thing in the world — was an empty chamber with memories hiding in every corner, in every shadow. Fenris only nodded and bowed his head, resting it gently against her forehead. The warmth of his skin against hers was nearly enough to make Amelle cry all over again.

"You will not be alone," he murmured. Before pulling away, he lowered his lips to her ear. "Go. I will find you." His fingers brushed her elbow as he hesitated for barely half a breath. "I will always find you."

She sent him a tremulous smile. "Spero and I will be waiting."

"I will count on it."

#

Sebastian knew he was meant to do something with the body. Set the head on a spike at the city gates to serve as a warning. That was what a monarch did with traitors. Do not trifle with me, or meet this fate. He couldn't bear it. Killing her had to be enough.

When the Revered Mother left, taking her templars with her, Sebastian turned and stared at the body. It looked small under his blood-stained white cloak. Too small. Jessamine had done such a vast amount of ill that he'd almost forgotten she was just one woman.

One dead woman didn't take up much space.

Justice was done here today, Sebastian. You mustn't torment yourself.

How could he not? It was not as though he'd never killed before, but this death? This death had not happened in the heat of a moment. It had not been self-defense in the sense of kill-or-be-killed. He'd looked her in the eye and killed her, because it was the just punishment for the crimes she'd committed. It was the law.

He was the law. And that responsibility was a mantle knit of solid iron, so very heavy.

The man hated what he'd had to do. The prince knew it was necessary.

Kiara squeezed his hand again, forcing him to look at her and away from the corpse. He noticed then that the courtyard was all but empty. Fenris stood at Kiara's side, seemingly at ease, but Sebastian recognized the readiness in his posture and the faint crease of concern at his brow. Everyone else was gone.

Sebastian wondered just how long he'd been gazing down at his dead aunt.

"She should go to the crypts," Sebastian said abruptly. He twitched, startled by the strained sound of his own voice. "She was… she wasn't a good Vael, but she was a Vael nonetheless."

"Fenris and I will take her," Kiara said. When he began to protest, she shook her head and brought her free hand up to cup his cheek. The smell of blood was heavy and cloying, but through it he caught the vague scent of Kiara, rose and cedar and sweetness and strength. With no audience but Fenris, he allowed himself to lean ever so slightly into that hand. "She was… family. We'll see she's treated with respect. Corwin has cleared your schedule for today, Sebastian. Your only responsibility is to go get the rest I know you haven't been getting."

He turned his head until he could press a kiss into her palm. "Bossy," he murmured.

She pressed her fingertips to his lips before letting the hand fall back to her side. "You wouldn't have me any other way." Though her expression was too solemn to allow for amusement, there was also something bolstering there.

Maker, but she was strong.

Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, love."

Her eyebrow arched. "I mean it about the rest, Sebastian."

He nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at him. To say the day's events had been draining would be an understatement of vast proportions, and he'd had little enough in the way of sleep in the week since Jessamine's arrest. "For once, dearest, I believe I need little in the way of persuasion."

She squeezed his hand a final time before releasing it. Behind her, Fenris nodded at him. Sebastian found himself absurdly grateful that he found no pity in the elf's eyes, only encouragement. Support. Friendship.

Scrubbing his hands together briskly, he tried to coerce some warmth back into his digits. Even the bones felt weary, as though he'd been carrying stones instead of the negligible weight of his bow and a single arrow.

Sebastian did not look back at the body as he left. He did not need to. He knew very well he'd remember every detail of this day for the rest of his life.

#

The look on Sebastian's face was enough to concern Fenris. His friend had aged years in the course of a single morning. He watched as the other man left the courtyard, listening as the slow sound of his footsteps faded away. He then looked down at the covered form, the bloodstained cloak.

Hawke was the first to speak, as she often was. "It's been a bitch of a morning."

"It has."

"How are you doing, Fenris?"

Fenris lifted his gaze to meet Hawke's grey eyes. "As well as can be expected." He paused momentarily, glancing back down at the body again, and looking up with a frown. "I would have relieved him of this… act."

"It was his responsibility," she replied quietly. "Sebastian had to be the one to do it."

"It will weigh on him."

"And bearing weight makes us stronger."

She didn't say the words flippantly. Indeed, Hawke sounded determined, and Fenris knew immediately that Sebastian would emerge from this a stronger man. And it would be with Hawke's help. That was her strength, he realized. Helping others bear the weight they could not carry alone. It was why they looked to her. Trusted her.

Just then, Ser Kinnon entered the courtyard, carrying something bundled beneath his arm. He handed it to Hawke with uncharacteristic gravity.

"Figured you could use a proper shroud," he explained in the face of Hawke's confusion.

She looked again at the bundled material, then at Sebastian's bloody cloak. "It… yes. Thank you, Kinnon."

He bowed once, then nodded at the deceased. "Do you need any assistance?"

She shook her head. "No. We'll be fine."

The knight looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue the point, but in the end he simply exhaled, bowed again, and left. His heavy, booted footsteps seemed to fill the entire space until the knight faded from earshot.

Once things were quiet again, Hawke shook out the bundle into a long sheet. "How's Amelle?" she asked quietly, as she bent to wrap the body more appropriately.

Fenris crouched alongside her and helped. "I am… concerned. She is not sleeping well, and I suspect she is not eating as much as she ought."

Hawke's brows drew together and she blew out a sigh. "Oh, rabbit," she murmured under her breath. When she looked up she caught Fenris' questing look. "I'm not sure I've ever seen her as worried as she's been this past week. But she'll bounce back. And I imagine today will do a fair bit to send her on her way." She frowned down at her work. "I suppose that's one good thing come from all… this."

Fenris secured the fabric around the dead woman's legs and feet. "It had to be done," he said, after a lengthy silence.

"I know. Doesn't make it easy, though."

"Since when have you dealt in that which is easy, Hawke?"

She let out a soft snort as she shook her head, and while her attire was still strange to see upon her, and her hair had never been twisted, twined, and pinned so, the sound was so utterly Hawke that the other trappings fell away and he could very nearly picture her in her customary armor, red hair falling past her shoulders, grey eyes laughing. It would do him well to see joy in those eyes again. "I'm sure I did once. It seems as though ever since making the acquaintance of one certain elf, I became an authority on all things complicated and difficult."

"I could say the same of you."

Her smirk was a pale counterfeit of her usual expression, but at least it was not a frown. At least it was not tears. "I'm sure you could."

Their work was finished for the moment, and they both stood, Fenris taking the body's torso while Hawke took the legs. They spoke little as Hawke directed him to the crypt deep below the palace.

A heavy door swung open with relative ease, aside from a tortured groaning from the hinges. It revealed an antechamber featuring a long, raised platform in the center of the small room.

"There," she said. "The Chantry sisters will be down later to prepare the body."

Fenris nodded slowly. "And then she will be… interred?"

Hawke nodded and let out a deep sigh as she leaned against one of the room's solid walls. "Maybe they'll put her in the back," she muttered, adding, "Way in the back." Then she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's over. Maker's balls, Fenris, it's finally over." Before he could speak, she held up one hand. "I know — don't say it. Just let me breathe for a moment. My sister's alive. You're alive. Nothing blew up and nobody turned into a giant monster. All things considered…"

"The aftermath could have been worse," he supplied, not particularly interested in dwelling on the many ways it could have been so.

A shadow passed over her face. "Much worse."

Several more moments passed in silence before Hawke pushed herself away from the wall, looking even more determined than she had throughout the course of the day, and they left the antechamber together, locking the door behind them.

"I suspect you're on your way back to Amelle?" Hawke asked lightly as they followed corridor after winding corridor, all of them leading upward. The air still smelled dank, tinged with the acrid scent of the torches lining the walls. He longed for a little fresh air, a little sunlight. Perhaps Amelle would have her windows open.

Fenris gave his answer evenly, looking straight ahead. "She requested it."

"Ah."

Several more minutes passed in silence.

"Have one of the maids draw her a warm bath," she said suddenly. "I'll have someone from the kitchen send up warm milk with honey." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but Fenris still did not acknowledge it. "It's one of her favorite things when she can't sleep."

He nodded once, then looked askance at her. "I imagine Varric and Isabela will be hosting a game this evening."

"I imagine they will. Wicked Grace?"

"Indeed. Isabela has her marked deck."

She huffed a laugh. "Of course she does."

They walked a while longer, until a square of daylight at the end of one particularly long hallway grew larger and larger. Soon they found themselves squinting in the sunlight. Birds chirped above and a cool breeze bathed their faces, a vast departure from the overcrowded hall, the somber courtyard, and the silent crypt.

"Thank you, Hawke."

She sent him a crooked smile that seemed strangely enigmatic for all its guilelessness, and she clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Only the best for my little sister."

Before he could ask what in the Maker's name she meant by that, she vanished in a swirl of skirts.

Headed for the kitchens.