A/N: Time for an update!

It's November, 80 degrees, and I just went kayaking in a mangrove forest in a T-shirt and shorts this weekend.

I love this island.

Enjoy the chapter! SUSPENSE, YO.


Hawke practically stormed down the hallways of the Bann's city manor, pulling on pieces of her armor as she went, the maids jogging to keep up and pressing them into her waiting hands.

When she'd finally arrived back in the city the previous night, she'd been so exhausted that she'd nearly fallen off of her horse. She'd stumbled into bed without thinking, and woken in the morning to a smug blonde, tattooed, and fully nude Antivan elf in the sheets next to her.

Before he could finish explaining that the bed he had been given wasn't nearly soft and warm enough for his liking and did she know she talked in her sleep?, she had thrown a pillow at his smirking face and was headed out the door.

Five minutes later, she was staring down the Bann and Eoin in their makeshift war room, noting the distinct lack of a certain key person's presence.

"Where is Sebastian?"


Morning did not come easily for the rightful prince.

Nor had sleep, but he had at least managed to drift off for a few brief hours before being woken by the scuffling change of sentries. Anxiety over the radical shift in situation, so far away from their carefully planned false surrender and subsequent rescue, had almost painfully knotted his innards.

Prayer had only done so much to soothe him when his mind was busy running over the advantages he had at his disposal and his limited knowledge of the prison. By now, Hawke and the Bann had most certainly realized that their initial assumptions had been wrong and were working to find him anew, but Maker only knew how much time they had left. No, they couldn't be counted among his assets; Sebastian was going to have to act entirely on his own this time.

The thought weighed on him, making his entire body heavy as though his very bones were lead, while simultaneously causing the soles of his feet to itch for action, and he fought the urge to pace furiously about his cell in an effort to calm himself.

He had always had Hawke, who seemed to be blessed by Andraste herself when it came to preserving her own life and those of her comrades. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times he had witnessed her escape from impossible odds or dire straits by way of precise skill or, at times, sheer luck.

Fortunately for him, however, being held in a prison built for short-term stays had its advantages. He had spent every waking hour studying the patrol patterns and layout of the grounds, as well as gleaning what he could about the inner workings of the dungeon itself. Narrow corridors forced sentries in large numbers to bottleneck, and many of the doors could be barred from either side. Without the threat of lifelong prisoners having time to plot their escapes, there had been no precautions designed into the structure to deny them avenues to do so. There were at least three lower roofs within jumping distance, and the door hinges were too small to withstand massive force.

Given a few more hours, he thought frantically, there was a chance he could devise something, if nothing else to get him out of containment and into the halls. Preferably armed as well.

The sunlight glinted off of his white armor as he paced, bouncing bright flashes along the dingy stone walls. He was so wrapped up in his churning thoughts and half-formed ideas that he nearly jumped in his skin when the door latch to his cell block clicked out of place, and the heavy wood swung wide.

Sebastian tried to count the footsteps as they approached. Four, no, five men. The clink of armor echoed off of the rough walls, scabbards clanging against metal-clad thighs.

Polished metal over a black-thatched navy tartan.

As Bann Horace Loudain himself stopped in front of the cell bars, flanked by his personal guards on either side, the prince had to willfully force his fists to unclench. With Goran - and therefore the entire city - bound up neatly in puppetstrings, there was no reason for the Bann to personally see to his prisoner. Except, of course, to gloat. And from the look on his face, that was exactly what he had come here to do.

"Sebastian Vael," he greeted, mouth clenched in a tight-lipped smile. "What an unfortunate turn of events this is."

"My coming here, you mean," Sebastian offered coolly, arms folded, "and becoming a thorn in your soon-to-be-royal backside?"

Loudain didn't so much as flinch. "Strong accusations, little lordship. Worthless, coming from a traitor who brazenly attempted regicide. Against his own kin, no less!" The barest trace of a smirk curled the corners of his lips. "The Maker could never let one whose sins were so great become prince."

"Do not speak of the Maker," Sebastian snapped, "as you poison Starkhaven, His city, with your manipulation and greed!"

"Oh?" The Bann leaned in closer. "And was it not greed, little lordship, that brought you back to claim your father's crown?"

"Not greed," the archer issued in a low voice, wrapping gloved fingers around an iron bar angrily. "Nor avarice, nor ambition." He took a long, deep breath to calm his temper. If he gave in, became the aggressor, then Loudain won. Which may have been precisely what the Bann intended with the pious-sounding words that he must have known would prick Sebastian like stinging nettles.

"I lived in shame in Kirkwall," he said slowly, carefully. "At first, it was the shame brought on by my own behavior. But as I grew into a man, lost my entire family and left Starkhaven without its prince, it became the shame of abandoning my people. It pains me to know that my guilt was warranted - I have seen how they have suffered in my absence." He narrowed his eyes at Loudain, releasing the bars and straightening his posture. "And I have exposed them to the likes of your kind."

"My kind?" Feigning insult, the Bann spread his hands. "Likes of me? Have I not dedicated my life to serving the people of Starkhaven?"

"You serve only yourself, Bann Loudain."

His words went ignored. "And have I not apprehended the heinous traitor who made an attempt on our beloved prince's life?" He turned to one of his men on the left, clucking his tongue. "Is the job of a hero so thankless?"

Despite himself, Sebastian smiled dryly. "Hero, is it? Is that what they call a man who slays a deer and claims that it was a dragon?" Calmly, he folded his arms across his chest. "The people of Starkhaven will hear of this."

"That they will, I assure you." Loudain stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back. "How the wild son of the late Prince Thomas, Maker rest him, committed acts of violence and sacrilege and treason. It was Prince Goran's unfortunate, but necessary, duty to send such a man to the Maker for His judgment."

"Your lies will not stand."

"How many lies do you think become truths with no one to contradict them?"

There was a tense silence between them then, Loudain patiently waiting as fire burned in Sebastian's belly. Andraste help him, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to reach through the bars and strike the cool veneer from the Bann's impassive face. It would only serve to strengthen the accusations crafted against him, however, and so he merely leveled his piercing eyes at the man who had ordered his death.

A chime sounded in the distance, marking the hour.

The Bann looked out one of the windows, lifting his chin. "I am reminded that I have a schedule to keep." With a short bow at the waist to Sebastian, he motioned to his guards to prepare his exit. "If you will excuse me, little lordship, I have a meeting with a few associates from Antiva. Recent arrivals to the city have been creating havoc, you see. And it is my duty to protect the citizens from danger."

Sebastian stiffened. Hawke.

Again, he was baiting him. And again, it took all of the prince's will to resist.

If Loudain was disappointed by the lack of response, he made no show of it. He turned on his heel, the formation of blue and black around him like a shadow. He had made it no more than halfway when a voice came from the archer's cell.

"You know Goran has no desire to rule," Sebastian warned.

"How fortunate for him, then," the Bann replied without turning back, "that he will have a wife with the perfect disposition for a princess." A guard pulled the door for him, and he stepped through it.

"He need hardly rule at all."


"It was a guess t' begin with."

Bann MacDougall frowned as Hawke circled the map table, running her fingers along the painstakingly-carved representation of the Starkhaven bannorn.

"We could only hazard at th' plan," he continued, indicating the markers they'd gleaned from Loudain's map the night of the banquet. "No guarantees that it was th' right one."

"But it made perfect sense," she muttered under her breath. "And you checked every caravan?"

"Aye, lady. Even th' hay carts." He nodded to Eoin, who was pulling other maps from the shelves. "But now we know he's not bound fer th' Anderfels or Orlais or Maker-knows-where, which only leaves Starkhaven proper."

Eoin rolled out a map of the city itself. "My guess is that he's still within the city walls."

Hawke leaned over, inspecting the roads to and from Arrow's Rest. "Hiding in plain sight, then?"

"A common strategy," he confirmed. "And there are thousands of places where Loudain's men have free rein. Though we'll still keep searching the caravans, I think the bulk of our focus should be centralized on or near the palace."

"If he's in th' palace," the Bann said solemnly, "there's no way Loudain's men or th' guard will let us traipse around th' place, peeking under tapestries and behind doors."

"But I don't think he's there," Hawke grumbled, exasperated. She dragged a hand across her forehead, digging the heel of her palm into her temple. "It doesn't make sense."

"It did until sunrise, lass."

"There has to be something we're missing," she interrupted, furiously scanning the table. "Something that stuck out, even when we thought he was going to be bound and gagged in a trunk somewhere."

"He still could be," Eoin pointed out, but his words fell on deaf ears. Hawke was gathering up the markers on the table, pushing them aside as she squinted to read the inscriptions under what they had covered.

"Nothing," she muttered, "nothing, nothing..." She sat on the table's edge, rolling open a map that covered the river from one city border to the other. "Could he have been moved by water?"

The Bann shook his head. "Had men there too, until this morn. Naught that wasn't checked went through."

Letting out a long sigh, Mairead fell to her back on the table, letting her arms fall beside her and sending the map tumbling to the floor. She didn't care; that particular map hadn't told her anything she didn't already know.

Loudain had taken Sebastian. And she didn't know where to find him. She had sworn that she would come after him – that was what the whole premise of letting him be captured was, as a ruse! They would let Loudain think he had the upper hand, only to swoop in and expose him when he was overconfident and unawares.

Hawke berated herself. She could keep an entire city from collapsing in on itself but she couldn't keep one man safe. One man, who had always leapt to defend her, literally thrown himself in front of her to keep her from harm. How was it possible to protect thousands of strangers and yet lose one person?

She dragged her palms down the length of her face, inhaling deeply. She couldn't give in to frustration. Not yet. If there was any chance that he was still within their reach...

She clenched her fists and slammed them down, waiting for the satisfying thunk of her hands against the dense wood of table. Momentarily startling, however, was the sensation of swishing through nothing but air. A frown crinkled her face as she wiggled her fingers. How were her hands hanging over the edge if –

She sat up abruptly.

"What?"

The Bann turned to her. "What, 'what?'"

She lay back down, stretching her arms out to her sides, then sat up again.

"This is wrong," she announced, eyes snapping into focus. "The table. It's wrong."

MacDougall and Eoin came over as she hopped to her feet, turning to inspect the antique.

"Can't be wrong," the Bann said, eyeing her warily. "It's part of a set. Th' banns each got one."

"The map's right," she said, leaning forward to grip opposite sides with her fingertips. "But the size..." She straightened. "This one's smaller than the one in the castle."

The Bann and Eoin turned to one another as the implications hit them.

"You're sure," the horsemaster prodded, "absolutely?"

"Positive," she replied firmly. "By about a hand on each side."

They scrambled for the markers again, placing them in what they now knew to be the larger table's pattern.

"This one was by the river..."

"...this was here, in Blythefeld..."

"...one on the road to Kirkwall..."

When they had replaced each of them exactly, they stood back and let Eoin get to work.

"If it's as much smaller as you say," he murmured as his hands flew across the map, "then we need to move everything in, about two fingers' breadth closer to the center."

"And two fingers on the map could mean the difference of half a day's ride," Hawke realized. "We were looking at this all wrong."

"This one," he said, moving the first, "it's not on the river – it's on a bridge. The one with the fastest route to Antiva."

"Makes sense if he thought we were trying to escape," the Champion observed. "And the next?"

"Same as we thought – the route to Kirkwall."

"Right."

He circled round to the other end. "This one in Blythefeld is actually on the village of Merrit's Field."

"An' that was where ye found Sophie," the Bann added, "not in th' hills it was in before."

"Exactly," Hawke said excitedly, "this is all making sense! That just leaves the last one, near the city."

She and the Bann turned to watch Eoin as he studied the table. His look of concentration turned ashen, however, as he realized where the fourth placement was meant to mark.

"Well," the Bann demanded, "what is it, man? We haven't th' time! Put it down!"

With a gentle clack, the Bann's second put the little marker in its place and looked up at his lord meaningfully. It didn't take more than a moment for MacDougall's features to arrange themselves into stone. Hawke swallowed hard.

Oh, that wasn't good.

"Prison wagons don't go through th' trade gates," he said, voice grim.

"Prison?" Hawke looked between the two of them, trying to divine what it was they knew that she didn't. "What prison?"

The Bann tapped the fourth marker with one thick finger. "This here," he said gravely, "is Hangman's End."

"A prison for high treason and sacrilegious crimes," Eoin explained. "Crimes that warrant execution."

Mairead felt the world start to crumble out from beneath her, and she struggled for rocky footing. "The eastern palace gardens," she said numbly. "You said they were sacred ground?"

"Aye," MacDougall nodded. "No bloodshed, fighting or any of th' big sins."

There was a short silence where the three of them all looked at each other as they came to the exact same realization. And Goran claimed that Sebastian stabbed him there.

"Loudain's going to try and hang him," Hawke muttered as she grabbed her blades, snapping them into place as the three of them burst out of the room. Eoin took off to the stables to prepare the horses, and the Bann pulled his waraxes from their rack.

"Ye've got a plan, then?" he asked as a pair of attendants began attaching his armor.

"I've fought my way through prisons before," she said, tightening the straps on her armguards. "And if all else fails..." She pulled a red wooden vial from the pouch on her belt, rolling it in her palm. "I learned a thing or two about explosives from the qunari."


As distant bells tolled the passing of the next hour, Sebastian paused in his work to steal a glance out of the narrow window. The sun was climbing higher into the sky, and while he didn't know how much time he had left, he knew it couldn't be long.

The white of his armor had dulled, covered in a fine layer of dust and filth from the long-neglected cell. Tiny scratches ran up the usually immaculate surface, a direct consequence of his current endeavor.

In his hands was a single, large iron nail. To be fair, it was more like a spike – and Sebastian had had to dig through the splintered remains of his cot to fish it out, after violently smashing the rickety bed to bits against the stone wall and raising his arms to shield himself from the resulting hail of wooden shards. It was big and bulky, almost as thick around as his index finger and too big for the lock on his cell, but it was a start.

He filed it against the stone, digging away at decades' worth of rust and grime to unearth the point it once held. The archer had two problems now: aside from his own imminent execution, the delegation of Crows had taken their leave some time earlier, and were almost certainly on their way to the city to find Hawke and Bann MacDougall and their company.

For once, he found himself wishing that Zevran were still there with her; he may not have liked the smug elf, but his time in the Crows might give the Champion a much-needed edge in a foreign land where she had the disadvantage and none of her usual fellows-in-arms. Even if Sebastian somehow managed to escape the prison, he would still have ground to cover.

As he managed to reveal metal beneath corrosion and wear, he found himself reciting verses from the Canticle of Benedictions under his breath, almost entirely on the subject of perseverance.

"Blessed are they who toil in adversity," he murmured, sweat beading on his forehead as he diligently scraped iron against stone. "For the fruits of their labor will be blessed in His sight."

Suddenly, the metal-on-metal moan of the hall door behind him jolted him out of his prayers. Tucking the bolt into the guard at his wrist, he turned and braced himself for whatever was to come.

If the guards have come for me, he thought, flexing his fingers, my best hope is to go peacefully and wait for a narrow hall to make my escape. If, however, it should be Loudain –

To his complete and utter surprise, a mousy brown, circleted head of curls peeked out from around the heavy door, followed by Goran's nervous face.

Puzzled, Sebastian tentatively took a step forward. "Cousin?"

Upon hearing the archer's voice, the puppet prince scurried forward to grip the bars. "Sebastian," he whispered, tone urgent, "hurry. We haven't much time."

Sebastian ran to meet him, leaning down to keep his voice low. "Goran," he pressed, "what in Andraste's name are you doing back here?"

"What I should have done yesterday," he declared bravely, though Sebastian could feel the vibration of his trembling hands through the cell bars.

"I'm getting you out."