A/N: Big chapter this month!
I'm back in the states for a few weeks, so my writing schedule might be a bit off. But that doesn't stop the ideas from coming. =)
Hawke donned a thick blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders as she pushed open the door to the parapet beside her rooms. It was the roof of the lower floor, edged with a waist-high stone wall and absent of sentries in the chilly morning air. Birdsong accompanied the half-risen sun as beams of light warmed the air, the city below beginning to stir.
Habit had led her into her armor and weapons as soon as she woke and with their security, she felt somehow more prepared to take on whatever challenges the day might bring. She'd grabbed the woven fabric from a bench by the door at seeing a familiar form standing out in the sun, and a smile warmed her face as he turned to greet her.
She wasn't sure when she had begun to seek him out for no other reason than to see his face. Back in Kirkwall, there were times when she'd relied on his kindness and stability to push her through the harder days, but the urge was coming to her more and more often as of late.
It didn't help that it was easy to indulge; he was always close at hand.
She leaned against the wall next to him, shivering at the cool touch of stone. "You went to bed after I did and woke before I did, too. How does that work, exactly?"
He offered her a tired smile, and the reddish orange tones that painted the world at dawn spilled across his shoulders as he moved.
"I had difficulty sleeping," he admitted, turning to stare out at the daybreak routines of the people of Starkhaven. "Too many questions. And no thought of thousands an answer."
Hawke wasn't surprised. She'd have been more concerned if the pressure of so many lives wasn't weighing down on the prince's shoulders. He would have many such moments, she knew, even after taking the throne. And many sleepless nights.
She knew the feeling.
Raising a hand to shield her eyes from the rising sun, she smirked a little, trying to cheer him.
"Look on the bright side. At least you're not inheriting Kirkwall, for Andraste's sake."
He chuckled, raising his head a bit. "Thank the Maker."
"Can you imagine? You'd have to exterminate a dragon or take down a carta every other week."
She watched as his smile flickered and faded, concern taking its place. "In truth," he told her after a moment, "I have often wondered if I am dooming that city by asking what I am of you."
"Hey," she said, planting her hands firmly on his shoulders, "Kirkwall was falling apart before either of us even set foot in it. And it's taken me a long time to accept that I can't save that place, only the people in it that I care about. Varric, Aveline, Fenris, Bethany, Bodahn, you..." She caught his eyes with hers. "If something happens, I'll save them, but I'm not sacrificing myself for that place. Not any more."
Her shoulder pressed into his as she turned to face the noble quarter alongside him. "I've made my choice. I'm moving on before Kirkwall and all of its problems suck my soul right out of my body." Palms tightening around the stone in front of her, her features and tone were determined. "My place is here now, in Starkhaven. And I'll fight for this city's future, because it has one."
She felt his stare, and she turned to see the future prince beaming down at her like she was the face of Andraste herself.
After a moment, his eyes caught light, and he took a step back, rifling through one of his pouches. "That reminds me," he said, "these arrived yesterday. I hadn't yet thought to ask for your approval."
Curious, Hawke watched his nimble fingers dig around until they triggered a kind of chiming sound, then emerged delicately tangled in a length of blue-gray silk ribbon. When he uncurled his fingers, a bound-together pair of silver rings rolled into his palm.
Wedding bands, she realized. Something tightened around her heart as she saw him pick them up gently, holding them out for her inspection.
"I purchased them a few days ago," Sebastian explained in his soft brogue as she took them gingerly. "They are traditional Starkhaven bands – simple, but unique in the way they interlock."
Sure enough, if she turned them just so, a few sculpted grooves aligned to perfectly hold together. As she looked closely, she saw markings on the inside, and held them up closer to get a better look.
"They're engraved?"
"Aye."
The larger of the two had 'SV&MH' in large, ornate letters, and on either side were a second set of initials: 'MV' and 'TV.'
"Who are – "
"My parents," he told her. "Meghan and Thomas. Another custom of my people."
A thought struck her, and she switched to the smaller band, straining to read the inscription.
Sure enough, other than the scrolling 'SV&MH,' she saw 'LA' and, to her surprise, an unmistakable second 'MH' beside it.
"Malcolm," she breathed, turning to him. Voice hoarse with undisguised disbelief, she managed a feeble "You remembered – you even know my father's name?"
Sebastian looked deservedly self-satisfied as he leaned an arm against the ramparts. "Of course."
Of course, she thought to herself. Of course, he says.
Mairead, don't you dare fucking cry.
Without really understanding why, Hawke launched herself into his arms, suddenly desperate for the taste of his mouth and the archer's familiar smell of rabbit's fur and doeskin leather. He welcomed her into his chest, bending at the waist with a soft chuckle and a gloved palm snaking over her jawline.
This kiss wasn't like the others they'd shared. Not clumsy and frantic, nor nervous and tentative. The way she completely fell against him and he firmly held her close brought emotions to the surface that she had long since dismissed, tossed aside as circumstantial and fleeting. They were back with a vengeance now, as she briefly opened herself up to him fully for the first time and he reciprocated in that honest, soul-baring way of his. It was slow, it was warm, and it was powerful.
And it made Hawke's chest hurt.
Her lips left his as she sank down from her toes, limbs still committed to his. She felt a contented sigh escape from the depths of his chest from her position against it, cheek pressed into the smooth chill of white armor as her hot breath left a trailing mist over its surface. The intimacy was overwhelming, and despite the comfort of his body, she had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, off somehow. Panic stirred in her veins, and her heart followed suit.
Then she heard him say the words.
Her blood flushed ice-cold as she turned up to him abruptly, not trusting – or wanting to trust - her ears. "What did you just say?"
His face. Oh, Maker, having an expression like that wasn't fair.
"I love you," he repeated slowly, quietly. "If you were not yet aware."
A dizzying fog started to roll into the edges of her vision, and Hawke shook her head in an attempt to clear it. "I... wasn't, no."
"Shall I make it clearer, then?" He brought his arms around her even tighter, and she tensed as he spoke, willing herself to stay despite the voice screaming in her head.
Run, it said. Run. Run. Get out, go. Don't let him do this. Go. Run! Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
"I am yours," Sebastian continued, "with every fiber of my being. Every thought, every movement, everything I am as a man, as a brother of the faith, as a prince."
With every word, the Champion's stomach churned. This wasn't happening. He didn't understand – this couldn't be happening.
She braced her palms against the polished white plate, pushing back and nearly out of his reach. "But," she protested, "love is such a strong, diverse word, maybe you – "
He raised an eyebrow at that, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. "It seems I have surprised you twice today, and the sun hasn't even fully risen."
Hawke wrung her hands, distraught. "How can you be so sure?"
"How can I not be?" He frowned, advancing on her as she subconsciously took a stumbling step back. "What possible reason could you have," he asked carefully, "to doubt my sincerity? My past? My inexperience? My life in the chantry?"
"It's not your sincerity," she said, pressing her palms into her temples. "I just –" She looked up at him with eyes pleading him to somehow magically rethink his words. "A fortnight's not long enough to fall in love with someone, Sebastian."
His face changed from confusion to despair to frustration, the openness of his emotions a testament to how truly unexpected a development this was for the prince. Hawke wondered how he had pictured this going, if he had at all.
"Not to fall in love, no," he answered, "but it is enough to open a man's heart."
"Open a – !"
He interrupted her then, anger carved into his features. "You have never backed down when challenging anything I held true. In all the years that I have known you, not once. Being with you has changed me, Hawke. This is another change that you have wrought." His expression softened, and he reached for her. "And it is perhaps the first one that I don't intend to fight."
She flinched away from his touch, and he wasn't fast enough to hide the look of pain that shot across him before he steeled it away into his growing frustration.
"Why now?" he snapped. "Why run from this?"
Hawke felt a pang of guilt at the small burst of relief that his raised voice had granted her. His quick temper, that she could deal with.
"A man you claim to respect and care for has just confessed himself to be in love with you," he continued in low, controlled tones. "And you refuse to even accept it?" She didn't answer, and his fist struck the stone at his side. "Maker's breath, Hawke. I know what I feel, and I won't be denied my own emotions!"
He turned away for a moment, jaw clenched as he stared down at the courtyard. "What did the Arishok say," he said coldly, bitterly, "that gave you so much confidence in his affection for you?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Mairead could see that he regretted them. And they were getting to the point where they were both saying things they'd regret.
Hawke had a lot she didn't want to say like this.
"Not another word," she begged as she backed away, "please."
It might not have been the most courageous thing to do, but it was the only thing in her head that made sense.
So she ran for the doors, bolting away from the nausea and the vulnerability and the guilt.
He should have kept his huge, foolish, impatient mouth shut. Or claimed that his thick accent had marred the words from something innocuous and assuredly not an impromptu declaration of love.
Hawke had been gone for most of the day now, leaving Sebastian hours upon hours to stew in self-pity and torment and nearly wear a hole in the study's rug with his pacing.
He'd gone over it dozens, if not hundreds of times in his head, reliving every second in vivid detail. The moment she stepped onto the parapet. The way she spoke about Starkhaven with passion and promise. The kiss, that moment of tenderness and unexpected honesty that rivaled the Maker's light in its blinding strength. And then the one phrase that had pulled it all to a screeching halt.
Stupid, stupid man.
He hadn't been expecting bells or a flock of doves, but he had thought that she would react with a smile, an embrace, perhaps even a sarcastic remark or two – anything but fear. The look on her face would haunt the prince for as long as he lived.
He shouldn't have reacted with anger, he thought as he sat in a chair in front of the fire. But what could she have expected him to do, after the way she tried so desperately to dismiss it? There was only so much a man could take.
And then she'd turned from him and run, to Maker-only-knew-where.
It was a very Hawke thing to do, he understood. However, the Sebastian thing to do was find her and insist on speaking his mind and hearing hers. Even if it meant she'd break a few of his bones in the process.
Resolute, he stood and fetched his bow.
"You're going out?"
Aeryn leaned against the manor's entryway, watching Sebastian pull a hooded cloak about his shoulders.
"To find Hawke," he answered, locking the clasp in place. "She's been gone since early morn."
"Maybe she wants to be left alone."
He smiled weakly. "And I would grant her that, but for the fact that she cannot be alone if we are now targets. It is dangerous. I should be the one to bring her back."
The Bann's daughter wrapped her arms around herself as she straightened. "She's Hawke," she said, "she'll be fine. She won't go anywhere that puts her at risk."
She turned to leave, but the archer caught her wrist. As she turned, his expression was grave.
"You know where she is," he said slowly, "don't you?"
"I – "
"Aeryn."
She sighed, rubbing her wrist as he released it. "She's going to murder me for this."
Just once, Hawke would love to see a statue of Andraste laughing or making an obscene hand gesture instead of the solemn and dispassionate glare that her likenesses almost universally sported.
She stared up at the huge stone goddess in the Starkhaven chantry, the cavernous and polished cathedral just as bright as she'd have imagined it. Leaning her head against the back of the pew, she admired the painted ceiling lined with intricately carved gold moldings. Stained glass, a hundred thousand candles, and the faint sound of the Chant echoing off of a distant corridor all contributed to an overwhelming sense of piety.
And she'd thought the Kirkwall Chantry was bad.
After a moment, she sighed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees and the leather of her armor creaking with every movement. Her pew was smack dab in the middle of the room, out in the open, which left her less vulnerable to an attack but far more subject to the judgment of passersby.
She'd been here for hours. The sisters had begun to talk.
Let them say what they want, she thought as she rolled her thumbs together idly. This was, oddly enough, the place she'd ultimately come to to clear her head. And there were a lot of things to purge.
She didn't look up at the gentle clack of a familiar bow being laid against the wood, nor at the rustling sound of mail and armor as its owner sat beside her.
"I was wondering when you'd find me."
"Forced it out of Aeryn, I'm afraid." He paused. "Though I will admit, I wasn't sure if I believed her at first."
Hawke snickered faintly. "Understandable."
"Of all places," he asked, sounding genuinely curious, "why the Chantry? You've never been particularly devout."
She rested her chin on one hand, still not turning to look at him. "Thought it only polite to apologize to the Maker for corrupting one of His faithful away from the brotherhood."
Sebastian hesitated, and she saw his hand lift to touch hers out of her peripheral vision. He apparently thought better of it, though, and replaced it on his own thigh.
"I forfeited my vows when I swore to avenge my family's murder," he explained, "before we even met. And I chose the path I walk of my own free will. You are blameless."
"I wouldn't say that. I'm helping."
"So you've spent an entire afternoon and evening... speaking to the Maker?" He sounded equally dubious and impressed.
"Not exactly." She gestured to the enormous gilded arch that housed the larger-than-life statue of the Maker's bride. "I needed to think, so I can appreciate the quiet here. And the confessional booths are conveniently located along both walls."
The disbelief in his voice bordered on amusement. "You, Hawke, confessing? What for?"
"Oh, you know." She smiled dryly. "Lying, theft, murder..."
He chuckled a little. "No wonder you were here all day."
Hawke turned at the sound, and wished she hadn't. He was wearing a tentative smile, trying desperately to reassure her, make things like they were between them before what had passed that morning. She couldn't help but let a small, strangled laugh escape at their shared idiocy and the way his attempt had only made what she needed to say that much worse.
Looking back up at Andraste, she swore under her breath and shook her head. He was making this so damned hard. She pressed her hands together and leaned into them, covering her nose and mouth as she inhaled deeply.
"I killed Jacob MacPhain."
The uncomfortable creak of armor.
"He was killed by a fire."
"I set it."
And then there was silence. She slid her hands between her knees, running her fingers over her knuckles nervously and focusing her eyes on the grain of the wood in the pew before her.
"Why?" He didn't sound angry. He was still processing, which was almost worse. She'd been optimistic when she'd hoped for anger.
"He meant you harm," she said softly. "And if there was even a chance he'd keep coming after you, ruin the chances for you and Starkhaven..."
She trailed off, unsure of what else to say at that point. Instead, she let the air hang around them in a sort of soundless limbo as Sebastian sat unmoving and not at all indicative of his reaction to this new piece of information. It was some time before he broke the quiet, albeit only briefly.
"Anything else?"
"No."
Back to silence, and the anticipation was torturous. He'd slowly and considerately unfolded and refolded his hands at one point in the few long minutes since they'd last spoken, but the motion itself belied no emotion or obvious thought, just that he was lost in his own mind. Hawke knew that she should just sit and wait and perhaps pray (that might've been the smart, appropriate option), but she had never been much of a patient woman. And though it was unfair to not give him ten minutes when he'd given her ten hours, she couldn't stop her mouth from opening.
"I've killed a lot of people."
"And you feel this excuses you?"
No. Yes? No. She shook her head, rolling her shoulders back and sitting more upright. "I wanted to protect you, keep your hands clean."
"I appreciate that, but it justifies nothing." He spoke in short, tense tones, his quiet outrage bubbling at the surface of his controlled veneer. "I am the Prince of Starkhaven, and I will not be kept in the dark about what goes on in my lands, nor those that act for me without my consent. Not even by you. Especially not by you. Am I understood?"
"Yes, highness."
It was as simple as that. She had said it unironically, not a note of sarcasm in her voice. It was an acknowledging gesture, a chance for him to put distance between the relationship he had with her as a prince of the realm and as a friend. To her surprise, and relief, he took it.
"You take far too much upon yourself, Hawke." His stiff posture broke and he leaned back, staring up at Andraste's neutral face. "You always have. And more so than my position," he continued, "more so than the honesty, I want you to understand..." His voice gentled as he trailed off.
"You don't have to do that any longer. Not with me."
Hawke's throat tightened. Even as her stomach begged him not to continue, she fought the urge to reach up and physically cover his mouth before he brought her to tears in front of what suddenly seemed to be an awful lot of people. He needed to speak and she needed to listen, candle smoke in her eyes be damned.
"You are not a terrible secret," the prince said slowly. "Nor are you a tool, a means to an end to be used and hidden in the blood-covered shadows in order that those in power keep their own hands clean. You are treasured, as you should be." Features resolute, he set his jaw. "I will not allow Starkhaven to use you as Kirkwall has. I swear it, on my family and my title and my faith."
After a moment, he sighed and glanced down to his gloved fingers. "I also must apologize."
She frowned, turning to see his face. "For what?"
"This morning." He paused, searching for the words. "It was too sudden."
Hawke pressed her lips between her teeth. "It was."
Curious, he turned to face her fully for the first time since entering the cathedral. "If I may ask, why did you run?"
And here we come to the main show of the evening, she thought bitterly, knowing it would have happened eventually. In hindsight, it might have been wise to prepare a speech or trigger a small disaster to buy more time. She hadn't, however, and instead allowed her thoughts to tumble unchecked from her mouth."I didn't know what else to do," she admitted. "I'm not the best at dealing with things that involve my own emotions, if you haven't noticed." He waited expectantly for further explanation, and she kept talking. She owed him that much.
"It was a lot of guilt," she continued. "Guilt from the lie, guilt from taking you from the chantry, guilt for giving in to a lot of my own insecurities." As that last phrase passed her lips, she made the quick, ripping-off-a-bandage decision to answer his question ten hours after it was asked. "The Arishok never told me he loved me."
Sebastian flinched at that, looking pained. "You don't have to – "
"But you're curious, right?"
He hesitated. "It would be a lie to say I wasn't."
"It's all right." She braced her feet against the back of the previous pew, and he didn't scold her. "He never said it outright, just treated me as an equal. And I don't know if that kind of love is the same as a human's, or even love at all by some definitions. But it was what we had, and we both just... understood it." She shifted uncomfortably under the archer's unwavering gaze, but decided to go for broke anyway, sharing what was on her mind as the thoughts occurred to her. "Maybe we can never love two people the same way," she mused. "I mean, my relationship with the Arishok was unique, not just in the..." she struggled for the word, "strangeness of it, but because of the people we are. My relationship with you will be similarly full of stumbling blocks in that way, I think."
She saw him visibly react to the word 'relationship,' as though it held some meaning that required explanation. His hand very slowly came to rest on the back of the seat, and she could hear the intake of breath as he considered his next words.
"Do you think," he met her eyes, "that there is a chance? One day, perhaps, with time."
She didn't have to ask; she understood. "The seeds are there," she confessed honestly, "I think. I mean, there are signs, and the things I feel, but it's still too soon to say."
Ah, silence. The greatest herald of suffering.
He turned away after a short while, face unreadable. "Thank you for your honesty."
"I couldn't lie about something like that. I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Don't be." He turned back to her, and the Champion was taken aback to see a weary smile on his face. "You've given me hope, Hawke. I had none left after this morning."
She caught his gaze meaningfully. "I can't ask you to wait for me."
"You don't have to ask."
"But..."
"We will be married, won't we?" A glint sparked in his eyes as a measure of his usual optimism returned. "I've years to charm you to the point of utter adoration."
His smugness was infectious, and Hawke found herself smiling back despite herself. "Then I'll be waiting to see what you come up with."
"I forsee a lot of rabbit stew in the near future."
"A very respectable start."
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers into his and feeling the warm leather press into her skin as he squeezed tightly. As she leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder, Sebastian turned to kiss the top of her hair, only to be nearly headbutted as she bolted upright when a certain thought struck her.
"Hey," she said brightly, oblivious to the near miss, "If you love me, does this mean we can have sex now?"
He laughed, the sound warm and blissfully free of the tension that had accumulated over the day. "No."
"Are you sure? Because I could just go ask the Grand Cleric, she's right over there –"
He pulled her back down as she moved to stand, still smiling. "My vows are between myself and the Maker," he explained patiently, thick accent rolling smoothly over the words. "Please don't harass the clergy."
She sat back down obediently, struck with the sudden urge to catch that smile of his with her mouth. A wicked idea occurred to her, and she tightened her fingers around his. "Sebastian."
"Yes, mo gràidh?"
"Kiss me."
"What?" He blinked in disbelief. "Here? In the chantry?"
"Yes."
"In front of Andraste," he said, gesturing to the giant statue of the Maker's divine bride.
"In front of Andraste," Hawke confirmed.
He hesitated. "But I am yet a brother of the chantry, and for a sworn brother to flagrantly disobey holy vows in a place of worship is beyond unacceptable. I could never – "
"We'll be married soon enough," she countered. "Unless that declaration you made just now was only for show?"
She smirked as she watched the archer waver, his obvious discomfort with the very idea of such a thing vastly entertaining to his ever-so-patient future bride. He cast glances around the hall, gaze occasionally hovering over Hawke's face as he weighed his options before finally looking one last time up at Andraste's stone face apologetically.
And with that, he pressed a nervous, quick, chaste kiss to the Champion's lips. He moved to pull away, but she wasn't going to let him get off that easily. Her hands caught his face and kept him just where he was, pressing herself tighter against him and opening her mouth against his. He stiffened at first, though Hawke snickered just a bit when his arms came up around her and he sighed in defeat.
As they parted, the disapproving whispers of the sisters were audible, even from across the pews. Their muttering and pointed glares brought a certain kind of cheer to Hawke's heart, especially at her betrothed's mortification.
"Maker, woman," Sebastian breathed, "you will be my ruin."
She beamed proudly. "You were the one who said that the Champion of Kirkwall shouldn't be so easily won."
"Aye, so I did. Though I hadn't considered acts of sacrilege as a particularly common wooing technique."
Snorting, Hawke bit her lip. "Clearly you haven't read Varric's stories. You'd never look at a confessional booth the same way again."
"Sadly, he is not the first to have such ideas."
She laughed in disbelief at the expression on his face. "You must be joking."
"It was a daily duty to check them for amorous couples," he told her, the memory evoking an exasperated sigh. "I became quite accustomed to giving that particular lecture."
At the idea of Sebastian sitting down a pair of randy teenagers and giving them a stern talking-to about the sanctity of the chantry and the values of abstinence, Hawke lost her composure and dissolved into peals of laughter. He tried to shush her, but only ended up with a broad smile across his face.
As she calmed down into hiccups, she felt his callused thumbs wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes gently. She let him, murmuring "too funny" as his fingertips traced across her cheeks.
He chuckled. "In hindsight, perhaps. As are many things." His palms lingered on her shoulders, and she scanned his features, committing every inch to memory.
This is the face of a man who truly cares for you, she told herself firmly. You can try a little harder.
A troubled thought crossed his expression, and his smile was colored with something akin to worry.
"What is it?"
He ran a thumb along her jawline. "Do I have the right to seek my own happiness," he asked her quietly, "when I'm about to potentially start a war?"
"Don't lump yourself in with warmongering nobles," she snorted. "The difference is, you don't want to start a fire. And if you do, you intend to put it out. Besides..." She stood, pulling him up to do the same. "I'm Mairead Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, dragonslayer, conqueror of the unconquerable qunari and living legend. And I'm going to be standing on your side of things." A cocky grin sprawled lazily across her face.
"Try starting a war against that."
"Good. Ye're back."
The air was grim as Hawke and Sebastian stepped over the threshold of the Bann's manor. MacDougall stood waiting for them, Eoin at his side.
Sebastian felt a sense of dread run down his spine. "Bann. Has something happened?"
"See for yourself." He turned, motioning for them to follow, and Hawke and Sebastian shot one another a quick, worried glance before joining him in the study.
On the desk sat a folded piece of thick parchment, the edge of which was marked with a stamped blot of wax and strip of red and gold ribbon.
The prince would've recognized that particular decoration anywhere.
"From the palace?" he asked.
"Aye," the Bann grunted. "Arrived not an hour ago. Took th' liberty of reading it."
The paper crinkled beneath Sebastian's fingers as he picked it up, reading and re-reading the ornate penmanship that looped across the page.
"What is it?" Hawke prompted, sitting on the desk's surface.
"I've been summoned," he said. "It seems my cousin wishes to speak with me over a quiet, private late breakfast." He handed it to her when she reached for it. "I believe I'm meant to feel honored," he said dryly.
She frowned as she scanned the calligraphy. "Is this meant to be Goran's signature?" she asked, indicating a cluster of clumsy-looking scrawl ending the letter.
"Indeed," the Bann confirmed. "Keep in mind that th' man was a farmer up t' th' coronation. Probably has a whole host of scribes for th' parts of ruling he actually does, if any."
She nodded, placing the summons beside her on the polished mahogany surface. "So."
"So?"
"So what are we thinking?"
"We expected this," Eoin said thoughtfully. "Truthfully, we'd have thought it would come earlier."
"Maybe Loudain needed a little extra time to triple-check his ambush plans." Hawke crossed her arms. "Trying to rule a country from the shadows isn't easy, after all."
MacDougall walked over the the map table, looking at the four markers placed around the countryside. "We still don't know if he caught wind that we're on t' him. Might be biding his time, thinking he's safe."
"Or it could be a setup," the Champion said, sliding off of her perch and joining him. "Either way, going puts us at a disadvantage."
"There is no 'us' to consider," Sebastian corrected from his place by the fire. "The summons called for myself alone."
"But you're not seriously considering actually going by yourself."
He didn't answer, and he saw Hawke's eyes widen. Bracing himself for the onslaught of reprimanding and vivid descriptions of his idiocy, he was surprised by her suspicious quiet.
"What if," she said slowly, "you only looked like you were going alone?"
The Bann scratched his beard absentmindedly. "Th' lady has a good point."
"Aye," Sebastian said carefully, "but she could do nothing to prevent whatever may occur. The east gardens at Arrow's Rest are sacred ground. Violence is considered sacrilege."
"But that also means that he can't kill you," she pointed out.
"True." The prince paced, his mind a whirlwind of contingencies and ideas. "What if," he started, "I went along peacefully with whatever Loudain has planned? If it does not immediately threaten my life, we have time with which to turn the tables."
Hawke's eyes lit with understanding. "Let him think he's won," she added, "then turn him on his head."
"A fine line of thought," the Bann said, "except for th' fact that we don't know what he has planned."
"But we do," the horsemaster said suddenly, running to the wall of maps and indicating the point that corresponded to the marker on the table closest to the city. "That mark. Just outside the city proper's walls – that's the caravan port. It didn't occur to me earlier because we were looking for main roads, but..." He ran a finger from the merchants' hub outward, along a few smaller paths from city to city. "Starkhaven is just a stop along the trade routes. They stretch all across the north and west."
"There'd have been dozens, if not hundreds of caravans in the area for the royal banquet," Sebastian realized.
"And now that the festivities are ending, no one will think anything of it when they all leave at once," Eoin continued. "The guardsmen wouldn't look twice at a loaded wagon exiting the city."
Mairead placed her palms on the map, gaze moving from one marked city to the next in an uneven trail. "So grease the right palms," she said slowly, "and Sebastian could be in Tevinter or the Anderfels within a fortnight."
"And even if he yet lives through th' journey," the Bann pointed out, "it's long enough for a wedding to take place before he can get back."
Hawke let out a chain of what sounded like qunari curses, and Sebastian studied the city map intently.
"When do the caravans depart?" he asked Eoin, who visibly winced.
"They've already begun, highness. Started this afternoon. Will be completely gone in two days."
"Which is why he had to make his move now," the Champion replied. "This is the perfect opportunity – he'd be a fool to pass it up."
"And so we let him think that Sebastian's en route to the cold, distant north – then confront him when he gets overconfident." The Bann's second looked to the others. "But how do we check each caravan without rousing suspicion?"
There was a thoughtful silence. Sebastian, for his part, ransacked his brain for any bylaws they could call into effect or somehow otherwise enforce. Though any use of force not sanctioned by the crown prince would attract palace attention. Who wasn't connected to the palace directly, but had enough social clout and commanding presence to stall the merchants without official orders?
He smiled as the echoes of a certain banshee of a lady wife screaming about the rabbits in her garden rose to the forefront of his mind.
"I think," he said with a chuckle, "I may have an idea."
Arrow's Rest stood imposing against the cloudless and bright midmorning sky.
"Right," Hawke said quietly, adjusting Sebastian's gloves. "Remember, I'll be right nearby. You just won't see me, is all."
"I know."
"Just go with the flow," she continued. "Don't let on that you know a thing."
"Aye."
"And don't fight back, or you'll – "
"Hawke."
She glared. "Don't die."
He raised an eyebrow, smiling at her irritation. "I didn't intend on doing so."
"Good."
"I will play my part," he said, "and allow you to do yours."
"Perfect," she said, still frowning. "Try to faint, if you can. Makes you seem more delicate and fragile."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She still looked thoroughly displeased, and he couldn't help but smile at her expression. He reached one hand around her head, threading his fingers into her hair and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. "The light of the Maker has never failed me," he told her, "and nor have you. I will be safe again soon enough."
Her sigh brushed the bare skin of his throat, and she raised her head.
"Go, then," she instructed with a nod. "I'm right behind you."
He took a few steps toward the main gate, and when he turned to bid her farewell, she had vanished.
He'd forgotten how eerie that was.
Calmly, he handed the summons to a waiting valet, who bowed politely and indicated that the archer should follow him. As they walked through the courtyard, Sebastian noted how nice a day it was for an attempted kidnapping.
And, as predicted, that they were headed for the east gardens.
"I'm sorry, Ser," one guard said as he came upon the stone archway. "No weapons allowed in this section of the grounds."
"Of course," the prince agreed, unhooking his bow and quiver and surrendering them without a qualm. He was quickly searched by a second guard, who nodded the all-clear to his partner.
"You are free to enter," the guard said, "and may reclaim your equipment upon your return."
Sebastian forced a smile at the word 'return.' "Thank you," he said stiffly, strolling through the archway and under a long arbor of trellises creeping with morning glories.
To his surprise, Goran was, in fact, actually waiting for him with a modest spread of pastries and cheeses. He'd been expecting an immediate burlap sack over his head or a gag, so the sight in front of him, clearly meant to be welcoming, only served to rouse his suspicion.
As did the obviously nervous way his cousin was fidgeting with the napkins.
Schooling his face, Sebastian called out to him, startling the shorter man into dropping a croissant.
"Cousin!" he exclaimed, scrambling to stand. "So... so glad you could make it."
"Of course." He smiled warmly, more out of pity than anything else. His cousin so very clearly knew that something was about to take place. "I would not turn down a chance to speak with you. We hardly got the chance at the banquet, regrettably."
"I agree." Goran's hand trembled as he gestured to the seat opposite his. "Please, sit."
"Thank you for your hospitality."
"O-Oh, you needn't thank me. Not at all."
An awkward silence befell the two men, the chirping of songbirds occasionally carried over the breeze.
"So," Sebastian began, clearing his throat. "What is it you wished to discuss?"
His cousin nearly jumped in his seat, the faint sheen of sweat beginning to shimmer across his wide forehead. "I... just wanted to reminisce, I suppose. Talk about old times?"
"I see. Nostalgia upon our reunion, then?"
"Yes, that's it."
Another silence passed over them, punctuated by a soft thunk of something landing in the grass beside the table. Upon further inspection, the archer saw a swath of white satin sitting on the ground, wrapped tightly around its contents.
"Yours?" he asked Goran, who enthusiastically shook his head.
Excusing himself, Sebastian stood and walked the two steps to the object, unfurling it and rolling something heavy and cold into his hand.
A dagger, he quickly realized.
He immediately turned his sight up to the windows that looked out over the gardens, but they were all conspicuously shut up tight, no sign of the conspirator to be seen. But in his haste to catch Loudain's lackey, Sebastian had forgotten the position of what he was holding.
Until he heard a stifled yelp and felt something warm running down his fingers.
When he snapped back forward, his stomach lurched. Goran had run over to him and shoved the palm of his hand over the blade, slicing it open and spilling bright red blood over his royal clothes, the white satin...
...and the sacrosanct ground.
This was their plan, he realized. Not to ship him off – to label him a traitor to crown and country.
"Goran," he started, dropping the weapon, "what have you..."
He trailed off as their eyes met. His cousin clutched at his wounded hand, eyes wide not in pain, but in fear. His was an expression of abject terror.
Help me, that look said.
A light went off in the back of Sebastian's mind. Why his simple, country farmer of a cousin had gone along with all of this. Why anyone would consent to being a puppet.
"Cousin," he said slowly, "what are they holding over you?"
The royal circlet tilted askew as the crown prince began to shake violently. "Guards!" he called, voice cracking. "To my side, quickly! Guards!"
A quartet of armed soldiers rushed to the scene in seconds, accompanied by a figure in dark blue velvet.
Bann Loudain.
The Bann made a grand spectacle of pushing his way forward, melodramatic outrage exploding from him like a firework at the sight of the blood on Sebastian's hands.
"To bring a weapon to a meeting with the Crown Prince, on sacred ground! It is sacrilege, and it is blatant conspiracy!"
He stalked over to the archer, who made no move to run, nor wavered from eye contact. The shadow ruler glared hotly at the rightful prince, sneering and towering over him with theatrical fury.
"Take this treacherous wretch away," Loudain spat, and as Sebastian allowed himself to be carted off, he managed one last glimpse of Goran.
He was standing there and watching him go like a frightened, bleeding rabbit.
"This way, your highness."
The figure, cloaked and hooded in navy blue, bowed and extended his arm in the direction of the hallway. Goran nodded, glancing down at the fresh bandage covering his hand. As he was escorted to his rooms, he adjusted his crown and said not a word, only following the servant bearing Loudain's sigil.
Upon entering the royal chambers, he curiously watched Loudain's man lock the door behind them, close the curtains and stoke the fire. His stare did not go unnoticed.
"May I be of assistance, sire?" came a smoky, harsh voice.
Embarrassed, Goran waved his uninjured hand. "No, no! I was just..." He scratched his head sheepishly. "You're on the short side for a guard, aren't you?"
In a flash, the servant closed the distance between them, pressing one gloved hand to cover his mouth and pulling back the velvet hood with the other. His eyes widened to see a messily-bound wave of reddish curls and a familiar face.
"I'm Mairead Hawke," she said gruffly. "I'm here to rescue you."
