Why did you let your eyes so rest on me,
And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
As if it had not been.
—A Moment, Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
—
Fenris knew instantly where they were when they disembarked. He did not need a port, a road, the tatters of Hawke's maps; he had spent months hidden in these woods with Sebastian nine years ago when they planned his retaking of his city. For the first time in three months, for the first time since an arrow flew from the trees and knocked Petra dead from her horse, he knew every step ahead of his feet.
He took them first to a small village near the water. He knew it to be friendly to the prince, knew several of the townspeople there, but as they neared two men in the uniform of the White Guard rode out along the road towards the sea, and he did not know their faces. He withdrew with Hawke to the side of the road, their hoods up and faces turned, until the guard had passed.
"They could be new members," Hawke said into his ear. "New recruits, brought in to search for you."
"To search for you," Fenris said, and shook his head as the princess leaned heavily on her spear. "Or Tevinter spies."
He was shocked by his own frustration. They were in his country; they were near people he knew. He wanted badly to give Hawke a roof, a fire, clothes with neither mud nor holes. He could hardly remember how she looked at the feast-tables in Kirkwall, her hair in gold netting, her dress made of crimson brocade and black sable. That memory had blurred like water smeared over glass, turning the burning torchlight within into something shadowed and strange. She had become only this to him now, a tall slender woman of no more note than any other traveling farmer, with black braided hair and a look of faint hunger in her face before she smiled.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, and the inadequacy of the sentiment roiled in his gut. "Hawke, I'm sorry. We should keep to the trees a little longer."
She put her hand on his arm. "I don't mind, Fenris. Truly."
He believed her, which was nearly worse, and led them off the road.
They camped that night at the mouth of a river near the coast. The next day they walked through misty rain and low peatlands, where Hawke nearly lost a boot, and slept under a hill covered with spreading heather. The weather favored them the day after, the rain holding off despite a grey and rumbling sky, but at dusk the clouds opened, and they took shelter in a cave Fenris remembered well from his days of being hunted with Sebastian.
They ate together quietly that evening, sharing the last packet of dried beef, hardtack from Isabela's ship, a few slices of apple and pear. The night was cool, made cooler by the grey rain sheeting outside the cave's mouth, but the sloping stone beneath them was too wet to build a fire even with Hawke's coaxing.
Hawke dampened her hands in a little stream of water running over a rock at her elbow, then wiped the crumbs on her stained leather leggings. Once they had been a tawny, buttery tan; now they were an indiscriminate grey mess. She laughed abruptly. "If my mother could see me now, she'd faint."
"I think she would be glad to see you alive."
"She'd faint twice, then." She folded the bit of waxed paper on itself, unfolded it, and folded it again. "Do you think we'll reach the city tomorrow?"
"Yes. Even with the rain." They were so close it could hardly be helped.
"It's almost impossible to believe. I keep forgetting there's ever been anything else." She stood and walked to the mouth of the cave, her arms wrapped around herself. "Just think. If all had gone according to plan, I'd have been married to Sebastian two months already. You'd be strutting around the palace in your helmet with the great white feather trying to hide how much you hated me."
There was laughter in her voice and he smiled to hear it. But there was—he thought—grief, too—
Fenris pushed to his feet. Their wet cloaks had been set aside optimistically to dry overnight; her satchel sat atop the same boulder, half-opened, and he saw inside the folded letters, the maps, her little journal, Varric's pen. One silver coin. Two pearldrop earrings.
He came to stand behind her. She leaned against the cave wall, watching the rain fall steady and unbroken; the moonlight was better here, caught in languorous lines over her hunched shoulders, her cheek, her eyes. Her tears.
"Hawke," Fenris said gently, and she turned to look at him.
Their faces were very close. She met his eyes steadily, and then she lifted her hand and let it come to rest on his chest. He could feel the slight pressure of her fingers between the metal toggles, at the jerkin's high leather collar. He thought she could feel his heart pounding like a hammer.
He put his hand over hers, let his thumb slide beneath her slim wrist. Here, too, was a pulse that raced. He meant to push; he pulled instead, tightened his grip.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth. His breath caught, held, released again—she tilted her head and their noses brushed—the air thinned, hummed, went tight as a bowstring on the verge of snapping—
She turned her head away the same moment he staggered back, gasping. Their hands fell apart; his fingers burned like fire.
She had covered her face, bent into herself like a willow tree in wind. Fenris clutched the cave's wall, tried to drag its implacable coldness into his own heart. He wanted to weep; he wanted to smash the stone into splinters.
"Tell me," she said behind him, choked with tears like the steady rain, "about Sebastian."
"He is a good man," Fenris said, and that was true, and an agony. His voice was rough as unpolished Kirkwall rock. "He is kind. He has been a friend to me longer than I deserved."
"He favors the bow."
"Yes. He reads your letters again and again." He buried his face in his hand. "He asked me to treat you well, when I left. He asked me to be kind to you."
Hawke laughed. It was a sharp sound like a snapped branch, harsh as a crow. "My mother said something similar the day we left Kirkwall. Don't make things difficult for the poor captain, dear. He has a job to do."
Fenris gave a hollow snort. He could not look at her. "Isabela warned me."
"Me, too."
"Sebastian is fond of flowers, though he will not admit it. White lilies, gold roses. His mother would arrange dozens of vases around the palace. The servants know who does it now, but they pretend not to." He heard Hawke swallow hard. "He worships Andraste. He lives her tenets because he believes them, not for show. He cannot lie believably."
"Good," Hawke said. "Good."
"He is prepared to love you," Fenris said, but that—hurt too badly. He fell silent, head bowed, both hands splayed on stone.
He heard Hawke leave the cave's mouth, move deeper into shadow where the stone was not so wet. She laid down there, curled on her side, and did not speak again. Fenris stayed by the opening and watched the rain fall without stopping, until the sun rose and broke the clouds apart, one by one, until they were nothing at all.
—
They reached the city at midmorning. Starkhaven was beautiful even beyond Fenris's relief. It sprawled astride a narrow ribbon of the Minanter, gleaming white and gold in the sunlight. Hills rose smoothly on either side, thick with hawthorn; farmhouses and cottages surrounded the city and spread away from it up into the hills, lining wide paved roads that disappeared into breaks between autumn-red trees. Sheep trundled by in white flocks, sudden and pleasing against the lowland green; cowherds and their dogs strolled across stone bridges even older than the kingdom, their narrow arches scattered over streams and rivers like the clasps of a long jacket.
The city proper was enclosed by high walls of shining granite that spanned fully across the river. Blocks had been stacked on blocks over centuries, tall elegant gates installed at regular intervals for roads, for wide flat bridges, for the flat-bottomed ships waiting in the river to circle the city through its tiered locks and continue south. Higher still, at the city's heart, stood another round wall of lustrous marble, not so high but thicker at the base, ringing the great white palace of Starkhaven and its vast grounds.
"Beautiful!" Hawke said, putting her hand to her heart. "Fenris, it's lovely."
"Yes, Your Highness."
She flinched. He caught his breath at the wound, wretched, and led their way down the hill towards the city without speaking.
These roads were busy, and they kept their hoods high as they took the main thoroughfares across farmland, cottages, smaller markets, and the occasional rustic abbey. They crossed a flat stone bridge wide enough to fit four blasted carriages at the city's edge, white pennants blazing from every post, and passed through the abrupt shadow of the outer city wall as the Minanter hummed and sang beneath them. Into the city at last. Into the heart of Starkhaven proper, after all this time.
They moved through the streets of Starkhaven quickly, avoiding zealous merchants and traders, men and women with handcarts heading to and from the great trading squares, farmers guiding their donkeys with overladen wooden wagons trailing behind. He searched the faces of every guard he saw. He had grown too removed from Starkhaven's footsoldiers; he did not know these men and women atop their armored horses, their eyes shadowed with visors and passing with suspicion over the townspeople before them. "Further in, Your Highness," he said at last, and she reached for his arm, then drew back without touching him.
Starkhaven had been built tall and splendid. The streets were wide and kept clean by city servants; they lay in a pleasing order one after the other, never trailing off into half-thoughts of rocky mountain gardens or disappearing into the mouth of some great mining cavern. In richer districts a second level of business had been built atop the first, and elegant stone-and-wood bridges arched over their heads to connect them. Starkhaven was famous for its granaries, for its prowess with wool and weaving; Hawke caught her breath at the displays in the finest shops they passed, the cloaks of richly dyed tiretaine falling finer than silk in the windows, the unblushing spreads of fruit and flatbreads and nuts on the tables of nearby diners.
The palace on the hill grew larger. It was not nearly so craggy as Kirkwall; Starkhaven's stonemasons had built it to be beautiful, and it shimmered in the sun. The central tower was tall and square, draped in banners of white and cloth-of-gold; two shorter square towers flanked it on either side with high crenellations, welcoming guests and intimidating the more malicious. Through the iron gates of its surrounding wall they glimpsed expansive gardens, dozens of outbuildings, a smithy, a henhouse. No ancient warding runes had been carved into these lintels; Starkhaven preferred more concrete defenses, and at each closed gate stood four of the White Guard.
Then—at last—Fenris took Hawke's arm, shock and relief overcoming reticence. He knew the perpetually stubbled face, the wavy brown hair and kind brown eyes. "That is Donnic Hendyr. He will know me. He will take us to Sebastian—I trust him with my life."
He turned to her, heart pounding. She swallowed hard, lips pressed together, and then she moved swiftly to the window of a nearby bookkeeper and rebraided her hair, wiped her face, removed her cloak and straightened her clothing as best she could. She took the spear from her back and the satchel from her shoulder and gave both to Fenris, then plucked her beaten journal from its depths and tucked it into her belt.
"Well?" she asked, and spread her arms. "How do I look?"
Tired. Lovely. All the dirt in the world could not dull the glint of her eyes nor dampen the brilliance of her smile. Her hands were white and elegant even beneath calluses and fingernails chipped to the quick; the black braid of her hair hung long and thick down her back. Her clothes were hopeless, the lavender tunic's hem long come undone, the leggings ripped at the knees, the sole of her left boot untacked and the heel broken. She looked like someone who had lived hard for three months and had grown used to it.
But the roses were delicate at her collar, and there was chagrin in her voice behind her irony.
"You are beautiful, Your Highness," he said, and he meant it. She let her arms fall.
They crossed the street. The guardsmen watched him come, spear in hand and sword at his waist, wary but not alarmed. Some vagabond, some exhausted mercenary, nothing more—
He saw the moment Donnic's eyes sharpened. Saw him jolt, heard the ring of armor against itself; saw his hands tremble as he took off his white helmet and came to meet him. "Captain," breathed Donnic, eyes so wide the whites shown all the way around. "It can't be—Maker, you can't—"
Fenris pushed the hood from his head. The sun struck his white hair like the flat of a blade; Donnic's hand fisted against his heart as if in pain rather than salute, and a ripple of murmuring recognition ran through the rest of the onlooking soldiers. "Sergeant," Fenris said, weary beyond words. "Take us to An Taigh Gheal immediately. I must speak with Prince Sebastian without delay."
"Yes, Captain," Donnic gasped. He turned on his heel, spun back again to grip Fenris by both shoulders. "Captain. I don't know if you've heard—the princess of Kirkwall—"
"—is here," Fenris said, and stepped out of Donnic's hold. Hawke came to stand beside him, her smile unembarrassed but worn thin as glass. Donnic's breath caught; he bowed at the waist, and the gathering guardsmen bowed with him. The great barred gate behind him opened with a shout.
This was too much attention. Fenris shepherded Hawke through the gate quickly, but the guard followed and the number grew with every step. Soon there were a dozen onlookers trailing after, then two dozen, the latecomers unsure of the bustle's source but eager to participate regardless. He hurried up the wide white avenue before the main doors of the palace, Donnic half a step ahead and now carrying Hawke's spear. Then—
One of the palace doors opened, a sheet of worked gold that held the noon sun like a mirror. Sebastian Vael stepped through the doorway, his head turned to speak to someone behind him; then he looked ahead and met Fenris's eyes.
He fell still mid-step. Fenris himself stumbled to a halt, unable to continue; Donnic took a few steps more, then moved aside. The little circle of silence spun outwards, a spool unwinding, until they stood a dozen paces apart and there was no sound but the banners whipped by the wind and the deep-throated call of river geese.
"Fenris," Sebastian said in wonder, like a man pulled from the depths of a lightless well. His blue eyes were wide in his sun-browned face; he still wore his chestnut hair the same, cut short and swept back. He still carried all the broad strength of an archer in his shoulders, though his hands dangled uselessly now at his sides. He stepped forward with jerky paces—then Fenris did too, and they met in the middle in a ferocious embrace.
Sebastian breathed some grace above him, then pulled back to look at him at arm's length. His voice shook. "My friend, Fenris, my brother. I thought you were dead."
"No," said Fenris thickly, and Sebastian pulled him back with fierce affection. "I have returned, Sebastian."
He felt Sebastian smile; then he felt the tremble of the prince's shock as he saw who stood behind them. Fenris pulled away with difficulty, then bowed to his prince. "Your Royal Highness," he said, stronger, and when he stretched out his hand Hawke came forward and placed hers atop it lightly, delicately, her fingertips barely brushing his dark skin. "Three months ago and more I swore an oath to the king of Kirkwall; today I fulfill it. The road has been long and dangerous. This is the crown princess of Kirkwall, Her Royal Highness Euphemia Amell, called Hawke, daughter of Queen Leandra and King Malcolm. She journeyed with me bravely despite treachery and death. She has come to be your wife."
Sebastian's breath caught. His hand fell from Fenris's shoulder to Hawke's hand; he took it from him, pressed it between both of his, and knelt before her.
"Lady," Sebastian said, looking up, and his eyes shone with gratitude. It might have been absurd, his shining white mail and fur mantle against her ruined leathers, but he was princely in the gesture, and her crown-blue eyes were stern. "I kneel in awe of your fortitude. The joy your safe arrival brings me can be matched only by the joy I know it will bring your family."
"You are very kind, my lord," she said gravely. "The tale is long and arduous. You see me now at my worst in many ways. But if you will have me still, I have come to you to fulfill the promises we made to each other so many months ago. For Starkhaven's sake, and for Kirkwall's."
He kissed her hands and rose. "For Starkhaven," he said to her, smiling broadly, and then he turned to the breathless watching crowd and lifted her hand into the air. "For Kirkwall!" the prince cried, and the throngs cheered with him in open-throated joy. "For Kirkwall! For Starkhaven! For Kirkwall!"
But it was Hawke whom Fenris watched as the crowds roared, as she put her other hand into Sebastian's and smiled up at him, as she turned away with him towards the doors of An Taigh Gheal.
He followed them into the palace. She did not look back.
