Kiara was next to him in bed when he woke.

To be more accurate, Sebastian thought as he blinked and rolled over, she was on the bed next to him, idly reading a book, and fully dressed—not in the bloodstained white gown, he was grateful to see, but in something dark and plain. But it was her. And she was there.

Very nearly the instant he opened his eyes, she flipped the book shut with a snap and leaned down to kiss his brow. "Good morning," she said. "Or good evening, rather."

His growling stomach reminded him a great deal of time had passed since last he'd eaten, and he pushed himself to one elbow.

"I can help with that, too," she remarked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. For one moment he wanted to pull her back, to drag her beneath him and bury his misery in her. To hide. The want startled him, shaking him to his core. It was too much like the petulance of old; it was young Prince Sebastian wanting his every desire and whim catered to, instantly and without question. Dread sent prickling cold fingers down his spine.

It would be that easy to slip into that old skin, to adopt those old ways. Want without thinking. Taking without asking. It would be that easy.

Kiara deserved better. She deserved so much better. So as she rose and crossed the chamber, Sebastian pulled himself upright, blinking the last of the drowsy sleep from his eyes, and banishing the last vestiges of his want. Sure enough, the sky outside had gone dark, and the room was only bright because Kiara had lit a chantry's-worth of candles.

Kiara perched beside him, armed with a tray of bread and cheese and fruit. "Eat up," she ordered. "We have work to do."

"We do?" he asked, settling the tray on his lap and piling a slice of bread high with cheese.

Kiara broke off a piece of the hard, sharp cheese she liked best and enjoyed it thoroughly before answering, "Yes, we do."

"I suppose it was too much to hope the horror of my desk might wait a day or two."

One red eyebrow arched at him. She ate three of his strawberries. Then she said, "The horror of your desk is going to wait a day or two. This is something else entirely. Just eat, Sebastian."

Her insistence had the slightest undertone of playfulness. He found himself glad it was only an undertone, not because he wanted her to be grim and sad, but because when he leaned back and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of the food on his tongue, he saw the way his aunt's defiance had died in the moments before she had. Just for an instant, he'd seen fear in her pale eyes. Fear and resignation and maybe the ghost of the girl she once must have been, before ambition and desire and pride poisoned her as surely and irreversibly as Maker's Light or Quiet Death or Crow Venom would have done.

"Less thinking," Kiara said, too lightly. "More eating." When he blinked and looked at her, he saw how concerned she was.

"I'm fine," he said.

This made both eyebrows rise. "You're fine like I was fine the night I let Anders walk away from the horror he'd created." She shook her head as she twined the fingers of one hand with his. "You're not fine, my love. But it's all right."

"I have to be fine," he insisted. "I'm the prince of Starkhaven. My people—"

"Need you. Yes, they do. But not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. Corwin is very competent."

"What kind of work do we have to—?"

She silenced him with a stern glare. "What part of less thinking, more eating do you not understand, Sebastian Vael?"

He forced himself to eat an apple and another slice of bread and cheese. When his stomach protested, he stopped.

"I suppose I should be glad you managed anything at all," she said. "Sebastian…"

"I don't need your pity. I don't want it."

The temperature of her voice dropped several degrees. "Just as well I wasn't offering it, then." She levered herself off the bed and removed the barely-touched tray. A moment later, she tossed a bundle of clothing at him. "Put that on."

He was of a mind to protest until he saw the expression on her face. The accusation of pity had… wounded her, he realized belatedly. She turned away, busying herself with damping the fire and blowing out some of the candles, while he shucked the linen shirt he'd slept in and dressed in the things she'd insisted upon. The tunic and trousers were dark. This fabric wouldn't show bloodstains. He grimaced, remembering once again the way the white of his cloak had drunk the red of the blood on the cobblestones.

He blinked, and Kiara was standing before him again. She pushed a leather coat at him and by its weight, he realized it was not simply fabric, but a plated brigandine. "Are we expecting trouble?"

"Aren't we always?" she replied. "Just put it on. It's not too heavy, is it? You need new armor, Sebastian. I had to make do with what I could find."

His brow furrowed as he shrugged into the sleeveless coat. It was heavy, but not unbearably so. It made him realize how accustomed he'd grown to going unarmored. She handed him his bow and quiver, and waited until he'd obediently donned them before handing him a black cloak. It was long and had a deep hood, which he left down.

After arming herself and swinging a similarly dark cape over her shoulders, she looked at him expectantly. Puzzled, he shrugged his shoulders.

Stepping close, Kiara put her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself to her toes. "I love you," she said quietly, insistently. The words were new enough, rare enough, that he felt the weight of them pool in his gut. "Do you want to go out the window or the door?"

"What?"

"Window or door?" she repeated. "There are drawbacks and benefits to each."

"I cannot—"

"You can, actually," she said, her lips pulling into a devious almost-smile. "The Eyes are on full alert. We have more secret, invisible bodyguards than we could possibly know what to do with. And I've spoken to Corwin, who agreed this was something worth doing. Now. Window or door?"

"…Window?" he decided, raising the word into a question.

Kiara ignored the question and headed across the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned him. "I'm glad. Your palace has perfect walls for scaling."

The faintest tickle of mirth stirred within him, and he felt his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. "I know. I'm familiar."

"Good," she said. "Then you can go first."

#

Fenris found Amelle in her chamber; she was no longer in the heavy, ornate gown she'd worn earlier, but rather a loose blue dress, legs tucked up beneath the skirt as she sat curled in a heavily upholstered armchair pulled crookedly in front of the fire. Spero dozed contently in her lap, and the fingers of one slender hand stroked the kitten's spine. Amelle held her other hand out, fingers moving slowly — the fire seemed to obey, flames licking all at once, completely controlled, in a silent rhythm only Amelle heard. Her face was the picture of concentration, but there was nothing restful about her.

"Is it done?" she asked as the door fell closed behind him, never pulling her eyes from the pulsing flames.

"It is finished," he answered quietly. Amelle's shoulders sagged, but when he crossed the room to her side and placed one hand against her back, he felt so much—too much—tension coiled in her muscles. It wasn't a wonder she couldn't relax enough to rest.

Amelle drew in a deep breath and let it out again, and as she did the flames lowered and flickered chaotically, and much more naturally. He frowned.

"I am certain this is not what I meant when I suggested you get some rest, Amelle."

She looked sheepishly at her hand as the mana flared off, her power dimming. "I couldn't sleep. And this helps me relax."

"It is over."

"I know. I know. I keep telling myself that. But seeing her again at all, it— it was…" She looked at him then, her eyes overly bright in the light of the fire. "All through that bloody trial I kept seeing her. I kept seeing her stab you. Kept seeing you fall. And a life is ended and—and I want to feel more than… than just relief she's gone, but I can't."

With a deep sigh, Fenris took Amelle's hand and drew her to her feet, scooping Spero up before it tumbled from Amelle's skirts. The kitten nuzzled his thumb.

"May I tell you what I feel?"

The question was shock enough that a tear, then two spilled forward as Amelle blinked. "You want to… what?" She stopped, then gave herself a shake and let out a watery chuckle. "Sorry. I just didn't expect you of all people to…"

"Didn't expect me to want to talk about my feelings," he answered, placing particular ironic emphasis on the word.

"Well. Yes. That." Amelle's smile was heartbreakingly rueful, and in that moment Fenris realized, rather disjointedly, for the realization itself splintered off from everything else going on, that Amelle Hawke may well have been the most dangerous mage he'd ever met in the whole of his life. Only she could injure him, ruin him, end him with nothing more than a look, a smile, or lack thereof.

"Fenris?"

"Hmm?"

"You look like you just got stunned by a frisky bronto." Amelle placed a cool hand against his forehead, as if looking for fever. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine."

"You're fine," she echoed. At his nod, her smile turned wry. "This is an interesting way to get out of talking about your feelings, you know. Points for originality."

"I do not mourn her," he said abruptly, recovering his diverted train of thought. "When you were… gone. Missing. I swore to myself I would revisit any injury she caused you back upon her, tenfold." Slowly he let his thumb glide across her chin, fingers tracing her jaw. "And I was twice as angry at myself for how… ill I behaved. Before."

"The trip." At his nod, she said, "You… thought I'd lied about Cullen being only my friend."

"It is more accurate to say I feared it," he murmured as she drew closer. "Or that you simply realized you preferred his company to mine. But yes, the sentiment is the same." Both her hands came up to cradle his face and he found himself turning his head against one palm, unconsciously imitating the kitten he held. Amelle drew closer still and rested her forehead against his, and Fenris found the words he wanted were suddenly far more difficult to summon. "And I realized… if we hadn't left you behind, if we'd brought you into the city with us, she never would have—"

The soft pressure of Amelle's fingers upon Fenris' lips silenced him. "She would have. She was waiting for us—ready for us. She would have found a way."

Fenris scowled, but did not make any attempt to counter the argument.

"And I can tell by the face you're making you disagree. Glower Number Twelve, my favorite."

"You would have been better protected."

Shaking her head, Amelle teased, "Are we actually getting into an argument over something that didn't—"

"I would have been there to protect you," he insisted hotly, cutting off her words, the despised powerlessness of that moment—he had not forgotten, would never forget—betraying him, roughening his voice with emotion.

That was enough to silence her. The faintest tinge came over Amelle's cheeks, but it did not compare, he was sure, to the way his own face was burning.

"Fenris…"

He was expecting another argument, a lecture on the pointlessness of agonizing over past mistakes, anything but Amelle pressing against him, tilting her head just to the side, mouth slanting over his as she kissed him hard, arms snaking about him as if she never planned to let go. Fenris gently dropped Spero to the chair Amelle had occupied only moments before and clutched her close, reveling in the warmth pressed against him. And yet, it could not hope to compare to the heat of her mouth or the strange sensation of raw power spilling forth from her fingertips as she held him. Every breath Amelle drew made her tremble and she mewled against his mouth, her fingers tightening against him as he deepened the kiss, as she responded to it.

Dangerous, indeed.

When Amelle finally pulled away, she did so reluctantly, and just far enough that when she spoke, her lips brushed lightly against his, sending a pleasant shiver chasing across his skin. "Whatever did happen, or didn't happen, or might've happened… it's over," she breathed. "It's done. We're alive."

"It is." Fenris brushed a stray curl away from her temple. "We are."

And with that, Amelle let out a deep, shuddering breath and nodded before dropping her head against his shoulder and leaning against him. They remained like that several moments before a soft knock sounded at the door. Pulling her head up, she sent him a quizzical look. "Are we expecting anyone?" she asked, moving to open the door.

"A gesture from your sister, I believe."

A sort of wary curiosity came over her face as she pulled open the door to find a maid standing with a delicate mug positioned upon a tray. Steaming milk frothed at the lip. Amelle's smile was small but immediate and, more importantly, genuine.

"I suppose it's one of her more subtle hints." She took the mug and thanked the young woman, who bobbed a curtsey before hurrying off. "Sleep, Mely. Rest, Mely." She gave the mug a careful sniff and then sipped. "At least it isn't drugged. I think."

"There is… something more," he said, once again plucking up the kitten and taking Amelle's arm, guiding her out into the corridor.

"Something more that isn't in my room?" At his silent nod, Amelle's eyebrows lifted. "A surprise?" she asked, sipping again from the mug. "Fenris, this is utterly unlike you. I'm intrigued."

The hated color rushed to his cheeks again. "It is merely… a gesture. Come." He took her arm and led her through the twisting series of corridors until they reached his own chamber. When he opened the door, the air was warm with steam and gently scented — the tub in the adjoining washroom was filled to the brim with bubbles. Amelle looked at the tub, then at Fenris, a tiny, crooked smile curving her lips.

"And it's a lovely gesture."

"It seemed it might… help."

"You do know my proclivities," Amelle said, gently teasing as she kissed his cheek. "Thank you." Her eyes glinted with a light decidedly less gently teasing as she asked, "Going to wash my back?"

"I hardly think you would find that restful," he countered, unable to ignore the heat that kicked up inside him at her words. He would have accepted—wanted to accept—but something in Amelle's eyes still looked vaguely… troubled. Not yet, he decided.

The teasing tone edged into something a little more thoughtful, and an expression Fenris couldn't quite read settled over her features. Her cheeks were slightly pink. "Perhaps… perhaps next time, then."

Next time.

"Perhaps."

#

At first they just walked. Kiara cast surreptitious looks toward her betrothed, monitoring him closely. At first it was clear he was anxious, though whether for himself or for her, she wasn't certain. After half a dozen, she ceased counting the number of times he reached for his bow only to stop himself at the last moment.

The shadows were long, but she genuinely wasn't worried. She hadn't lied to him, after all. More invisible agents of the palace were watching them than even she knew about, she suspected. Anyone who wanted to accost them would have to go through several rings of their unseen protectors.

Gradually he stopped reflexively reaching for his weapon, and the tense line of his shoulders softened.

And Kiara said, "It was the look in her eyes at the end, wasn't it?"

It was strange to see Sebastian stumble; he was normally so graceful. But stumble he did, and she reached out with both hands to grab hold of his arm and keep him upright. Even in the darkness, when his eyes found hers she could see the hurt in them. A little was hurt at what he'd had to do. A little was hurt she'd asked the question, and somehow made the experience real by giving voice to it.

"It's always like that," she said softly. "At the end. Even when I dueled the Arishok, it was… He was… triumphant. I was on the floor, after all, and he'd just thrown me off the end of his blade. He thought he had me. Maker's balls, I half-thought he had me. My bow was ten feet behind me. He didn't know I carried a knife. He didn't realize I'd killed him until that knife was already in his throat. And that was when I saw that look. Meredith had it, too. So did… so did my mother. It's always like that. There's always a moment, a point of no return."

Sebastian turned his face away and she released his arm, though she didn't step away from him. "The duel with the Arishok had honor in it, at least. He fought back. Meredith… Meredith fought."

"You're right," she agreed. "It's easier to kill someone who's actively trying to kill you. Jessamine—Laymia—whoever she was? She was trying to kill you, Sebastian. She showed no remorse for her actions. If you'd let her live, she'd have continued to plot against you. Even if you'd kept her imprisoned, she would have tried to escape. I cringe at the word, but the Revered Mother was right: what happened today was justice."

"Death is never justice," Sebastian intoned.

Kiara sighed. "Elthina was not infallible. She was attempting to turn you away from a course of action that was based in vengeance. It wasn't applicable today." When he said nothing, she continued, "I—you didn't take Fenris up on his offer. Why?"

Sebastian shot her a dismayed look that seemed to say isn't it obvious? After a moment he explained, "My father once told me, 'If you're going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye.' He was criticizing my lack of talent with a blade at the time. I was the one who passed judgement on her; I knew it was my responsibility to enact the punishment. I knew it was my responsibility to look her in the eye. Hundreds have died on the points of my arrows. Slavers. Bandits. Blood mages. I never… felt it like I feel this. Killing in the heat of battle is nothing like what happened today. Today felt like… murder."

"I know," Kiara said. "But it wasn't. It was execution. What she did… what she would have done to Amelle and Fenris? What she would have done to me? Maker, what she did do to Starkhaven? That's murder. We have no way of knowing how many she poisoned—both in word and deed—but we know she was ambitious, and that she showed no compassion for her fellows. You saw her fear in that last moment, Sebastian. Perhaps you even saw her regret. But it's the Maker who will judge her now."

"I know it," he replied gravely. "I know it, Kiara, but I feel… unclean."

She reached for his hand. He hesitated, but still she held her palm up. At last he took it, but his fingers were heavy and somehow unwilling in hers. Paying little heed to this, she dragged him down a series of side streets, until they stood before a little house. Light shone from behind the lace-hung windows, illuminating a well-kept yard. Even from twenty feet away, she could hear the exuberant music within, fiddle and pipe and a very poorly played drum.

Tugging him all the way up the path, she stopped at the door. Before she could knock, however, Sebastian put his arm around her and pulled her back. "Kiara…"

Tilting her head, she gave him a rueful smile. "Do you trust me?"

"Of… of course."

"Then trust me," she said, and knocked.

#

Hot water and thick bubbles cure a multitude of ills, Amelle thought as she sank down a little deeper in the bath, soap suds tickling her earlobes. She sipped at the warm milk, sweetened with rich honey, while she soaked. When the mug was empty, she set it to the side. The bubbles smelled of lavender and some other scent she couldn't place, but when she breathed in and out again, she felt the tension that had been such a constant companion finally begin to dissipate.

Lazily, she stretched out her legs until her toes peeked out from the bubbles at the other end of the tub. She wiggled them.

Over. It's finally over. The words chased each other around and around her head, but the longer they circled, the more she became aware of how untrue they were. It was only over for the moment. Just like every other crisis had to end at some point. But the larger picture loomed before Amelle, brighter and more horrible every time she closed her eyes. There would be more Jessamines, more Ser Alriks, more Merediths. It wasn't over, not by a long shot. There would be more — there would always be more.

But it was over for now. And that would have to be enough.

She sank further into the bath.

And now her sister was going to be Princess of Starkhaven. Now talk of an Exalted March wasn't just a silly children's game, but a reality — a reality with consequences and repercussions.

And though she was no more, Jessamine's words had been spoken and could not be taken back. The dead woman had already proven a leader—even a co-leader—with an apostate mage for a sister was a political mess waiting to happen. Kiara's loyalties would be called into question. Starkhaven and its people would come under the scrutiny of the Divine and her forces. Amelle's stomach twisted at the thought. No matter how badly she wanted to stay with her sister, she wouldn't put Kiara in danger. Not if she could help it.

Maybe Papa had the right idea, she mused, dragging her fingers through the suds, then flicking them away. A quiet life. A farm, maybe. Somewhere a mage could go without notice. I could keep chickens. She wrinkled her nose. No, not chickens. Sheep, maybe.

She thought of her clinic — it was her clinic now; it hadn't felt like Anders' space for some time — and felt a flicker of sadness. Perhaps she could return to Kirkwall. Poor Cupcake had to be beside himself with worry by now, to say nothing of Orana, Maker's balls. And Aveline and Donnic. Merrill.

She had a life in Kirkwall. It wasn't much, but it was hers. And Kiara had a life… somewhere not in Kirkwall.

Amelle swallowed hard. She'd never been separated from her sister before. Not like this, anyway.

It'll be good for us, she thought, not believing a word of it as a frown marred her forehead. Distance can be good. You can be too close. And it wasn't as if Kiara would be alone in Starkhaven. She was going to have a husband, for starters. And she'd have Tasia. And Corwin. And Kinnon. Kiara would paste together another crazy-quilt of a family—she'd be okay.

She won't be okay without her rabbit.

Amelle grimaced at the unhelpful voice in the back of her head. Nothing as insidious as a demon, it was just her own bloody conscience, which at that moment sounded entirely too like her future brother in-law. Damn and double damn.

She pushed the thought aside. Hard.

There was also the matter of Cullen to figure out. The noble idiot was probably going to go back to the city and accept whatever punishment a templar could expect for deserting his post in aid of an apostate. She wasn't quite sure what she could do, but she couldn't let him face the Order alone. So, yes. Kirkwall for a time, and then… somewhere else.

Somewhere else can be home too, rabbit. It's not the place, it's those you share it with.

Home had always been where Kiara was. And now Kiara would be in Starkhaven, and Amelle… was not sure she'd be welcome in Starkhaven, wasn't sure if it could be her home. Not in any real sort of way. Besides, the Revered Mother already knew about her, and—no. No, there was nothing for it. She couldn't stay.

Amelle twisted around in the tub and peered over the rim. The washroom door was open just a crack, and she spied a small blur as Spero raced across the floor, bounding after… something. Then she ran back. And then she bounded in the opposite direction yet again and Amelle watched this for nearly a full minute before she realized what Spero was doing.

Maker's breath, Fenris is teaching the kitten to fetch.

Her heart clenched, suddenly feeling too tight, too full, and it took a moment for Amelle to catch her breath. She twisted back around again and closed her eyes, trying to imagine a future with Fenris.

It was harder to imagine a future without him.

#

Kiara was raising her hand to knock a third time—and Sebastian was preparing to insist they go back to the palace at once—when the fiddle music coming from within stopped abruptly. The piper still played, and the drum grew even more exuberant and erratic. Kiara dropped her hand and grinned over her shoulder at him.

He couldn't even find it in himself to smile back. The door opened, and the warm light from within blinded him.

"Andraste's tits," swore a voice Sebastian vaguely recognized. "My lady—Kiara—oh, Maker's balls, that's—"

A woman from within cried indignantly, "There are children present, love. Mind your language."

"Annie, the bloody pr—"

"Joff! Children. Language."

Kiara said smoothly, "We heard the music and thought we might stop in for a moment, if you'll have us."

As his blindness faded, Sebastian saw the gaping face and recognized the man as Kiara's chosen witness to the execution. Joff blinked at him, his eyes impossibly wide. A moment later, the banging drum from within ended and a child with her father's mousy hair poked her head out from behind Joff's legs, clinging tight. She couldn't have been much older than six or seven. For some reason it made Sebastian sad thinking the girl had never known a good prince. "Papa?" she asked. "Who's at the door?"

"I'm Kiara. This is Sebastian. We're friends of your father's. Was that you playing the drum just now?"

The little girl nodded, eyebrows still lowered and expression still unsure. She seemed doubly uncertain when she saw him. "Your eyes are really blue," she accused, as if this indicated something terribly wrong with him.

A moment later Joff shook his head and reached down to lift his daughter into his arms. Then he stepped back into the house and said, "You are welcome, of course. Your—"

"None of that, Joff," Kiara said with a smile and a dismissive wave. "We've had this conversation."

"But he's—"

"Sebastian," Sebastian said simply, following Kiara's lead and entering the little house behind her.

"Oh," gasped the woman when she saw them, her cheeks blushing a brighter red even than her hair. The little tinwhistle she was holding dropped to the ground in a clatter. "Oh. Oh, Our Lady's dimpled arsecheeks. Oh, Maker. This isn't happening."

"Mama?" asked another child, younger than the first, perhaps four or five, looking up from the toy pony he held in his lap. "What's arsecheek?"

"Mama?" echoed the girl Joff held, "What's a dimple?"

And Sebastian couldn't restrain himself. He laughed. He laughed, and it felt like life.

Annie, cheeks still burning, put a hand to her mouth. Her hazel eyes were wider even than her husband's. After a moment, she coughed and found her voice, though it was weak, and her expression still bordered on the unhinged. "P-please, come in. Maker's breath, Maker's breath, Maker's breath! Can I—can we—I've tea. Or… or ale. I've some ale. And bread? Joff, get them some bread."

Kiara's smile didn't fade. "Annie, is it? I've heard so much about you, Annie. Please, don't trouble yourself on our account. We were merely in the neighborhood—"

Sebastian thought it was to his credit that he didn't scoff outright. The tiny snort of laughter that did escape was so quiet only Kiara seemed to hear it, and she shot him a mock-solemn look in response. Two more children came to greet them—the eldest, a lad of ten or so, holding a toddler in his arms. He crossed the room fearlessly, and gazed up at them. "Are those bows?" he asked. "I never saw a nice bow like that before. Can I hold it?"

Annie squeaked. "Lorren, mind yourself. Don't you know who—"

Sebastian unhooked the bow and held it out toward the boy. Lorren didn't simply drop his sister, though he half looked like he wanted to. Kiara rescued him by offering to take the little girl herself. Lorren gave her a look of such pure, unadulterated adoration Sebastian found himself smiling again. The boy took the bow and ran reverent fingers over it.

"Maker," whispered Annie, gazing at her husband. "She's holding my baby. The future prin—"

"Ahh," Kiara interjected. "I've already told your husband I want none of that. Kiara's fine. Won't you introduce your family, Joff?"

"Annie," he whispered. "Annie's my wife. And Lorren's the eldest… but you… you gathered that, I'm sure."

"Da," said Lorren with a grimace, "you're weird." The lad glanced up long enough from the bow to say, "It seems like you already know my da. My mum's Annie. The littlest one is Rose, 'cause that's Mum's favorite flower. We call her Rosie. Or Rosie Posie. The next oldest is my brother—" Here he gestured to the boy with the toy horse, "His name is Lachlan. You know, after the old prince. Sometimes Mum calls him Lorren and me Lachlan, maybe 'cause they both start with the same letter. We always laugh when she does. My other sister is Annabeth, like Mum, so we don't call her Annie. We call her Beth. Or Bethy. It's kind of confusing, but that's what we do. She's the one was playing the drum. She's pretty bad at it."

"Lor!" cried Bethy, indignant. A moment later she squirmed out of her father's arms and marched over to her brother. "Mama says I'm good."

"Maybe you could show us?" Sebastian asked politely, crouching down to eye level. The little girl looked unsure again, but a glance at her fearless brother bolstered her.

"'Kay," she said.

"I can play the pipe," Lorren declared. "But only Da can do the fiddle. I'm gonna learn, but it's hard."

"It is," Sebastian agreed. "It takes a lot of practice. Like shooting a bow."

The boy gave him a considering, shrewd look. "D'you know the fiddle, then? You could play Da's if you wanted," Lorren offered boldly. "Then Bethy can do drums and I'll do the pipe. Do you want to?"

Sebastian felt weight dropping from him as he smiled. "If your father doesn't mind."

"Mind?" the boy asked, baffled. "It's Da." Then, with a last longing glance, Lorren handed the bow back to Sebastian and dashed across the room to collect the various instruments.

"You play the fiddle?" Kiara asked, her eyes widening in surprise. Rosie giggled in her arms, playing with the shiny clasp of her cloak. "Really?"

"There's a great deal you have yet to learn about me, love," he remarked mildly, accepting the instrument Lorren offered. It was old, certainly, likely having been passed down for several generations, but it had obviously been well loved and meticulously cared for. Raising it to his shoulder, he drew the bow across the strings, feeling out the instrument. When he started playing a well-known folk song, Lorren and Bethy followed along with the enthusiasm only children could bring to music. Little Lachlan joined in by banging his toy pony on the floor in oddly-musical counterpoint. Kiara danced with the toddler, spinning in lazy circles to make the child laugh.

When he finished the first song, Kiara waltzed close enough to press a kiss to his jaw and whisper, "This, Sebastian. This is what it's all for. This right here. This is what you're fighting for. These are the people you're protecting."

He turned his head and returned her kiss. "Thank you," he returned just as softly.

"More!" cried Rosie, throwing her chubby arms into the air. Annie and Joff exchanged a scandalized—fond, but scandalized—look. "More, more!"

"Well, go on then," Kiara said with feigned seriousness. "You heard the girl."

Sebastian smiled, and played on.

#

The fire crackled in the hearth, but it barely masked the soft sounds of water splashing from the other room. Fenris sat in the chair by the fire, resolutely ignoring the sounds and trying to ignore the scent of perfumed bubbles. He was having limited success.

Going to wash my back?

The next time Hawke made any helpful recommendations, he was going to think them through more carefully. This one had surely backfired.

Grimacing, he tossed the wadded-up piece of parchment across the room again, and again Spero dashed off in clumsy pursuit, pouncing upon the ball and wrestling it into submission before taking a piece of it up in her mouth — the whole of it nearly the size of her head — and trotting back to him in wobbly triumph. He shook his head and threw the ball again, and, not yet tired of the game, off Spero scrambled off after it.

"Maker," said a voice behind him, "I thought you were teaching it—"

"Her," he supplied.

"Beg pardon?"

He turned to find Amelle standing in the open doorway. "Spero is…" But the words trailed off into nothing, not unlike his train of thought. Amelle was swathed in a thick dressing-gown, her cheeks flushed pink from the bath and her hair damp and tousled. Indeed, she looked much improved, but fatigue still lurked around her eyes, in the line of her mouth. They were marks that would only fade with time, but it still troubled Fenris to see them upon Amelle's face.

"Spero is…?" she prompted, lips quirking into an amused smile.

"Female," he finished as his thoughts returned to him with a jolt. "Spero is female."

"Well, that's one mystery solved," she said, turning her smile to the kitten ambling across the floor. "Like I said, I thought you were teaching her, but I wonder if that's accurate anymore."

"I taught her the game," he replied reasonably, as Spero scrabbled her way into his lap and dropped the ball of paper. He threw it and she scrambled down again. "She is… merely teaching me how much she enjoys it."

"I think it's darling." In the face of his frown, Amelle laughed and came closer, leaning over the back of the chair to grin down at him. "I suppose you're going to tell me it most certainly is not 'darling' and it is instead a deadly skill."

"Spero is a hunter. A gifted one," he said, waving a hand at the kitten, lowered into a crouch, stalking her paper-prey. She jumped, batting it with her paws and scrambled clumsily across the floor as she battled with the ball. He looked up at Amelle, into her still-laughing eyes. "Do you not see?"

"Ah, such a proud papa."

"Hmph," he replied, but without heat. That came when he noticed the neck of Amelle's dressing gown had slid open a fraction. The urge to reach up, to tug at the sash that held the robe closed, to push the fabric aside completely, to touch the skin beneath, still warm and damp from the bath, to fix his mouth upon—

Fenris shook his head violently to clear it. "You need proper clothes."

Amelle's only reply was a graceful arch of her eyebrow. "Oh, do I?"

Fenris was already on his feet, halfway to the wardrobe. His hands found the tunic before he'd even remembered where he'd put it. It was the very same garment that he'd loaned her before — it still smelled of her, faintly. "Here," he said roughly, shoving the folded tunic and a pair of leggings into her hands.

She looked down at the garments and smiled a little. "I imagine you'll turn your back for this?"

He did, but for far different reasons than he had the first time she wore his clothes.

After several long minutes filled with nothing but the sounds of her shedding the robe and pulling on the clothing, Amelle came up behind him and brushed her fingers against the nape of his neck. Fenris shivered as those fingers then slid into his hair, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as her short nails scratched lightly across his scalp and continued carding through his hair.

He turned. The leggings were every bit as snug as he remembered and he found his eyes lingering on the gentle swell of Amelle's hip and curve of her backside.

"Nice?" she asked.

"Very."

Smiling faintly, Amelle let her hand drop and Fenris returned to his chair, looking up at her, admiring her form against the firelight. Amelle favored dresses and always had, but this suited her as well, for all the tunic was still too large, the neck of it still sliding down one shoulder.

She moved around as if to sit in the chair opposite his, but before she could sit, Fenris reached out, closing his hand around her slender wrist and tugging her down onto his lap. But he hadn't been quite prepared for the softness that landed and settled against him, to say nothing of the scent of lightly perfumed soap clinging to her skin like a whisper conspiring to assail his senses in the best way possible. Unprepared, yes; displeased, not in the least.

Amelle didn't resist, didn't pull away, didn't chide him for being silly — as he'd half-feared she might. Instead, she relaxed against him, going almost boneless, letting out a sigh and tucking her still-damp head against the side of his neck, murmuring contently as he put both arms around her and pulled her even closer. Lazily, he fixed the neck of the tunic and Amelle sighed as his fingertips brushed against her skin.

"I feel better," she said as she closed her eyes, and Fenris wondered whether it was the bath she was referring to.

"You still look tired."

"I'm better," she insisted. "I think I might have even dozed off in the bath."

"Unwise, if you had."

"Hmm. Maybe." A pause, a breath. "Fenris, how do you feel about sheep?"

Fenris struggled a moment to follow Amelle's train of thought, but came up empty. "I have… little opinion on sheep one way or another. They are… useful beasts, I suppose?"

"Would you want to raise them?" His silence stretched out long enough that Amelle blinked her eyes open. "…Fenris?"

He looked at her for a long moment, but saw no jest in her eyes. "Why are we discussing sheep, Amelle?"

She sighed. "I'm trying to figure out what to do next."

A beat of silence as he continued to look at her. "I dare not ask how sheep worked into the equation."

The look she sent him was one of mild consternation. "Papa knew a quiet life meant a better chance to go without being noticed," she explained. "A war is coming, Fenris. And I don't think—I-I'm not sure I should be anywhere near here when it does. It… it's not fair to Kiara. And… I'm not a child; I can't hide behind my sister anymore. It might be time to find my own quiet life."

Fenris' own frown deepened. "You are planning on leaving Starkhaven."

She made a face and looked away. "It's… crossed my mind," she said quietly. "I don't really see how I can stay. The Revered Mother already knows about me, and Maker only knows what her plans are in that regard. No matter what else, I'm still an apostate mage. Starkhaven hasn't got a Circle, which likely means she's figuring out where she can send me, or… or I don't know what." She stopped and took a deep, resigned breath, blowing it out. "And we can hardly forget the Divine and her armies of templars with their pointy sticks and glowing lights who might or might not be on their way. So I thought… a quiet life, not so bad."

"With… sheep."

"Right." She hesitated, and Fenris saw something more than hesitation in her eyes. "And so I… thought I'd see how you felt about it," she said, cautiously. "A quiet life. Sheep optional."

He ran his fingers through her side-swept bangs. "You will be there."

"Well… yes."

"Then I will as well." Color crept up to her cheeks as he said, "Amelle Hawke, there are few places you can go that I will not follow. If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side."

She blinked and the hesitation vanished, replaced by realization and affection. "O-oh."

"For as long as you wish it."

A longer pause this time. "…Oh."

The crackling of the fire seemed suddenly too loud for the room. Spero, who had retrieved the ball and was losing patience that it had not been thrown again, gave them both an annoyed mew. Starting slightly, Amelle leaned down and picked up the ball of paper, throwing it again, watching Spero studiously as she scampered after it.

"…Unless you don't—"

"Finish that sentence, elf, and I'll zap you."

"I see."

"Of course I want you to come with me. I just…" She ducked her head with a rueful chuckle and looked up at him from behind the fall of her hair. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to. I mean, you know. Sheep. It's not going to be exciting."

"You'll be there." He took her hand and kissed the palm. "The accidental fires alone will be exciting enough."

"Did you just make a joke, Fenris?"

"Certainly not." But his smile was fond.