A/N: Hey, long time no see!
There are only two chapters left. Well, a chapter and an epilogue, which will both be uploaded at the same time – meaning that this story will be complete at the next update! Though don't worry - I do still plan on writing more with these two.
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Enjoy!
As the prison came into view through the trees, Hawke pulled ahead of the Bann, despite his protests.
"I'm not princess yet," she called as she passed. "And even if I were, you should know me better by now."
"Should learn a thing or two about safety," MacDougall grunted, keeping apace. "Though ye've got th' ordering-folks-about bit well down."
Their company spread out from the tree cover out into the open, with no sign of archers' fire from the defenses. A very good sign, Hawke mused, or a very bad one. Either way, they had the front and south walls surrounded, the back against the trees and the north on a cliff face.
Even if they managed to destroy or raise the portcullis, they would still have to bottleneck through the front, which would give the guards time to rally - or more heavily defend their hostage, neither of which provided a particularly good opportunity for Sebastian to make a move.
While the guards were distracted with the main brunt of the force, Hawke reasoned as she dismounted, no one would notice a single person quietly letting themselves in through a window. And as long as the fighting was concentrated at the singular front gate, openings would be easier to find than "spot-the-bloodstain" in Darktown. She had no objections to scaling a story or two, either, being no stranger to some... creative burglaries.
"Zevran," she called, signaling for the assassin.
She was going in.
From his view at the window, Sebastian desperately scanned the riders to assess their numbers. They spread out, breaking formation to surround the only two viable prison walls and barricading the roads.
A stone rolled in his stomach and a sickly chill sat in his throat. His choices, it seemed, were limited to bad, worse, and death, at the hands of men who deliberately bore no colors.
No colors, he came back to over and over again as he searched the scene below for an avenue of escape. They had corralled Bann Loudain's men in the prison, and the Bann hadn't had time enough between Sebastian's escape and being shot down to send for reinforcements or mercenaries from the city. The Bann had also taken great pains to ensure that few people knew of the captured prince's location. So without a sigil, under whose command...?
"Zevran!"
The familiar voice, though faint, rang out like a bell. Hope flooded the archer's chest as he saw a golden-haired elf artfully weaving through the other riders, and he followed his path until a flash of red leather signaled the Antivan's intended destination.
Hawke was agitatedly digging through her satchel, waving an outstretched hand toward Zevran expectantly. She was bleeding, she was yelling, and she was angry – but she was whole, and very much alive.
Sebastian's knees threatened to buckle beneath him at the powerful relief that engulfed him like he was being pulled under a tide. Of course she had found him. Nothing had ever stopped her before; not fire, not steel, not dragons.
She was Hawke, after all, and he had made her a promise she fully intended on seeing him keep.
A strangled laugh of some unplaceable emotion escaped his mouth as he gathered his bearings. One foot moved, then the other, carrying him away from the window in tentative steps that soon strengthened into a full-tilt run through the open doors that led to the guard tower. He met no resistance as he tore through the rooms and into the circular stone watchstation, the weapons and torches nothing but a blur in his peripheral vision. Down the spiral stairs he ran, two at a time, each step closer and closer to the ground.
He flung open the tower door, bypassing the gate and feeling the sink of soft grass beneath his boots as he hit earth, ignoring the stares of dozens of mounted riders as their intended evacuee strolled right out of the fortress they were about to raid in his defense. He turned the corner, smiling broadly at the sound of his leader shouting orders to the former Crow in front of her.
"...and a length of wire," she demanded, tightening the straps on her armor. "And I'll need a pair of throwing knives to cram into the masonry for the climb – the thinnest you have."
Her back was to the prince, though Zevran noticed his approach first with a glint in his eye and an acknowledging nod.
"Ah," the elf began, "I don't think– "
"Yes, you'll be compensated," she interrupted. "Though if Sebastian gets so much as a scratch on him from your copper-pinching, I'll find more creative uses for the daggers, understood?"
The archer stopped within arm's length, chuckling at the warmth in his heart that her snapping had stirred. "My knight in shining armor."
He saw Hawke's shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second before she spun around to face him. As his face registered, she froze in place, staring at him blankly – then broke into a laugh that would have woken the dead.
But really, Sebastian mused as he watched her dissolve into peals of laughter, what other reaction was there?
Between guffaws, she tried to speak several times, but failed miserably. Sebastian waited with characteristic patience, watching with amusement as she wiped her eyes and subdued her mirth down to weak-yet-insistent hiccups.
"Sebastian," she managed, clutching her sides. "Did you just walk out the front door?"
Though everything from tits to ribs ached from laughing so damned hard, Hawke fought to straighten up and did her best to look genuinely disappointed. She was quite sure, however, that the fit brought on by the combined ridiculousness of the situation and immeasurable relief at seeing him alive and unharmed had left a grin on her face that no amount of feigned sulking could mask. Still, she forced down the visceral urge to either wrap her arms around him or stab him and schooled her features.
"Well," she sighed defeatedly, "there goes my dashing entrance."
That familiar arched eyebrow had never looked better than after Hawke had thought she'd never see it again. That need to hold him was back and insistently nipping at her heels, trying to propel her forward and headlong into the cool white armor.
"You had planned an entrance," Sebastian only half-asked.
"Bursting from the trees on horseback with my band of men like the Blackwood Brigand, fighting to free my lady? That's an entrance if I've ever heard one."
"The Blackwood Brigand?" He stepped closer, a smile tugging at his mouth. "The fabled aristocrat-turned-heroic-outlaw who lived in the woods, righting wrongs and thieving from corrupt nobles?"
"He was the perfect blend of charm and courage," Hawke sniffed defensively. She could see the dust and scratches in his armor now, as well as a few scrapes and nicks on the skin near his jaw. She rocked back on her heels, the extra inch of distance enough to keep her from pulling him close and running her fingers over every inch of his face.
Crossing his arms, the archer couldn't keep the warmth from his voice. "That makes me Fair Fiona, his lady-love, then?"
Mairead stood her ground. "Well, I'm the wanted vigilante with a ragtag band of ruffians, and she lived in an abbey and could hold her own with a bow."
"Fair enough."
After a moment, Hawke sighed again and settled her hands on her hips, glaring at the deservedly smug-looking prince. "Could you at least swoon or something to make me feel validated?"
Sebastian chuckled, closing the space between them in a few slow, promising steps. "I suppose I could think of a way for a maid," he murmured, leaning in, "to thank her brave and daring rescuer."
Smirking despite herself, Hawke closed her eyes and stretched to meet him – only to be interrupted by the loud, rough clearing of a cavernous throat. She opened her eyes and turned to see Bann MacDougall towering over them, thick arms crossed over his chest as he waited impatiently for an explanation of what in the Maker's name he had just witnessed.
"Never seen a man saunter out from heavy guard before," he muttered. "Ye mind?"
The man had a point. Hawke turned back to the prince, curiosity temporarily overriding her irritation. "Seems like you had things well in hand before we got here."
As he was about to speak, something back toward the fortress caught Sebastian's eye. "I might not have," he began slowly, "without help."
The others turned to follow his line of sight – and saw Goran standing awkwardly at the rounded wall of the nearest tower, anxiously watching them in silence and clutching the royal circlet in his left hand.
In an instant, a half-dozen riders had dismounted and cornered him, forcibly yanking him away from the relative safety of the stone and half-dragging him over to where the Bann and Chantry brother stood.
Sebastian immediately objected, running to meet them and freeing his cousin from their vicegrip. "Let him go," he issued firmly. "No harm is to come to him."
Goran collapsed limply downward as he was released, and Hawke could see the exhaustion in his face, as though the mask of normalcy had been peeled off and revealed the harrowing truth of the last half-decade. Sebastian hoisted him up again, murmuring encouragements below her hearing.
"'No harm,' is it," the Bann repeated, eyeing the interaction warily.
"He freed me," Sebastian informed him, detaching himself from Goran as soon as the latter was stable. "Loudain nearly killed him for it." He met MacDougall's questioning stare and solemn understanding darkened his expression. "A guardsman," he informed him. "The Bann's body is in a hall on the second level."
The bear Bann nodded to a few of his men, who silently headed into the prison as he turned his attention back to the pair of princes.
"As fer this one," he began, but Sebastian interrupted him.
"No harm," he reminded, and MacDougall scratched his neck absently, though Hawke's attention was more on his eyes.
"Think on this, boy," he advised. "I'll abide what ye decide, but... a word o' caution from one who was here and saw wha' happened when he took th' crown in th' first place." He caught the prince's firm stare meaningfully, unmistakably alluding to the Vael family massacre.
Sebastian's expression hardened, and the undercurrent of turbulent anger that so frequently rose to the surface was visibly making its journey through the stiff muscles of his hands, shoulders, face.
"Ye don't have to be th' one t' give th' command to share responsibility for it," Guinn continued, his characteristic frankness allowing him a modicum of tact at least this once. "And there are those who won't be so keen t' give up th' power they had under him."
Mairead could see precisely where the Bann was headed with this. Goran had been the eye of the storm in Starkhaven; a small point of inaction as corruption and deceit had whirled around him and engulfed the city. He would continue to be so, willingly or no, by virtue of his continued existence alone.
And it was up to Sebastian, the unequivocal true successor to the crown, to decide his fate.
By now, news of his emergence from the fortress had spread throughout the company, the unoccupied remainder of whom had gathered around the conversation's participants. Hawke kept her distance, staying at crowd level, knowing full well that these men – men who would be his supporters for the throne – had come to witness their first glimpse of the character of the long-absent heir. To witness – and to judge.
She was no less interested herself.
After a few silent moments, Sebastian turned to his cousin and regarded him with an expression Hawke couldn't quite place. It was masked, to be sure, and masked well. He stepped a few paces closer with slow, deliberate purpose, and Goran's weariness settled into hollow-eyed resignation.
"MacDougall is right," Sebastian agreed. "You were at the center of everything that has blackened this city. You saw what was happening to our people, to our light, and you did nothing. Nothing, for so many years." His hand clenched and unclenched at his side. "But neither did I."
Pivoting away on his heel, Sebastian began pacing slowly, thoughtfully. "You are my kin, Goran," he said aloud, "and you have suffered. Yet you always had a choice. Your compliance to ensure the safety of one person jeopardized the lives of thousands and the stability of a city." His heavy brogue forced out the accusations with rumbling, angry syllables. "Such acts are treason of the highest degree when coming from a ruler, whose divine responsibility is to the people. You were aware of what your choice was doing, and still you made it. It is unforgivable."
"I was never meant to be prince," Goran agreed, and Sebastian's feet stopped in place.
"Your lack of leadership led to the corruption of our city," the archer confirmed. "But as you have shown me and I have shown myself, a man can change." He fell silent, and when he spoke again, his tone was gentled. "Cousin, I cannot have you here. Not if I am to rebuild."
His decision had been made, and every pair of ears in the vicinity was trained on his voice, awaiting the first telling signal of his reign. His first act would set the tone for his rule, and would indicate the man that he would be, the actions he would take in the city's name.
Sebastian straightened, facing the pretender prince head-on. "Upon pain of death, will you accept banishment?"
The future prince of Starkhaven had chosen mercy.
Goran's body slackened, fear escaping into the air as a sigh escaped his lungs. "Gladly."
"I am not yet prince," Sebastian continued as several of the Bann's men came to flank Goran on either side, taking hold of his arms. "And there are those who would harm you while you await judgment. You will be assigned a caretaker, and comply with them fully. Otherwise I cannot guarantee that you will live to see exile."
As he was led away, Goran turned back one last time to address the new lord of the lands. "Cousin," he called.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Be well."
A small, weary smile was Sebastian's response as he was swallowed by the crowd's rushing in to greet their new liege.
As Sebastian walked about the men, offering thanks and graciously accepting enthusiastic and... colorful wishes for his reign, Hawke sought out MacDougall, who was watching the interactions approvingly.
"I don't know if I'm surprised or not," she mused aloud, observing alongside him. "He has a temper, to be sure, but also the compassion…"
"And th' blood of a prince." At the Champion's waiting frown, he explained further. "Showing compassion t' Goran will get him sympathy and approval from th' right people - and those who call for Goran's death will be th' ones to keep a close eye on and all that."
"So this is a titer for his courtiers?"
"He was given a prince's education, lass. He knows these things."
Hawke crossed her arms with a noise of assent in her throat. "It just sounds like something I would do."
Guinn grinned down at her, a gleam in his eye. "Then ye might be half-decent princess yet."
"There was any doubt?"
At his silence, Hawke casually kicked him in the back of the knee. He buckled, laughing.
Making the rounds, Sebastian made his way through the fortress' gate grounds. He smiled and clasped arms with those who had rallied to his aid, genuinely grateful for their presence.
And then, as a pair of horses were led away, he saw a blond Antivan elf waiting for him directly in his path, with a smirk on his lips and arms folded over his chest.
Resisting the rolling in his stomach, Sebastian approached him with a warmly outstretched hand.
"I understand that I have you to thank in part for my rescue," he offered as Zevran took his wrist firmly. "I am in your debt, ser."
He was keenly aware that the way 'ser' had come out sounded as though it were painful.
"Do not worry your newly royal self," Zevran replied, leaning in a bit closer than was comfortable for Sebastian. "I'm sure we can find... shall we say, creative ways for you to repay me for my services."
When the prince tugged to reclaim his hand, he was surprised to find Zevran hadn't relinquished his grip. Instead, the elf reached behind him with his free hand to unhook something clasped to his back. As the weapon was pressed into his chest, Sebastian looked down...
...to see the familiar knotwork and gilding of his grandfather's bow.
As he reached up to take hold of it, his heart tightened. He had thought it irretrievable, and despaired. His treasure, one of the few mementos he had of his lost family, returned to him by a man he had never thought to place faith in.
The Maker had a curious way of showing him who his true allies were.
He knew the gratitude must have shown on his face from the smug, self-satisfied expression on the assassin, but it was well-earned. "There is nothing I can give," the archer managed, "that could possibly convey – "
Zevran pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I am sure," he offered, "that your charming bride will have a wealth of ideas, should you ask."
Sebastian snapped the bow into place across his back, chuckling. "'Creative' is Hawke's middle name."
"For which I am grateful, as you should be, no?"
"I always have." He turned to seek out the red-haired dagger master in the crowd, finding her trademark armor quickly amongst the sea of black and plate steel. "And if you will excuse me, I am reminded of a promise I need to fulfill."
The elf dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Sebastian felt a cool rush of air across the back of his neck as he walked toward Hawke, indicating that the former assassin had faded into the shade. Zevran apparently had something he needed to do – as did the prince.
"...and I will have you know that I am as refined as silk," Hawke declared to the Bann, who beamed down at her with a wide grin.
"An' just as difficult t' work with," he replied. "Though th' whelp'll have more of a time with it than anyone." The Champion had just opened her mouth to retort, but Guinn interrupted as something approaching from behind her caught his eye. "Speak of th' devil."
"I know there's much to do," Sebastian apologized as he drew nearer, "and I fully intend on seeing it through. But I'd like to steal away the hero of the hour for a moment."
"Hero, my bloody arse," the Bann grumbled. "Just the noisiest, 's all." There was a warm brightness in his eyes, though, and he waved one massive hand with a snort. "Go on, then. S'pose I can give ye a bit."
Hawke smiled beatifically at him over one shoulder, making an obscene finger gesture in his direction as she allowed Sebastian to lead her away by the hand.
A leather-clad palm squeezed hers as they walked, and the chantryman had her full attention. Leaving the men of MacDougall's company and the fortress guard behind, she followed him to a pretty bit of the rocky cliffside that bordered the massive structure along one wall.
"Nice view," she observed, and the smile that lit up Sebastian's weary face pierced her sharply, like a well-aimed dart. It snapped the final thread in her already tenuous self-control, and as she gave in and wrapped her arms around him, she felt her shoulders shudder with relief. Her tension melted; the solid, living, breathing man pulling her in tightly was safe and sound.
"We were late," she breathed. "We were late, and all I could think of was you."
His hold tightened, almost painfully so, for a brief moment before his hands slid to her arms, granting her release and giving them a hair more breathing space to speak.
"I had time to think in my cell," he began. "And something Goran said quite surprised me."
" 'I don't want to be prince'?" Hawke suggested, and Sebastian chuckled.
"That," he continued, "but it occurred to me that I never properly asked for your hand."
Hawke swallowed. Hard.
"My hand?" she instinctively quipped, inwardly cursing her mouth. "Don't you want the rest? I have many other very fine parts."
"Hawke," he chided, but she rapped her knuckles on his chestpiece dismissively.
"We had a sane, reasonable discussion," she declared. "And then the Bann decided for us. Took care of it."
"Aye," he murmured, "but forgive me if my motives are somewhat changed now."
"I already agreed! You don't have to do this."
"I want to."
"But– "
"Bear it," he said firmly, and circled behind her to gently push her shoulders down, urging her to sit on a fallen log long lost to time and the elements.
Hawke plucked at a mushroom petulantly as he walked back around the splintered wood. This promised to be a humiliating and thoroughly unnecessary spectacle. Though she dreaded the incoming barrage of what could only be flowery prose, at least the view was lovely, she conceded, and one makes do with what one has outside of a massive prison.
That, and a cliff seemed strangely appropriate.
She was brought out of her sulking by the crunch of grass as the prince took to a knee in front of her, and she dragged her hands down her face, mortified.
"Oh, for Andraste's sake, don't kneel!"
Undeterred – perhaps even encouraged by her obvious discomfort – he took her hands in his and adjusted his posture to look as formal and courtly as possible.
Upon seeing the conspicuously regal pose, Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Did you rehearse this?"
He smirked. "I had a few hours trapped in a cell to put my mind to it. Which brings me to my point." He shifted, clearing his throat. "This marriage is about strength, Hawke. I will be yours, if you will be mine." He caught her gaze, bright blue eyes paralyzing in their earnestness. "As you always have been."
"Always?"
"Since the moment you walked into the chantry and told me that you had, in a single day, avenged my family and saved my life."
"You paid me," Mairead pointed out.
"Still," he continued. "You showed me that day, and every day thereafter, that I could and would fight for what I believed in. And I will continue to do so, though– " his fingers tightened around hers, "I cannot even begin to fathom walking into what I am about to face without you."
The archer leaned in, then, closing the distance between them ever so slightly. "I will fight with everything I have to keep this chance the Maker has given me. To keep you." A smirk curved his mouth, bringing a lilt to his rolling brogue. "Even if the one I have to battle is you yourself."
The Champion snorted despite herself. "I can guarantee it will be. At least once."
His smirk only broadened. "And I look forward to the day when you willingly surrender."
"Oh, good luck with– "
His mouth was on hers, then, sealing away any retort she may have been fully ready to unleash, and her irritation melted into a laugh that bubbled up between their lips. It interrupted the kiss only a moment before Sebastian pressed his lips to hers a second time, sliding his palms to her neck and winding his fingers into her hair.
"If you'll have me, Hawke."
There was tension in his hands – a slight vibration, a nigh-imperceptible tremble – as he waited. As he gave her this last chance to flee.
Hawke never backed down.
She kissed him soundly, stealing the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees. "All right," she murmured against his mouth, smiling, "I am won."
He laughed – an honest-to-goodness, from-his-heart laugh – as he sank into another kiss. Hawke felt it in him: the relief, the joy, the promise. It stirred something in her, something visceral that hadn't been disturbed in what felt like an age. And now that it was awake, there was no stopping it. Even if she wasn't prepared for what may come of those still waters, she had no doubt that Sebastian was. Eager, even, to receive anything her heart had to throw at him.
Her head had nearly begun to spin from the lack of air and deluge of sentimentality, and she was almost grateful for the knock of knuckles on wood. She and Sebastian pulled back and turned to the source, watching as Zevran gracefully rolled out from behind a neighboring tree.
He tapped a thin finger to the grooved bark at his shoulder. "If you are quite satisfied that you are now, indeed, twice as betrothed as you once were, our bearlike friend awaits a word."
Snickering, Hawke stood, brushing her backside free of moss and stray fungi. She reached behind her for Sebastian's hand as the three of them began to walk back, squeezing affectionately as she studied the Antivan beside her carefully.
"You were there the whole time and didn't interrupt?"
"I kept a respectable distance, as a gentleman should. Besides," he sighed theatrically, "as romantic as I am, your prince is revoltingly so. Any longer and I might have vomited onto my fashionable-yet-practical boots."
"Romantic," Hawke scoffed, "you?"
A lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his pursed lips. "You doubt it?"
"I'll ask Cadhla when I see her next."
Something glittered in Zev's eyes at the warden's name, and Hawke silently and wholeheartedly wished her two friends all the happiness in Thedas.
Hawke had thought the worst of it was over when they returned to the city proper, beelining for MacDougall's estate. And yet, the Maker had not forgotten how much the Champion of Kirkwall loathed long, tedious, bar-the-doors-until-we've-rightly-finished political conferences. Though this particular festival of bureaucracy directly revolved around her imminent reign and the means to it, she wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a solid meal, and a good long respite in bed.
A testament to her politic abilities, though, she kept her grousing thickly buried and engaged in the extended discussions with their gathered allies and Goran, from whom spilled courtly secrets and machinations like an overturned bucket. The promise of freedom, whatever its conditions, had empowered and strengthened the browbeaten Vael, much to his cousin's relief.
Lords Lesley and MacLendon, along with Cedric Russel, were also among those in attendance. The Bann's closest courtly allies, they diligently outlined and debated the various strategies of how to best allow Goran to vacate the throne without inciting rebellion or anarchy.
They had seen the sun set and the moon rise before even the first steps had been settled upon, and Bann MacDougall called for a recess in the name of Andraste's mercy. Hawke had gratefully agreed, accompanying them to the estate's main gate in a gesture of etiquette – and equally to ensure that they did, in fact, leave her in peace for a few blessed hours.
Cedric Russell reached out clasp Sebastian's wrist. "The Royal Archers stand with Sebastian," he assured him, "and I'm sure my father and Lea do as well."
"You know the Antivans will support you," MacLendon added. "And you've well earned Guinn."
"Shallervale is Starkhaven's coinpurse," the Bann boasted proudly. "That's got some clout, though I say it m'self." With a hearty shout, he summoned the servants to open the doors, and he watched from the torchlit foyer as the nobles and their men emptied into the night.
"They'll be begging for ye t' be prince by th' time ye get back," he declared.
Hawke had already made a break for the kitchens.
Time found Sebastian on the second floor of the estate, just outside the doorway of the innermost guest chambers. The entryway was ajar, giving a person standing just at the right angle a perfect view of the inhabitants. He leaned against the wall opposite, arms folded across his chest as he watched his cousin and his mousy-haired, beekeeping lover just moments after their reunion. He had seen the shouting, the tears, the anger, the crushing embraces – all of which had ultimately led to this, the utter destruction of their walls risen against each other.
They sat and spoke quietly, the space between them full of warm affection – the only balm for the raw wounds the both of them suffered. There was something compelling about it, something that rooted him in place. Though he respected Goran and Sophie's privacy – or rather, wished to – the heavy sense of longing in his gut held him fast.
He heard light footfalls approaching, recognizing their cadence with ease. Hawke quietly joined him, offering him a piece of a half-eaten roll she had very un-princessly stuffed in her mouth. They watched the couple in silence a moment longer before Sebastian spoke.
"Am I wrong for wishing him happiness?"
"No." Though her answer was immediate and certain, Hawke nudged him playfully. "She landed a hit on me. Distracted or not, that's saying something. You should be wishing him safety for life and limb, if anything."
That elicited a chuckle from the archer despite himself, but he could not dispel the strong envy that weighed on him the more he watched the two lovers heal. They were completely unguarded, the honesty pure. It was what he so desperately wanted from his combative bride; she would strip them both naked in a heartbeat, but he wanted to be bare.
Hawke seemed to have misinterpreted his gaze, tugging gently at his arm. "Come on, give them their privacy," she prodded. "You can lecture him all you want later. You and I have some talking to do, and you haven't had a proper meal in days."
She led him down to the kitchens, to a small table near the fireplace already set with rich breads and generous cuts of meat. He noted with a smile that Hawke's plate was conspicuously missing small chunks of both.
He obliged her and sat, laying a lean strip of lamb on a slice of bread and taking small bites. Mairead was fiddling with something in her hands, something that glinted in the low light, and Sebastian had moved on to his second helping before he recognized the wedding bands he had purchased. It seemed the perfect opportunity, and so near a strategy meaning, that he thought it prudent to ask.
"When should we plan the wedding?"
Hawke laid them with a gentle clack on the table's weathered surface. "It should be within the year to best take advantage of my ties with Cadhla. She'll be stepping down as queen soon."
"Stepping down?" Puzzled, he leaned forward on his elbows. He hadn't thought Hawke intimately familiar with the current political machinations of her homeland. "How...?"
"It was only a temporary arrangement to begin with," she explained, picking bits of fluff off of the bread in front of her. "Alistair was an inexperienced king, and Cadhla was bred and raised a sovereign. She married him to stabilize things, instruct him, and allow him time to find a proper wife before she would cite being unable to give him an heir as a reason to gracefully abdicate."
Admiration and sympathy for the Hero of Ferelden edged into Sebastian's thoughts. "My sympathies for Cadhla," he began, but Hawke dismissed it with a halfhearted flap of her hand.
"She's a Grey Warden," she stated matter-of-factly. "Nearly impossible to have children together, from what I hear. And it's all right, really." She waved a bit of crust at him. "Neither she nor her lover want children anyway, so it's no loss to either of them."
"Her lover?"
"Mm." She sipped at her wine. "At the beginning of the marriage, they agreed that they would go their separate ways, free to do whatever and whomever they will, and find one another as soon as her obligations are finished." Snickering into her glass, Hawke grinned. "And he has been taking full advantage of the latter bit, trust me."
At his fiancee's entertained expression, Sebastian suddenly and transparently understood who this mystery lover was.
"Zevran," he marveled. "She's in love with Zevran?"
"Absolutely and completely," she confirmed, "and Zevran's black little Antivan heart has always been loyal to her, and always will be." She nudged him a bit with her foot under the table. "Does that make you feel better about certain... things?"
As much as he hated to admit it, the idea that absolutely no attachment whatsoever had been involved in their trysts had somewhat mollified the jealousy that had so overwhelmed him earlier. And though he'd be damned before he'd say so to the elf, Hawke was another story. "Yes, it does," he admitted, pausing to sigh at his bride-to-be's triumphant smirk from across the table. "Try not to be so smug at your husband."
She laughed, and though the sound warmed him, he knew that there was still more to address which would likely rob him of the sound. "How much longer should we stay in Kirkwall?" he queried gently, carefully.
As predicted, her expression sobered, and she focused her attention on the half-eaten mutton before her. "There's that. I don't know how long it'll take for things to sort themselves here, but I do have responsibilities, you know."
"I understand."
"Not just to the city." She ran her fingers along the knotted wood absentmindedly. "I need to take care of the estate. Put it in Bethany's name, find a steward that isn't Gamlen. Maybe Varric knows someone. Bodahn and Sandal are welcome to stay, as is Orana." She lifted her gaze briefly to fix him with a pointed glare. "We're taking Ogre with us, you know."
Sebastian laughed at the mental image of having the large, fearsome-looking mabari present at court proceedings. "He will be a welcome addition to Arrow's Rest, I assure you."
"Good." Hawke sighed heavily, leaning back in her seat and running a few fingers through her unruly hair. "Aveline will have me out of her hair, at least, and she has Donnic now, but the amount of scabby riffraff I normally take care of will still be another burden on her and the guard. No one goes near Fenris' mansion; he can take care of himself. And Merrill's got Varric to watch over her, she'll learn to…"
Seeing her increasingly upset, the prince sought out her hand, his reassuring grip an attempt to stifle whatever train of thought threatened to pull her back.
"All things must change, mo gràidh," he assured her in soft, firm tones. "They are all strong and capable, as you've taught them to be." He allowed himself the hint of a smirk. "And if we should happen to mention any vacant houses or commissions in Starkhaven, even the Maker couldn't fault us."
She laughed at that, and he was bolstered to continue by her response. "How long will you need?"
There was a thoughtful silence, gears clicking and whirring behind her eyes as she tallied numbers and people and problems.
"With Varric's connections and some well-placed coin," she slowly answered, considering her answer carefully, "six months."
More than reasonable, Sebastian conceded, given the degree to which she was ingrained into the fibers of that city. "I will tell the Bann."
"And you will stay here?"
Of course not was his immediate reaction. He would be what she needed him to be, so long as he was by her side.
His explanation, however, explored different reasoning. "I could use that time to train others at the chantry in their new duties, sever my ties cleanly." Hawke was watching his mouth intently – he had since gleaned that she was particularly fond of the way his accent rolled over his 'r's. With a mental note to be more mindful of his diction, in a more pleasing manner, he continued. "And as always, assist you in whatever way you may need."
Her expression gentled – though not warmed – and she pulled his hand up to press her lips to the skin there. "Thank you."
"Of course, Hawke."
After all, Kirkwall still awaited their return – rife with crime and corpses and conflict.
