AN: I'm so sorry I haven't gotten to last chapter's comments yet; this entire week has slipped away from me all too quickly. Very soon, I promise!
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same…
Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment.
—Little Gidding, T.S. Eliot
—
They landed in the shining harbor at noon. Nearly seven months had passed since the day he first arrived at Kirkwall, a lumbering white carriage in tow and himself with very little patience for a farmgirl with a twisted ankle. Now cheers rang out at their arrival, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every tier of the great scaffolded platforms built against the side of the mountain. Petals of kingscrown and white lupine fell in heaps from woven baskets, were taken up again by the billowing wind in graceful coils.
Shouts rose as they disembarked. Someone high on the mountainside had brought out a horn; it rang high and clear, a joyful call of homecoming, and a few minutes later a second horn joined it, and a lighter fife. Some of the crowd sang along with the melody, words Fenris did not know, and many guardsmen joined them as the company mounted their horses and left the ship behind. Gulls wheeled and cried out in their wake, diving over and over into the steady waves.
The journey up to the castle became a great procession. Throngs of well-wishers and supporters flanked the horses, joined swiftly by others who were glad to celebrate for any reason. Most of the cheers were for Hawke, for the crown princess who had died and been returned to them. Others called returning welcome to Fenris, then new greetings to Donnic, who rode beside him and looked delighted at all they passed, his head craning to see at every corner. There were no jeers, no shouts of anger; he could not find faces which were not glad. The promise of winter hung in the air, many onlookers draped in furred cloaks and bright scarves, but the cold did little to dissuade either their presence or their joy.
The horses pranced and stamped at the excitement, even Lethendralis, despite Fenris's hand on his neck and a firm grip on his reins. His horse had made the journey back to Kirkwall on the other ship, where there were neither sovereigns nor their attendant guards and servants to make him nervous. Lethendralis had traveled well, the sailors had told him, had taken his oats gladly and made friends with more than one handler. The thumbnail bells on his bridle rang silver at each springing step, strong contrast to the splendid brassy voices of the tower bells calling out to the queen and her family.
The sky shone a stark, cloudless blue. The mountain speared up against it in craggy shadow, but the sun beamed brightly at its summit, and the familiar cliffs did not frighten, only waited with an enduring patience. How many processions had wound their way up the narrow switchbacks of its face over the years? How many kings and queens had ridden in crowned raiment to the throne at its peak?
Fenris twined his fingers into Lethendralis's black mane and turned to look behind him. Guards carrying the Kirkwall standard sang with each other, laughed and called to friends in the crowd. A woman pushed through the throng and thrust a sprig of heather at a guardswoman on a white horse; the guardswoman blushed, kissed the woman's fingers, then tucked the heather behind her ear. One of her friends in the guard rode up alongside her and murmured something that made her laugh and blush again, and she waved him away.
The road beneath their hooves was smooth and polished. Centuries of steady travel had worn it deep into the mountain's face; when the base of the original decorative edgework had become exposed, a new generation had laid down a second line beneath it, then a third. A mark of passage, Fenris thought, not of one person but of a people, the mountain not unmoved by their presence but untroubled by them. They passed beneath a tree that had grown out of the side of the mountain and arched high over the road; its foliage had stained richly with late autumn, and the sunlight fell red and gold through the leaves.
He straightened in the saddle. Hawke was watching him, he saw, her chestnut mare sidling close enough as they crossed a bridge that she could have touched him. He raised a brow; her eyes softened as she inclined her head, and then her sister called back to them, pointing at a wall that overflowed with blossoming stonecrop and white asters in the afternoon light, and Hawke rode forward to join her.
Kirkwall ran strongly in both of them, Fenris thought, even if they had grown very unalike: one soft and gentle, the other all bird-angles and crowing laughter. The same crooked charm in their smiles, though; the same heart of iron. And in Carver, too, tall as the mountain, with his father's jaw and his mother's eyes, and a mulish stubbornness which too easily could turn sour without the tempering grace of his twin. He rode next to his father the king at the head of the procession, and the queen rode with them, and when they turned to speak to each other Fenris could see the lines which had forged them in their faces, even through the old and familiar affection, even through the homecoming joy. He thought of the queen's father, and her father's father, and of the straight unjeweled crown which had passed down from one hand to the next over many ages; he thought of how the ancient mountain had been ruled by both the brave and foolish and had endured regardless, undiminished, unshaken.
It was a strange comfort. He did not know what was in his face, but when Hawke saw him she reined back and fell alongside him once more, and her expression was fond. He smiled back, surprised by his own gladness; then a cool mountain breeze blew across them and strung white petals in Hawke's hair, and the reverie was broken.
They came at last to the castle. The sights of the courtyard and the tall, blocky towers were familiar, welcoming even through the rugged unpolished joins of mountain rock and worked stone. They all dismounted together in glad disorder, stablehands hurrying to and fro, clutching reins in each hand and calling to one another; Hawke's dog burst from the palace to circle the horses, yelping with joy. Guard-Captain Aveline in plate armor and an orange scarf stood at the castle's open doors, a broad smile on her face—Donnic tripped when he saw her, and only Fenris's quick hand saved him from a fall—and all at once, they passed from cold clear daylight into the dim warmth of the great hall.
Hawke had come home at last.
—
They feasted that night on boar and Kirkwall mead. The dancing came swiftly after, more than a hundred throats cheering at the strike of drum and violin, but as the tables dispersed and partners clasped each other's hands, Fenris glanced at Hawke.
She read his face; she smiled, and she let him go.
The stables too were partaking, merry voices and songs ringing from within, and the girl who came to lead him to Lethendralis's stall gave him a bright, gap-toothed smile. Even now the horse seemed unbothered by the upheaval of the day—when Fenris looped the bridle around his head he only nickered and stamped his foot—and with a glance to the ostler, who saluted and went immediately back to her tankard, Fenris was on his way.
He did not know where he was going. The streets were lively with celebrations mirroring the castle's, the air filled with calls of welcome and good cheer. Laughing drunks spilled out of inns and taverns, their arms around each other's shoulders; a half-dozen eager young men and women in silk and fur left one large, warm-lit merriment for another four houses down. Very few at all noticed a lone cloaked horseman in a black tunic and brown leathers, even if his horse's bridle bore a dozen thumbnail bells. The few that did only gladly removed themselves from his way, which pleased Fenris well enough.
He rode down to the overlook on the far side of the mountain. Hawke had shown him this place on their last day in Kirkwall, that morning when he had asked her to take him to the docks; it was a rocky promontory that stretched out of the mountain like two fingers extended from a hand, flat and narrow and bound on all sides by stanchions and heavy rope. Spindly bristle-bushes grew along the edges, speckled with small white flowers that glowed in the moonlight, and an ancient, gnarled tree leaned out over the lip into open space. He dismounted and stood beside a snorting Lethendralis in the dark.
Below him, the night-black bay was beautiful. A thousand festive torches had been lit, lanterns strung on lines like golden stars between the anchored ships. The piers gleamed with warm light, as did the shops, and the inns and warehouses alike where they lined the harbor. Every so often a distant cheer would rise, wordless and glad, and some cluster of sailors would thrust their arms in the air.
The sea had gone still as a mirror. All the lamps and torchlight shone again within it in glorious echo, reflecting joy and silently repeating it. A drunken sailor fell into the water with a splash; her fellows fished her out and set her on the pier again, laughing, and the ripples spread out in circles across the bay, rebounded, and grew still.
This, Fenris thought. He could love this.
He mounted his horse and slowly rode back into the city. Not back to the castle, though—he went further down instead, down nearly to the very base of the mountain, until he stood before the door of The Hanged Man. There was feasting here, too, if of a smaller scale; he recognized Corff's voice among the din, and Norah's. And this, he thought, though with a little more reserve. He watched from the road until the door opened to admit two more dusty miners, already singing, then turned his horse away.
What he had done with Sebastian could not be done again, not here. He had helped the prince reclaim his throne because he could, because Sebastian had found him in the belly of his ship and shown him mercy rather than justice. Later, he had become the captain of his guard not because he wished to serve Starkhaven, but because Sebastian had asked of him the service and because he could not stay near his friend without it. He had not hated Starkhaven; he had not loved it, either, not in the way Sebastian did, not in the way that took hold in the heart and rooted there.
He guided Lethendralis up the mountain along the main road. He passed as he went a garden carved into the mountain's face, wild hyssop climbing up the rocky ledges, goldenrod and purple anise coaxed from clay pots and long iron troughs. Delicate silver-stemmed sage frothed up and over the arm of the small iron bench set within; an overarching elm caught the moonlight in its branches. Not Hawke's handiwork, he thought, not so far down the mountain; well-tended all the same. Well-loved.
He had understood it on the ship, had seen the truth in Malcolm's face. Her affection alone could not suffice. He could not rule Kirkwall for Hawke's sake only and rule it well; if she were to stand one day as the champion of her people it could not be beside a king who did not know the mountain's heart.
The road doubled back again and again as it climbed. He looked down the jagged falls of black rock, down, down, to the stone-choked fields and their herds of thin cows where farmers scraped life from the dirt. Somewhere down there was Hawke's uncle, who was happy to wage that endless war; somewhere down there was Thrask's bull, and a half-dozen yellow dogs now surely long grown out of youthful foolishness. He knew the tenacity required to build a life in such a place; he had forced it through his own hands with every moment of his flight from slavery, when there was nothing certain in his world but struggle.
And the miners too, he thought, passing by one of the great caverns that led into the mountain, now quiet and dark. The men and women who embraced stone, who followed the long lamp-lines down to a forge so hot in some places it melted snow outside. Clean work, and strong, and worthy of the doing; Starkhaven's gifts of grains, vegetables, fruits, and venison would be earned fairly, or not at all. There was nobility in that pride.
A falling star caught his eye. Less torchlight to hide them here than in the shining gardens of An Taigh Gheal; he saw a second, then a third. He could come to love these stars in all their high, strange beauty. He could not, he thought, love the cold mountain air; but he could the hearthfire after, the surge of warmth and welcome.
It was not enough to love Hawke. It was not even enough to protect the parts of the mountain she cherished. Instead he would have to learn to care for them himself, for their own merit, not because Hawke did but because he had learned to claim them as his own. He would have to find in the harsh crags and peaks the same wonder that made Leandra's eyes go distant.
Therefore: the bay. The gardens of hyssop and sage; the stubborn lowland farmers; the ancient mountain stars. He did not love them yet, but he could prepare his heart to do so, to lay furrows in the earth and plant the seeds and water them. Hawke knew what it meant to farm; he could learn what was needed to ready the soil for good growth.
He could learn, perhaps, to stay. He could learn to put down roots.
Fenris passed through the open gate into the castle's courtyard. The ostler stood waiting; she took his horse readily, Lethendralis tossing his head at the surreptitious apple in her hand, and led the gelding to the stables.
The stars were bright above him. They glinted off the dull black of the castle's walls, caught in sharper silver along the gilded banners, over black wings on a scarlet field. Donnic sat atop the stairs beside Kirkwall's blushing guard-captain, so deep in conversation he did not hear Fenris pass. Above him, a raven landed with a flutter in the stonework fluting, peered at him with one clear eye, then took wing again.
The great oak door stood open to the feasting hall. The night was cold; inside he could see the glowing orange light of stone-laid fireplaces, hear the laughter and calling of many voices. He took a breath—
Across the hall, from the dais where stood two black empty thrones, Hawke saw him. Her crown-blue eyes grew warm; she came through the dancing court to meet him in the doorway. She was so beautiful, he thought, and better here in brocade and black sable once more, her hair pulled back from her face by gold netting and a crimson ribbon. A small cloth-of-gold parcel had been tucked into her belt; he knew within it lay a folded length of red cloth. The moonlight sang along the high curve of her cheek; firelight played over her shoulders.
"I've been waiting for you," she said, and her voice was low, warm. "I wondered where you went."
He pulled off his glove and touched her cheek. She leaned into his hand. "I went to meet your mountain."
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "There's a lot of mountain to meet."
He smiled back, gladness kindled through every part of him, and he leaned forward and kissed her. "So I have seen. I will have to try again."
"Then come inside for now," she breathed against his mouth. She stroked her fingertips down his cheek, kissed him again. "Or, if you like, come home."
Fenris laughed. Hawke gave him her hand; he kissed it, then folded it into his arm and joined her in the golden hall.
—
end.
AN: As I mentioned elsewhere, this chapter actually concludes the original fic as I'd written it. However, there's obviously tons of story left for these two and a lot of things still not quite wrapped up (and certain people not yet dead), and as I was coming to the end I kept thinking, "but I want to stay in this world a little longer! I'm not ready to give it up!" So...I stayed, ha. The last set of chapters will be a series of epilogues wrapping up all the little plot points I wanted to see resolved, as well as give some glimpses into the next stages of their lives. It's one of my favorite kinds of things ever to write, so I hope it continues to be enjoyable to read. Thank you all so, so much for sticking with me through this wandering, winding tale! 3