AN: As always, I owe enormous thanks to rannadylin on tumblr for her help with my Latin butchery. Thank you, darling!

Men shall rise and say, "He is my friend…
I am his friend. And for that cause I walk
Not overclose beside him, leaving still
Space for his silences, and space for mine."
—I Hear It Said, Barbara Young

—

They sat together the next morning in Sebastian's office to sign the last of the duchy's obligations. The paperwork was excessively grand, the fine cream-colored sheets decorated with illuminated capitals and handwriting chosen more for beauty than legibility. Fenris tried gamely to make out what words he could, but many flourishes were extravagant to the point of deliberate obscuration, and after two or three sentences he was forced to concede defeat. Hawke over his shoulder could make out little more; Sebastian took pity on all three of them and read the whole thing aloud, though Fenris privately thought the language as uselessly floral as the handwriting.

Regardless, no unexpected surprises lurked in the text, and in short order Sebastian pressed a pen upon him and Fenris gave his cramped, spidering signature to the page. Sebastian signed after, the S embellished but the rest of his name and title printed plainly; he dropped white wax upon the paper and stamped it with his ring, and it was done.

"Keep the pen," Sebastian said, smiling. "The first gift to a new duke."

Fenris grimaced—if he was not a strong reader, his writing was even worse—but it was beautiful red mahogany polished to a mirror shine, and the nib was gold and ran ink smoothly, and when Sebastian saw his hesitation he took the pen from him and tucked it into Fenris's breast pocket. He let out a breath. "Thank you, Sebastian."

"It is my pleasure," he said warmly, and a knock sounded at the door.

Morton entered at Sebastian's call. His brow was ever-so-slightly furrowed, a mark of extreme concern, and he pulled the door closed behind him. "Your Royal Highnesses," he said, and his voice was low, too, to keep from carrying. "Captain—that is, Your Grace. I apologize for the interruption. A small delegation has arrived from Tevinter without warning. They wish to speak to you without delay."

"Tevinter?" Fenris said sharply.

"Yes, Your Grace. They say they have come from Minrathous directly with all haste." Morton glanced behind him with pointed politeness. "They are dusty enough to be believed."

Sebastian blotted the signatures and set the deed of title away in his desk, out of sight. "No emissary was expected. Who are they?"

"A young senator named Dorian Pavus and two diplomats, Your Highness. They are aware we have sent away Ambassador Erimond and insist their purpose is separate."

Sebastian looked to Fenris. "I will defer to you. You would know better than me what they wish to say."

"How best to wring power from their blood-slaves," Fenris said bitterly. "Or boasting over their superior architecture." Would he know better? Ten years removed from the magisters, ten years removed from the shining Senate's hall, from standing silently at the back of the amphitheater as he watched his master smile and spend armies with his words. He had known his place, then, and his purpose; he had shed both when he had fled. There was only one reason Tevinter sought escaped slaves.

Still. More to consider here than his own sour history, even if his teeth ached from the clench. Fenris sighed, stifling the anger by force. "Veiled threats, most likely. It is better to know the enemy's plan than be caught unaware. Send them in."

Morton bowed and withdrew. Hawke touched his arm. "I can step out if you like."

The very suggestion unsettled him. "No. Stay."

Her face softened, and she sat herself upon the sofa near where Fenris stood. She wore a soft, muted green gown today with white accents; the fabric was expensive and looked it, and when her expression firmed into stern resolution she fit the very picture of an unwelcoming royal. Sebastian came forward beside her, and after a moment they heard footsteps in the hall.

The door opened. In came Morton first, who announced them with perfect aplomb: Senator Dorian Pavus of Tevinter, his enormous moustache fastidious to the point of excess and his black hair neatly pomaded; a stout older woman named Damia, with steel-grey hair pulled back in a ruthless bun; and a slender young man with uncertain brown eyes and hair pale as chaff, called—

"Feynriel," Hawke said with affection, though she did not rise as he crossed to bend over her hand. "What a pleasant surprise. This is the last place I ever expected to see you. How have you found your studies?"

"Vey well, Your Highness," he said, visibly pleased at her memory, though he withdrew again quickly at the older woman's stern look. Fenris thought she might have been a senator, once—her face was familiar to him in passing—but the years where he had known each Minrathous politician by face and name were long past. Morton departed, shutting the door behind him. "But Master Pavus will explain all of it."

The aforementioned Master Pavus, who did not appear at all surprised at his subordinate's familiarity with a princess, bowed to Sebastian and Hawke both. Then he inclined his head to Fenris, which was more than he expected, and the glint in his eyes took on a faint shade of self-mockery. "Your Royal Highnesses. Captain Fenris."

"I see you have not heard," Hawke said, smiling without friendship. "The captain has newly taken possession of the duchy of Lann Tròcaireach."

That did surprise Pavus; one immaculate eyebrow rose, just for a moment, before he bowed again to Fenris, a degree or two more pronounced than before. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Regardless, a pleasure to meet you all. I can gather our sudden appearance upon your doorstep has caused some measurable distress. Pray forgive the intrusion."

"That is possible yet, Senator," Sebastian said mildly, "though we'll hear your purpose first before deciding. We expected a letter, not a delegation."

"Yes," Dorian Pavus said, the smile sliding from his face, and he withdrew a crimson packet from his vest and offered it to the prince. It had been spared the worst of the travel dust—indeed, mud had spattered up past the hems of the long riding jackets all three still wore—and it was sealed with rich stamped wax. "I bring you this message from the hand of the Archon himself, and I speak with his authority in this matter. If I may?"

Sebastian took the packet and began untying the black cord that bound it. "Please."

"To His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven. Long may he reign," Dorian recited without any apparent trace of irony as Sebastian read, and Fenris's mouth twisted. "We write regarding the recent shocking attack upon your royal personage within the beautiful walls of An Taigh Gheal. This attack is especially grievous given the similar peril that befell Her Royal Highness, the crown princess Euphemia Amell of Kirkwall, while on the road to your kingdom. We are given to understand that the assassins in both attacks may have represented themselves as having ties to Tevinter.

"We avow to Your Highness in the strongest language that Tevinter was neither aware of nor participated in these heinous acts of cowardice. For the sake of peace we offer to cooperate to the fullest extent possible with any investigation you deem necessary, and we assure you we bear only the greatest hope for your continued health and happiness as our neighbor to the south. Word has reached us of your joyful betrothal to Kirkwall's first daughter; we wish you a long and fruitful partnership. From the hand of the Archon to yours, et cetera, et cetera."

Ridiculous. Minrathous mealiness, all froth with no substance. To the fullest extent possible—and therefore none at all. A waste of time and good horses.

But Dorian saw Fenris's doubt and continued, the moustache curling wryly. "So goes the official statement, anyway. But I have a plainer message for His Grace, if he'll hear it."

Both the address and the act surprised him, but Fenris found his voice quickly. "Speak."

"There is reason to believe that the hand behind these attacks is that of your former master, Danarius. Certain letters have come to light, certain meetings." There were odd pauses between the words, as if Dorian chose each one carefully. "It recently became clear that even explicit command from the Archon himself could not force him to abandon these attacks on you, and the Senate had no choice but to vote for Danarius's removal from their body. If he wished to dedicate so much time and effort to personal matters, you see, it was best he did so without distraction. The articles were drafted the night of the assault in His Highness's lovely gardens, and the vote was finalized the day after."

There were undercurrents here. Dorian was trying to tell him something, circuitous and circling as any Tevinter lordling in committee. "A very short time to decide and enact such a thing," Fenris said slowly, feeling out his way. "Unless—unless they knew such an attack would occur. Unless they already knew Tevinter might be blamed for it, and needed a ready sacrifice to quell Starkhaven's fury."

"I can hardly speculate on the Archon's motives."

"I can." Fenris was right; he knew he was right. Damia watched him with narrowed eyes and said nothing; Feynriel looked fretfully between his master and the senator. "They knew of Danarius's plans. Am I right, Dorian Pavus? They knew he would come for me, and how, and when. Yet your Senate sent no warning to the prince, only waited to see if he would succeed. Why?"

"For the Minanter," Hawke said, her voice level. "For the mountain."

Her face had gone very hard. Fenris's blood pounded in his ears. "Yes. For the mountain. For war." He could see it clearly now. "They let Danarius do as he wished. Let him hire assassins, let him buy the White Guard, let him buy Starkhaven's barons. Perhaps they even provided the coin. He would be allowed his attempts at my return even if it endangered the princess of Kirkwall. No. Because the princess of Kirkwall might be killed. Because Prince Sebastian might have been harmed." He laughed, sharp as a thrown knife.

Hawke stood. "That was why he needed Decimus. That was why the letters were planted framing Kirkwall. Because the more ties Kirkwall appeared to have to Tevinter, the greater Starkhaven's doubt would become."

"Yes." Fenris's hands traced his thoughts in the air; his words tripped over each other in his haste. "If Danarius had succeeded in the woods, Tevinter would have triumphed with him. I would have been returned. The princess of Kirkwall would have been missing or dead and in my absence Starkhaven's White Guard would have been to blame; or if the assassins here had succeeded, Prince Sebastian would be dead and Kirkwall behind it instead. Tevinter makes no move that does not serve its own interests, and your Archon is interested in war."

Sebastian looked furious. "Any chance at accord would have been lost. War would have come between us, and eventually one side or the other would have had to ask for foreign aid. And there would be Tevinter, standing ready to provide any assistance, though at a painful price."

"Except Danarius failed. Merrill escaped to reveal the truth; the princess and I survived. The assassins were slaughtered in the garden." Fenris quelled the angry rippling of his markings with great effort. "And so Minrathous gladly throws Danarius from their ranks of power and pretends the issue solved."

The ironic gleam in Dorian's eyes had returned. "You understand I am hardly authorized to comment on such supposition."

"A viper with no teeth," Fenris sneered, and Hawke laid a hand on his wrist. He forced his voice to calm. "It doesn't matter. Danarius will come for me again, with or without your Archon's tacit support, and Tevinter will find herself Starkhaven's enemy rather than her ally."

"Precisely," Dorian said. His smile was still there beneath the neat moustache; his look had gone opaque. "Frankly, Your Grace, you have become too inconvenient to remain a slave. Your friends—forgive me, Your Highnesses—are too powerful to openly insult. Tevinter cannot endorse this appearance of state-sanctioned slaughter any longer, and I hear," he added, glancing from Fenris to Hawke, "you stand to rise further yet. Therefore, I am authorized on behalf of my country to present Your Grace a gift—or, perhaps, an apology."

He drew another envelope from his vest. This one was smaller, black and very simple, and he gave it to Fenris with great solemnity.

His hands were steady. He was glad of that—infinitely glad. He slit the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of folded parchment. This text was clearer than the deed of title, printed in a square, blocky hand, likely some scribe hurrying through a stack of a hundred like these at once. The heading stood large and black: Manumissionis Edictum—his eyes jumped down the page—auctoritate Archonis Radonis—servus Fenris qui fuit Danarii—

"Liberatur," Fenris said, breathless with scorn, and he crumpled the page in his fist so hard the markings lit in a white flash.

"Fenris?" Hawke's voice, low, concerned.

He could hardly see for the anger. He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I am freed. By the order of the Archon himself."

Hawke drew in a sharp breath. Sebastian's hand landed on his shoulder, firm and bracing, and Fenris shut his eyes against the rage.

The indignity was astounding. Even now, Tevinter was using him. This—his freedom, precious beyond price—awarded to him not out of recognition of his right to be free, but because his freedom served their greater goals. A senator could not be allowed to stain the kingdom's reputation in fruitless, bloody chase—so let the object of pursuit be removed from the field. How many sleepless nights had he spent in abject flight—deathly afraid of every sound—how many soldiers had he killed—and now, at last, when by chance and connection he had become too much a nuisance to ignore, a few lines of ink on paper declared his struggle over and done.

Impersonal. Bloodless. A gift that cost them nothing at all.

He could not sort out his thoughts. He was furious—humiliated—grateful and ashamed of it—he clenched the page again and turned away from the eyes of Tevinter witnesses. Sebastian stepped easily into his place, his archer's shoulders broad enough to shield, and as his warm brogue filled the air Fenris felt Hawke draw close and take his hand. "Fenris," she whispered, gently. "I'm here. Stay with me. I'm right here, Fenris."

That was enough. The anger did not recede, but the clouds broke, and he could again see sky through them. He reached for that clear surety, pressed it into his heart.

He took a deep breath, then another. A signature on vellum, nothing more. It no more defined him now than his skill with the sword in battle, than the duties he had taken up for Sebastian's sake. He had won his freedom with his own choices, with his friendships. Tevinter could not give it to him; Danarius could not take it.

Still. For Sebastian's sake—for Hawke's sake—it was better this way. Cleaner. He could appreciate that from a distance. And perhaps—

Perhaps—

Hawke's voice was very soft. "Can you bear it?"

Fenris turned to look at her, her face white and worried, her eyebrows creased with concern. The anger still simmered, but it was endurable now. "Yes," he said at last, and it was not a lie. He turned back to the others.

"…a tradition to prevent a coup," Damia was telling Sebastian, her lined face proud and firm. "After the papers of expulsion were signed, I submitted my resignation as their author. But I was not ready to be idle, and so when Senator Pavus told to me his purpose on this journey, I offered to come with my apprentice Feynriel and aid him. You will need a new ambassador regardless, Your Highness."

"We shall see," the prince said only, and yielded when Fenris came forward.

"Dorian Pavus," he said, strong again, and the young senator met his eyes. His gaze was sharp with insight, and Fenris thought he knew the insult given with Fenris's freedom and had taken no pleasure in it. "You have risked much to tell us this."

"As I recall, you did most of the talking. Perhaps I simply dislike Danarius."

"I think you dislike the idea of war." Dorian's mouth tightened, but he said nothing, and Fenris lifted the orders of manumission. "Danarius will stop at nothing to hunt me down. If even being thrown from the Senate will not stop him, what makes you think this paper would matter?"

Dorian tilted his dark head. "Do you have another idea, Your Grace?"

"Swear aid."

Dorian's brows shot to his hairline and Feynriel gasped, but a moment later the senator's moustache began to curl with a smile. "I believe I take your meaning. Give the viper back its fangs." His smile broadened. "My authority is not unilateral, but even a former senator cannot be seen to flout the Archon's decree without reprisal."

"An overture of cooperation. Reparation. Make it clear Danarius moves now without Tevinter support. Let those who harbor him know they do so for a fugitive." Yes. He liked that more and more. Danarius running—Danarius hiding, even with all his wealth— "Compensate the crown for the damages and death caused by the last attack. Not only Starkhaven, but Kirkwall, too, for the attack on the road. Swear support against future assault. Coin, men. Swear more reprisal for Danarius than simply stripping him of power."

"Not just assurance of consequences," Dorian offered, eyes glittering. "Real and measurable aid for any kingdom harmed at his hand. Should Danarius move against a man freed by the Archon's decree, no matter where he is, Tevinter must be seen to stand against him."

"And Starkhaven," Sebastian said, and his hand came once more to Fenris's shoulder. "Do not doubt it."

"And Kirkwall," Hawke said fiercely. Her fingers gripped his tightly. "He's welcome to break himself upon the mountain whenever he likes."

His chest was so tight it burned. It was not justice—that was impossible—but it was near enough for satisfaction. Near enough he could catch his breath, could slow his blind, desperate flight. Sebastian would be safe. Hawke would be safe, with the weight of three countries at her back, no matter how many mercenaries Danarius might buy. Short of gutting his master at this very moment he could do little more to protect her besides leaving her altogether, and that was impossible. If nothing else, she would never have permitted it. "Swear oaths, Dorian Pavus, and bind Tevinter to them. Then we will see."

"It will be my pleasure," Dorian said with unexpected sincerity. "Formidable as the proposition may be, I suspect the Senate will find it more palatable than open war. Damia still has powerful friends, and I am persuasive when moved. I must send word to a few people, but with some slight luck I'll have a proposal drafted within the week. I will speak to your ministers directly, Your Highness, with your permission. And—with your generosity—perhaps a bath?"

"Granted, Senator." Sebastian went to the door; Morton reappeared at once. "Please find rooms for the Tevinter delegation. They must speak to the ministers as soon as they've had a chance to wash. Have Tavish make a note on the schedule for the afternoon session. I will join you as soon as I can." He glanced back at the three of them, travel-stained and clearly tired despite Dorian's amusement. "It may be a stay of some duration."

"I've always wished to see the south in winter," Dorian said, but the sarcasm faded as he turned again to Fenris. "Your Grace," he said, and he bowed again, and then he withdrew with Damia and still-staring Feynriel, and they were alone.

The room had suddenly gone very quiet, very still. Somewhere outside a flock of geese called distantly overhead, growing loud as they flew nearer and then passing on again, towards the river.

"Well," Hawke said at last, sinking down to the sofa with a gusty sigh, "it's nice to know Tevinter can't even give a present without ruining someone's day."

Fenris snorted and sat beside her, though with less theatrics. "Few places are more poisonous. To even come near the place is to be corrupted."

"How perfectly cynical." She rested her chin in her hand. "So it was Danarius on the road instead of Tevinter after all. Or, at least, mostly him."

"Perhaps." Possible yet that Dorian had lied to them, though Fenris did not think he had. Possible yet that Danarius would still move against him the moment he found the strength. But even the Archon could not easily break oaths sworn to princes, and the outcome might be favorable regardless. Once Tevinter had bound themselves in word and deed to repay the insult of one of their countrymen, it would not be difficult to stretch that promise to include other offending senators—diplomats—slavers—

"I see your thoughts," Hawke murmured in his ear, smiling, and Fenris realized he had been silent too long. "We'll make a king of you yet, hm?"

He grimaced. "A child takes one step and you proclaim him an acrobat."

"A handsome acrobat. My favorite acrobat in the whole world." She kissed him lightly, let him go. "Sebastian, what do you think?"

His prince had gone to stand at the large bay window overlooking the river. The sky was grey today with the threat of cold autumn rain, and the feeble light clung to his shoulders. "Better than I had hoped," he said at last, turning to look at them. His brow was furrowed with grief. "I feared they had come to claim you at last."

Hawke went very still. A painful knot rose swiftly in Fenris's throat. "I thought the same."

"Ten years," Sebastian said, a little distant, and then he smiled, and that was painful too. "I wish I could have made you safe, my friend."

Fenris rose quickly to his feet, crossed to Sebastian at the window. "There is only one way to make me safe," Fenris said roughly, and he took Sebastian's hand in his own and gripped it. "That death is not yours to take. I did not need—when I met you, death was all I knew. More would have meant nothing to me." His voice had grown tight with emotion. "What you gave me then—your friendship—" he began, and then his throat closed and he could not speak.

But Sebastian understood, just as he had ten years ago when Fenris had woken in fear in the belly of a frozen ship. "Just as I needed you," he said, his own voice suspiciously thick. "I would not be here without you, my brother."

"Yes," Fenris managed, and Sebastian closed his eyes and embraced him. It lasted only a moment, perhaps two; then his prince drew away and wiped his eyes.

"But this is not the time for mourning," he declared. His smile had grown glad; Fenris's own heart lightened at the sight. "The last claim on you has been lifted. You may go wherever you will."

"Which you could have before," Hawke interjected from the sofa, somewhat stuffily, and they both looked over to see she had been quietly crying into her sleeve. Still, her smile was bright and strong. "That said, it's pleasant to think any future diplomatic trips to the north won't end with you dragged off in chains."

"They may try," Fenris said, lip curled, but Hawke only laughed and came to join them at the window.

She linked her fingers through Fenris's free hand, looped her arm around Sebastian's elbow. The touch was warm, steadying; Fenris felt himself grow calm. Danarius did not matter, not any longer. Not even Tevinter mattered, despite all of Dorian's shining promises; nor all of Starkhaven's guard, nor every sheer impartial cliff on Kirkwall's mountain. The crumpled letter in his breast pocket might as well have been ash. He stood with Hawke and Sebastian beside him, and between them they left no room in his heart for either fear or doubt.

They loved him. There was no safer place in the world.