Sorrow was like sleeping on stone, he decided. You had to settle all its bumps and sharp edges, come to terms against them, fit them around until they became bearable, and then carry your bed wherever you went.
Od Magic, Patricia McKillip

Nearly six weeks after the night the carriage burned, they came upon a village tucked into the trees. It was set at a crossroads known to Hawke, large enough for an inn and too small for a standing guard, and its villagers survived off the fishing from a nearby river. The caravan had planned to stay here on the original route, but as Hawke pointed out, with their arrival so delayed, any lingering watchers had almost certainly moved on. Worth the risk for news, surely, and if they happened to get a bath and a hot meal from it at the same time—

It was not wise, but she had asked for so little in their travels that he could not bring himself to refuse.

The innkeeper was a wary woman, but she sold them a room and sent them upstairs with strict orders to bathe and rinse their clothes before touching her sheets. They carried up the water by light of the setting sun, then took turns watching the door; by the time dusk had fallen they were barred in their small room with a plate of roast beef each and two small glasses of mulled wine.

"Heaven," Hawke said, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and she tore at the bread with her teeth.

Fenris ate more slowly, considering. Well over a month had passed since their last hot meal indoors, and the meat was tough and overcooked, but Hawke relished it like the rarest stuffed pheasant on a Starkhaven feast table. His throat grew abruptly tight, and he moved from the chair he'd braced against the door to kneel in front of Hawke, setting his half-eaten plate aside.

"Your Highness, I owe you an apology."

Her fork slowed, and she lifted her eyebrows. "I very sincerely doubt that, Captain."

"I didn't see the ambush coming. I could not stop it when it did."

Now she set down her own plate, only a few breadcrumbs left swimming in gravy. "Neither did I. Neither did Hanley, or Petra, or anyone besides Druvond and Murena and whomever else worked with them."

"Yes, but—" he groped for the enormity of his failure, stood restlessly, and paced the small room. "You should be in Starkhaven right now. With the prince, sitting at fine tables, your ladies-in-waiting—" he did not know what ladies-in-waiting did and could not invent a task quickly enough, "—you should be preparing for your marriage to Sebastian. Not this. Not sitting on the floor of a filthy inn waiting for death to come through that door." A thought struck him, humiliatingly belated. "Your family doesn't know you're alive."

"I thought of that," she said evenly, but there was no malice in it. "But given there's nothing to be done for it now without seriously endangering both our lives, it seemed better to let them suffer for a moment and imagine the joyful reunion later." Her voice softened. "And for you with your prince, as well."

That had not even occurred to him, the thought that Sebastian might be grieving his death, that anyone might care enough to mourn at all. He sat down hard on the narrow bed. Hawke rose and came to sit beside him. "My father taught me not to borrow trouble," she said quietly, her gaze on the door across. "What is the problem I can solve right now? What must be done to keep us alive one more day? That must come first, and the rest will follow after."

The comfort stung. How thoughtless, not to realize Sebastian would miss more than his sword at his side. Fenris had known from the first days of his memory that his greatest value came from his service. It had been an unquestioned truth, a fundamental cornerstone of his existence. But of course Sebastian would miss him. His friend, Sebastian, prince of the kingdom Starkhaven, would miss him, not for the strength of his arm but for the strength of their bond. Fenris felt at once enormously foolish and painfully glad.

"I made an oath to your father," he said at last, turning to look Hawke in the face. The room had gone dim, the innkeeper not having trusted them with candles, but there was enough moon he could still make out her features. Her lips were parted with surprise. "Now I make it to you. I swear, Your Highness, I will get you safely to Starkhaven if I must die to do it."

"Don't swear that," she said fiercely, surprising him, and snatched up his hand. "It's worthless if you die, can't you see that? You think Sebastian is the only one who would suffer from your death? If you die to save me I'll throw myself into the river out of spite. Swear by anything else. I—I order you. Well, no, I don't, just—please. Promise me you won't die."

He laughed despite himself. "As you wish. At the cost of everything but my life—"

"—Or your sword—"

"Or my sword—"

"—or your cup and chain, or your gold frogs, wherever you left them—"

"—stop—I swear I will take you safely to the city Starkhaven."

"The city Starkhaven, the kingdom Starkhaven, the river Minanter in all her glory." She squeezed his hand. "I believe you."

Fenris smiled. He had forgotten she could be beautiful when she was happy, when her hair was clean and combed and her crown-blue eyes were bright with gladness. Even if her clothes were wet from scrubbing and still stained at the hems with intractable mud, he could think of few others he would prefer to be here in her place. He was not accustomed to the feeling.

She squeezed his hand again, and he felt the cold pressure of the pewter ring. He stood abruptly, face hot. "I will take the chair."

"You can't be serious. We could fit here together, even if it would be close. We've shared holes in the dirt tighter than this. After all this, in times like these, you still stand on ceremony?"

"You are the crown princess of Kirkwall," Fenris said severely, "and I am your captain with no guard. In times like these, we have little else."

Her mouth twisted unhappily, but she did not fight him. He finished his meal quickly and settled in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, and studiously did not watch Hawke curl on her side in the bed and go, with some difficulty, to sleep.

Fenris woke Hawke just before dawn, bent close, his hand at her mouth. When she saw him she gave a sleepy, contented smile; then her eyes cleared and the smile fell away as she too heard the scratching at their door. She slid from the bed and donned her cloak and satchel, checked that the map was still safe, and looked to the window.

Fenris shook his head. Nailed shut, no hope of quick escape, and Hawke withdrew instead to the corner of the room. He silently drew his sword.

The scratching stopped. A man swore on the other side of the door, then struck it with a terrific crash. The door, and the chair wedged under the doorknob, groaned but held. He kicked the door again; the third time it collapsed in splinters, the chair back breaking off its seat, and their assailants rushed the room.

Only two, though both armed and armored. The man held a shortsword in each hand, both blades chipped and scarred. The woman in plate behind him thrust a spear at Fenris's heart, missed, and fell against the dresser. She rolled away from his first strike. His second was true but deflected by the plate. The man laughed behind him and Fenris turned enough to palm the side of his face with his free hand and shove him off balance; then the woman's spear thrust again and Fenris slammed himself back against the wall, the spear-tip missing his breastbone by a breath.

The polearm's length gave her advantage, but Fenris was much faster, and they both knew it. He pivoted left at her next strike then darted in, low, too fast for her to counter. Her eyes widened as his sword-tip drove into her throat and staggered her backwards. Red sheeted the blade as he withdrew, and she fell hard, her eyes still open, and did not move again.

He spun. Hawke had bloodied her opponent badly; he was only in cheap chain, and she had pierced it twice with Decimus's stolen knife, but on the second strike the links had caught the handle and torn it from her fingers, leaving the blade embedded in the man's stomach. He was laughing, gloved hand clutched to its smoking grip. The blade where it was buried in him was white-hot.

The power rushed eagerly to Fenris when he called. The tattoos blazed with light; he reached out and pressed his fingers into the man's back. There was resistance, as there always was, and then his hand passed through it, as it always did, and he gripped lightly in his palm the man's beating heart.

The man gave a short, shattered gasp and went to his knees. Fenris bent with him; the man's heart beat frantically, wildly, like a lark in a burning cage. "Who told you to come here?"

His voice was high, throttled by pain. "A man from Starkhaven. Bronze hair. A guardsman. I didn't know his name." Fenris tensed his hand and the man gasped. "We—we waited—argh—three weeks—"

"What have you heard of the princess of Kirkwall?"

"Nothing—augh! Nothing more than anyone else!"

"Tell me!"

"Missing," he gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head. Hawke sat down on the bed, clutching her shoulder. "Or dead on the road. No one knows. Kirkwall is on the verge of war with Starkhaven. Someone—they found bodies on the road—they're both accusing the other of treachery—"

"What of Tevinter?"

"I don't know—I don't know!"

"What has Tevinter said?" Fenris snarled, barely able to keep his fist from clenching.

The man cried out. "Nothing! I've heard nothing!"

"What's going on here?" The innkeeper stood in the broken doorway, her cheeks stained brilliant pink. Her dressing-gown was thin and threadbare; her auburn hair hung loose and tangled at her shoulders. "What have you done?"

Fenris released the man abruptly. The light of his arm went out like blood washed away by water; as he slid free the man gasped again, jerked, and died. The innkeeper stepped back, horrified.

"They came to kill me," Hawke said swiftly. Her eyes were wet and wide with fear. She limped to the doorway and clutched it, shaking like a leaf in a gale. "My father is a rich man. They took me from our fields for ransom; his man here rescued me, but they want me back or dead. Please, I beg you—tell me you didn't reveal us to them."

"No," said the woman, still pale, but her eyes softened. "Where is your father?"

"Ferelden. Lothering."

"A long way."

Hawke clutched the woman's hands. "Please. Take this. I managed to keep it when they took me, and they didn't find it. For your kindness—for your silence."

The woman opened her hands and Fenris saw the glint of sapphires and silver. "Your ladyship, I can't—"

"We'll leave now. I'll beg food from your larders, but we'll go, and I'll beg you tell them you found these people already dead."

The innkeeper hesitated. Hawke wiped tears from her eyes; the woman grimaced, shook her head brusquely, then turned away. "Be gone in ten minutes. I'll scream for old Clem then."

"Andraste smiles on you," Hawke breathed. By now Fenris had sheathed his sword and taken the man's small coinpurse from his belt; he gave the knife and the woman's spear to Hawke, who leaned heavily on it as they made their way down the stairs. A few minutes in the inn's larder rewarded them with fresh apples, pears, several packets of salted meat, and three turnips, and then he opened the door for Hawke and they fled into the grey dawn.

Her tears dried the moment they crossed into the trees, and her limp lessened significantly. When Fenris thought they had traveled far enough he splinted her knee; the shoulder would need more time, a glorious bruise blooming where the man had struck her with the hilt of his sword. Still, the joint was sound and the skin intact, and after some minutes of fussing she pushed his hands away and pronounced herself likely to survive.

He checked it again that night, when they had found a camping place surrounded by high rock on three sides and a stream on the fourth, a place safe enough for a small, brief fire. The collar of Hawke's lavender tunic was loose enough that he could expose the bruise without removing her shirt; the grotesque greeny-purple had spread across the top of her shoulder and over her collarbone in a long, wide stripe. A knot had risen on the bone the size of a robin's egg, but despite the wincing she could move the arm easily when he asked, and at his direction she touched her thumb to each fingertip rapidly and accurately.

Hawke did not speak as he felt along the bone, the movement as light as he could make it. Her gaze had gone distant, somewhere beyond the trees; she gasped once as he pressed the tender knot, but her attention was brief, and she did not seem to hear him when he pronounced her collarbone intact.

"Your Highness," he said again. This cold remoteness frightened him more than the attack; she had gone somewhere he could not follow, and he did not know how to bring her back to him. He let out a sharp breath; he said, "Hawke."

The spell vanished. She looked at him again, blinking. "I'm sorry?"

He did not hide his relief well, but neither the sentiment nor the bold familiarity seemed to perturb her. "Nothing appears to be broken. It will be sore a few days, but this should heal quickly."

"Oh," she said, and looked down at her hands. "That's good."

He hesitated, then turned to their makeshift bowl, a piece of curved bark broken off a fallen tree limb and set on hot stones beside the fire. He took the linen-wrapped sachet from the water within, the heavy drips smelling strongly of valerian and mint, and pressed it to her shoulder. With his other hand he gave her the bowl. "Drink this."

She took it in both hands but did not drink. "It smells like I'm six years old and sick in my mother's lap again."

He had no frame of reference for this. Danarius had not cared when he was ill, his duties unchanged; in Starkhaven he had eaten better, been injured less often in the first place. If his mother had ever cared for him, the memory was lost. "Why Lothering?"

"I was born there." The tea caught the firelight with an orange ripple. "It's where my parents ran when my mother married my father. Before we came back."

"How old were you when you returned?"

"Nine."

"Old enough to remember."

"Yes," she said, and lifted the bowl to her mouth. "It may surprise you to learn that very few people are willing to kill anybody for a Fereldan farmer's daughter."

He laughed softly and adjusted the sachet against her shoulder. She caught a gasp, swallowed it, and drank again. Fenris winced. "My apologies."

"Please don't," she said, and looked at him. They sat close together, his hands pressed to her shoulder before and behind. The dripping sachet had soaked her shirt, staining the fine embroidered roses the princess Bethany had sewn along her collar. The firelight was warm on her face; he was more used to the cool wash of the moon, and he struggled to read her eyes in gold where he had so easily before in silver. At last she broke away, hiding her face behind the bowl as she drank again. "It's just—it's such a waste."

"What do you mean?"

"So many innocent people—" She fluttered the fingers of her good hand as she searched for words. "They died for—for a wedding, Fenris. An expensive wedding that's more a trade agreement than a marriage. I knew what I was doing. I knew what was needed for Kirkwall's sake, and I was willing to pay the cost. For the city—for my people."

"Hawke."

"I was glad to do it." She looked up at him again, and the firelight glittered on her tears as if it longed for her. "I am glad to do it. To marry Sebastian. I was willing to leave Kirkwall and cut my ties to her people and bind myself to Starkhaven. I made this choice with my eyes open. I knew he was a kind man—I knew I could be satisfied with that. If love came later, I would be luckier still. I knew I would never have the freedom of my mother. But, Fenris—" She set down the bowl and crushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Petra—Linnea—poor, stupid Hanley—Merrill's piebald pony—"

He did not know what to do. Hawke cried silently, her shoulders trembling. Tentatively, he slid his arm around her. "No one becomes a soldier and expects safety," he told the fire. His voice was low; he did not know what he was saying, except that he believed it. "Sometimes it is worth the risk, even of death. For the safety of coin, the freedom of travel, a home and a bed... The knowledge of having someone waiting for your return, even if only your fellow guardsmen. Or your prince." His fingers tightened on her arm. "And sometimes the duty is enough. When the task itself is worth doing, beyond all promise of reward or glory."

She gave a soft, wet laugh. "Flatterer." The little fire crackled; she drained the rest of the bowl, and he felt the muscles of her back move with the motion. "If we are made of the choices we make, duty must be thrilled to have two such obedient servants."

He laughed as well. "The gods themselves will cheer on your wedding day."

"And soon enough you'll have a horde of little princelings running rampant in the palace. A new set of errant royalty for you to fret over instead. Or is that too lowly a province for the captain of the White Guard?"

The image leapt to his mind's eye. Hawke sat on the white throne at Sebastian's right hand. Light fell like a hammer on the gold diadem on her brow, the gold cup she held. A boy stood beside her, his hair Sebastian's russet red, his eyes Hawke's blue, and the child laid his hand on Hawke's arm. His heart clenched.

"Fenris?" She had straightened to look at him, her brows creased with concern.

"All is well," he said, not certain it was true, and took the sachet from her shoulder. "I was thinking only of the disaster they would call down upon the halls. Go to sleep, Your Highness."

The title sat heavy on his tongue. Good, he thought, and bitter, and as Hawke told the fire to bank itself and curled to sleep, he put his back to the moonlight and watched the forest grow dark.