1.
A year of hell, but it was finally over.
Meeran had let her and her sister go, and Brona was glad to get the boot. He was slimy in a way that made even her uncomfortable, and she had never particularly liked how he looked at Bethany. Good riddance.
“Bartrand, please, we have experience fighting Darkspawn—“
“Not on your life, Fereldan,” he cut in, turning to look up at where the two Hawkes were following him, but his eyes were directly on Brona. She was easily recognisable as a Fereldan, something that she and her father carried in common. Broad shoulders suited for heavy armour, though she rarely wore what she had once worn into battle inside the city. Bright golden eyes— again, from Malcolm— strong features that still had a sort of disheveled elegance, even in the midst of battle. She blamed that on her mother.
She stood taller than her sister by a hands’ breadth, but Bethany looked more like Leandra than she did Malcolm. And Bethany, though a mage, could more easily blend in than Brona ever could— her hair was as black as the rest of the family’s. Brona’s had turned white when she was a child, after an illness that her father couldn’t cure. It unfortunately made her rather recognisable.
No doubt this dwarf had heard of the Hawkes, and he probably even had heard of Brona. He still dismissed them with barely a look, though. Merchant’s guild.
“I know an apostate when I see one, and that’s the kind of shit we certainly don’t need,” the dwarf continued, waving a hand as if she was a fly up from the Undercity.
“I was at Ostagar,” Brona insisted, strong steps in her boots leading her up to be beside him once more. Not a terribly hard task with her longer stride. “I know you require competence, and I have real training, and real experience. Whatever my sister brings down on us, I can handle.”
“So you’ll fight off legions of templars?” Bartrand replied incredulously, eyes to her the same, if but briefly. “Come off it, human. I don’t need any more guards. Find another meal ticket out of Lowtown.” He walked away without giving her a chance to really protest, though she did call after him before breaking off in a low growl. There was no point in going after him, but she still did for a few strides.
“There’s other jobs,” Bethany told her, setting a hand on her arm before Brona turned to head into Hightown proper, and out of the Merchant’s guild. She was quick to follow, though. “And I can lay low, if it helps. As much as I dislike being at Gamlen’s, it is relatively safe.”
“Not safe enough. We need to make connections, we need to have status again for you to be properly safe. Then maybe I could sleep again.” One of the unfortunate and unmistakable truths of Kirkwall was that it was a very unsafe for any mage, but even more so for an apostate like Bethany was. They had known that before making the trip out of Ferelden to avoid the Blight, but they had thought that they would be nobles once they reached the city. Instead, they were living in what was barely better than a hovel with their uncle— their mother’s brother— who had squandered and gambled away the family fortune.
Bethany and Brona had gone back into the family’s estate and retrieved the will that their grandparents had left. All of the fortune should have gone to Leandra, but it hadn’t. The will was enough, legally, for her mother to maybe get something of their status restored, but without the gold to back it, it would just ring hollow. Now that Brona could work for herself, it was her time to start on some investments, some good old fashioned hard work, to get Bethany and their mother the life she deserved— and safety for the mage, too.
“Was working for him really that bad?” Bethany wondered, mind skipping back to Meeran, and the Red Iron. A group of thugs, really, whom she had avoided whenever she could get away with it. Brona had made sure that it was more often than not.
Brona shrugged lightly, running a hand through her white hair. “It was… all right. I won’t miss it.”
“You’re doing the avoiding thing you do when you don’t want to tell me a truth, but you refuse to lie. Just tell me it straight.”
“No.”
“Brona—“
Her name cut off as a man walked between them, bumping into them both. Brona pushed him away from Bethany, but then she saw the coinpurses in his hand. She yelled out before she was sprinting after him, but he was quick. The thief was around the corner before she heard a click-click of a crossbow, and then the unmistakable twang and thud.
She slid to a halt a few paces away from the thief, stuck to the nearest wall, where a dwarf was approaching him. The thief was really a scruffy-looking fellow, and in that moment he looked more frightened than anything else. His eyes were going wild, and his bare feet were scrambling at the stone behind him, trying to find some sort of purchase. His hands, still clutching to his ill-gotten prize, were trying to get the bolt out of his shoulder, to no avail.
The dwarf, however, looked about as home holding that crossbow and striding to that desperate man as he might in front of a roaring fire with a strong drink in his hand. He was dressed well, and Brona was surprised that he handled his crossbow with such skill, since he carried himself like a noble. Nice boots, maybe a little bit of dirt and scuffing, cared-for leather on his jacket, and there was a little clink and sparkle of gold around his neck and at his fingers.
“You’ve got some balls on you, kid, but not enough skill for Hightown,” he told the thief, and his voice reached her ears like warmth personified, a hearty fire and a heartier laugh. She took a few steps closer as the dwarf looked the man over, still with that thief trying to free himself. Her eyebrows rose at seeing the dwarf in profile— he didn’t have a beard. She didn’t think she had ever seen a male dwarf without a beard before.
That dwarf was non-chalantly taking the purses from him, tucking them into his pocket. He stood up a little taller and then ripped the bolt from the thief’s shoulder and stone both. “Scurry on back down to Darktown.”
The man scrambled away from the dwarf and that crossbow, glancing over at the two sisters before he summarily disappeared. Bethany’s head tilted after him, that he was bleeding, but then her attention was back on that matter at hand.
Brona turned her attention to the dwarf, who tossed her the purses without pausing. “Thanks,” she said clearly upon catching them, handing her sister’s back to her. Her own was returned to her belt, really looking at the dwarf now. Who was he to put himself between them and a pickpocket?
He definitely noticed her look, and met it while he folded his crossbow away, and then casually to his side. He winked at her, then spun the bolt, even still bloody, into its quiver hidden under his jacket. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”
“Tethras?” Bethany wondered in surprise. “You’re related to Bartrand?”
“That’s right.” He nodded with a growing smile. “I’m helping him on his expedition, in fact. I overheard your sister trying to convince him to give her a job.” His eyes slid from the mage to the warrior. “I can help.”
“He already told us no.”
“To guards, yes. We don’t need more muscle, Hawke. We need a partner, and investor, someone like you, it so happens.”
Brona blinked down at him, arms crossing. “You know who I am?”
“You do stand out,” he teased, and her mouth fell into a displeased frown at the mention of her hair. “Regardless, you made a sort of a name for yourself working for those mercenaries. I did some asking around, about Hawke, about the Amells— and I came to the conclusion that you are exactly what we need.”
His wording caught her off-guard. He was well-informed, probably had talked to some of her contractors, her suppliers… He knew about Gamlen, and her mother, which meant he knew about Bethany. Was it really that easy to discover an apostate in Kirkwall?
“You asked about my father?”
Varric met her eyes, another small nod there for her. “Yes. I was curious as to what got your mother to leave such a comfortable life here.”
“So, then you must know about me,” Bethany stated, and the dwarf looked at her.
“I do. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Even if we don’t end up working together, though I am fairly certain we will.” His attention was back to Brona. “So, how about it? Invest in the expedition. Bartrand is ripping his beard out trying to fund it. He’ll take it, and your expertise happily with it.”
“If we had sovereigns to invest, we wouldn’t be so desperate for a job.”
“I know, but we have time. I have jobs for you, that we can do together. I have leads on good information. We can get the money.”
Brona looked to her sister, whose brow was furrowed. “It could be good, and in the meantime it’s a way to make something to live on.”
“Are you sure?” Brona walked a step away with her, their voices lowering. “Doing these jobs could bring more attention to you. I can just go and get some factory job instead. It would be safer. Not glamorous, but it would allow us to live away from him, provide for you and Mother.”
“I can stay out of the way,” Bethany whispered. “I’ll be home if you need healing or anything. If you’re going to do this for us, it needs to be your decision, not mine, and not for me, or mother, or anyone else.”
“Father wouldn’t have stood for that kind of talk. Everything I do is for you two.”
Bethany took her shoulders in her hands firmly, looking deep into her sister’s eyes. “I know. I am grateful, but I know you’d be miserable in some factory or warehouse job, Brona. Please, at least think about this.”
“Hey, look,” Varric cut in, and the sisters looked at him. “Think it over, talk about it. Come see me at the Hanged Man when you decide,” he told Brona, eyes right on hers.
“My sister wouldn’t go into a bar like that,” Bethany stated immediately.
“I’m not asking her to drink, but that’s where I live. No safer place than there with me.”
“It’s all right,” Brona told Bethany, patting her arms so she’d let her go. “Thank you for your help,” she directed to the dwarf, who nodded, watching as they walked away.
They were just out of earshot when she whispered: “That was weird, right?”
“A little,” Bethany agreed, glancing back at Varric before they were around the corner and out of sight. “What are you thinking?”
Her sister made a displeased noise. “Let’s go home, and then I’ll do some research of my own to see if he’s legit.”
Once Bethany was safe at home with her mother, Brona did the only thing that put her mind in any sort of ease: she headed up to the Chantry. It was a long walk, but it was one that she knew well. She spent a lot of time in the Chantry.
Back in the other places she had lived, Lothering and elsewhere, her being so devout had been a cover to get to know the templars and anyone else that might have come after her family, after Bethany. She didn’t know when it had become legitimate, to being something that she craved for comfort and reassurance, but it was probably some time after her father died. Now, though there were templars there, she went to the Chantry for her own purposes, and her own alone. She needed the Chant in her ears as she thought through everything.
She paused at the top of the Hightown market, because there was a commotion at the base of the stairs up to the Chantry. A man, dressed simply in white and brown, but with the trappings of an archer, was posting something on the Chantry board while a woman in Chantry robes was demanding that he stop. He didn’t, just looking at her before he continued placing the pins in the sheet.
“It’s murder, Sebastian!” She called out as he stepped away, and he paused there, a scowl set on his face. “You cannot sanction this, no matter your feelings, no matter the proof—“
He whipped back around, hand to the flyer she had been about to rip down. His bright blue eyes were directly on the Chantry woman’s. She was staring him down, unblinking and unbothered by his conviction. “What they did to my family was murder, Elthina. I am only seeking justice.”
“By killing these Flint Mercenaries? Why not seek out those that sent them, that hired them?”
“I will,” he said angrily, stepping away again. He was a few paces into the square before there was a rip from the board. Brona had run a few steps towards the board, but then slid to a halt as the man fired an arrow into the paper, securing it to the chanter’s board. The chanter beside it visibly jumped, clutching to her chest and falling back against the wood and stone behind her.
“Leave it,” he growled. “I’ll just put up another if you tear that one down.”
The woman in the Chantry robes huffed at him. She looked as if she was about to argue further, but then decided against it. She did leave the bounty he had posted, and him, heading back up the stairs.
The man was left there with the bow in his hand, staring at the Chantry board for a long moment. It was when he turned, his bow falling to his side, that he saw Brona, and for a breath nothing else happened. Their eyes locked, his bright blue not leaving hers, and her stomach did a little flip at that intensity. She found it hard to form any thoughts, because all there was in that moment was this— this archer.
It seemed that he was in quite the same mind, because where his expression had lingered on his anger and defiance, it then softened and smoothed out to the unmistakable look of royalty.
“I’ve seen you,” he said in a soft voice, once he came to himself, and she nodded. “Are you a mercenary?”
“Something like that.”
He pointed with his bow to the board. His voice was a little shaky when he spoke again, tamping down many emotions in an attempt to keep his composure and dignity. Still, she could truly appreciate the way his words fell from his lips in that moment. It was a way that she knew, if only in passing: Starkhaven.
“My family deserves justice. If you can find out who sent them, all the better.”
She crossed over to the contested board to read the flyer, and he joined her there, arms folded over his chest. His bow was returned to its sling over his back, and he had fixed his clothing before he had stood beside her. It took her thrice to fully comprehend the notice, because she could hardly believe what she was reading— and partially because him standing so close was a little distracting.
“I am sorry about your family,” she managed in a quiet tone. Soft, careful, and she measured the words to be sure that it conveyed the correct emotion.
“I’m the last of my line,” he breathed out. Pain laced his words, as soft as they were, especially there so close to her. “It is my duty to make sure those that murdered them are brought to justice. You do see that, don’t you?”
“I see it,” she agreed, ripping his arrow out of the board, which he took without her direction. She then held the paper in her hand before rolling it up for her belt. “It’ll be done.” She stepped from him to head up the steps to the Chantry. She didn’t look at him before she left. There would be plenty of time to do that when she returned victorious.
She was halfway up them before he appeared beside her, suddenly and silently. “You’re accepting the job?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you going up to the Chantry?”
“I need to pray. I have a decision to make, and I’d like to get the Maker’s and Andraste’s thoughts before I do.”
He considered this as they reached the entrance, but didn’t leave her side. “Perhaps I can help.”
“Prince, I appreciate the offer, but this is really something between the Maker and me.”
“I am a Brother first,” he countered, and it made her stop in her tracks, eyes over to his. A Prince— and a Brother? Her mind tumulted over this new information, more than a little disappointed with it. It would have been too easy, wouldn’t it have? To have had her first real almost-feeling of romance be for a Prince? The Maker really did have a sense of humour. “Let me help, since you are helping me.”
“It is complicated.”
“Please,” he pleaded. “I need the distraction, and this is clearly weighing on you.”
She took in a breath before nodding. He waved a hand for her to follow him, and he led her to the depths of the Chantry, into a small room with a table and two chairs, but little else. He had picked up a lit candle from a shelf along the way, and now he set the candle down on the table as she closed the door behind them.
Then they were seated across from each other. He leaned forward onto the weathered wood, hands folded in on each other.
“In this room, speak freely. The Maker will hear you, I will hear you, but no one else.”
She cleared her throat, sitting as he was across the table. She didn’t know where to start, so she sort of let it spill out of her. All of it, from Ostagar, to Carver, to what she had done with her year with the Red Iron, to the dilemma that now weighed on her. He was easy to speak to, as if she had known him all of her life. She told him nearly everything that weighed on her, but some was just between her and the Maker. A Brother he might be, but he was still human.
“I know the payoff will be good,” she finished, “should we survive the Deep Roads, but what if I don’t? What if I leave Bethany and mother here with no one to protect or provide for them? What if we come back with nothing?”
He was a good listener, nodding along before he sat back at the final question, hand to his chin thoughtfully. “What’s the alternative? Some job that doesn’t pay well, that you could get injured doing, for the forseeable future? She will be found out before then. I think the risk is worth it. If you do return with nothing, then you could fall back on some factory job.”
“But what if I don’t return at all?”
“That’s always a possibility, especially here in Kirkwall. What would happen if you were killed on the way home tonight?”
Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “I— I don’t know. I suppose Gamlen might step up, Mother would have to get a job…”
“Your sister in the Gallows.” She nodded at this assessment, head in her hands. “Take the risk, Brona.” Her hands fell back to the table, and Sebastian took them into his, warmth even through their gloves. They both wore cloth over their hands, but that did not stop the little thrill she got from the touch. Her fingers pushed further into his hands, and he adjusted to allow them. “You’ve done so much to protect them. Do not lose hope now.”
“What would you do?”
“In your place? I would take the risk. As myself, though, I am not so sure. Family is important to us both, that’s true, but the Deep Roads are something else entirely. All the Darkspawn and…” His hands tightened on hers before a shudder shook him. “I am grateful that I am not in your place. Does it terrify you?”
“Yes. I know that even if we survive, even if we do bring back riches, likely we will never be the same. The Blight changed us, changed me, but this is entirely different.” Her eyes rose from their hands up to his, but it was a breath before he met that look. “I have faith, and in my abilities, but what if that’s not enough?”
“It has to be. You will work these jobs, you will upgrade your equipment, hone your skills, solidify your bonds— and you will prevail. Why would the Maker provide you with any less?”
Brona was quiet as she thought everything through, and he didn’t rush her. Sebastian’s eyes fell to their hands, his thumb running over the black cloth softly, letting it soothe him.
“Tell me about your family,” she murmured after a few moments.
He let out a breath, and then smiled softly. “Really?”
“Yes, unless it’s too painful. I know it helped us, to talk about father, and about Carver.”
The prince’s eyes stayed on their hands, but he did begin to speak. It was slowly, at first, just a kind of listing out of his immediate family, but then he caught onto some train of thought, and he followed it. Sometimes with her aid, asking him a question, or offering a funny little comment, but before long he was smiling. It was a real smile, not a forced one. It extended up to his eyes, which often met hers as he told her some story or another.
There was a hesitation before they left the room. Sebastian held the candle in a hand, with his other cupping around the flame so he had a clear view of her, framed by the doorway. Brona felt this overwhelming urgency to tell him everything, everything that she had held back by the sake that he was connected to the Chantry, that he was a Brother, that they had only known each other for those couple of hours.
His eyebrows raised at her when she didn’t move to continue out the door, but his eyes were on her still. He looked to be about to ask, but then his lips pressed together, and he made a small noise.
He waited. She didn’t offer anything to him but a tinge of pink in her cheeks.
“Thank you, for doing this task for me. If I wasn’t the last of my line, I’d prefer to do it myself.”
“Thank me after it’s done,” she answered.
He swallowed down additional words, and masked it with a nod, and a smile. It was somber, however, nothing quite like the smiles from earlier.
After leaving the Chantry, Sebastian, and their conversation, Brona took first to going to take out his mercenaries. He had enlisted her to find anything they might be carrying that could provide him with answers, or clues. It took her three full days to accomplish by herself, and she stopped by home to see her sister and mother before she continued on with her work.
Bethany was sitting at the table, studying out of one of her books, but looked up immediately when Brona entered. She abandoned the table, looking to be about to embrace her, before seeing that she was covered in blood, and restrained herself. “Where were you?”
“Just doing a job,” she replied, walking from the main room back to the room they shared. There she started to remove her armour, and her sister began to help. “I think I’m going to go and talk to Tethras about his proposal.”
“Good, you should.” Bethany sounded relieved, and then she had a smile. “Tell me about the job.”
Brona explained about the Brother and his predicament, cleaning her armour up while Bethany healed up her minor scrapes and bruises. “I thought I might come here and clean up before returning to him. He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the gore of the job.”
“Or the Mothers,” she agreed, and the warrior smirked at that, still working on the blood of her armour. “Did you find anything worthwhile?”
“A few things, some things that I got out of them before they perished, but nothing terribly worthwhile, no.”
“That will make his job harder.”
“Undoubtedly. But he is paying well, and it’ll be good to get a head start on this investment.”
Brona took a quick bath, mostly for the blood in her hair, before she changed into more casual clothes. She was buttoning up under her chin when her mother finally appeared.
“Must you?” She sighed out immediately after seeing her eldest in the modest clothing that she tolerated— barely.
Leandra was a woman who still dressed well, despite that they were living in Lowtown. She took care of herself, and the house, but herself especially. It wasn’t anything like she had been used to when she was in Kirkwall before, but she rarely looked unkempt, or even slightly frazzled. Her hair was black, like Bethany’s, and it often was cascading down her back or over her shoulders, unless she was cleaning or cooking.
Her mother had always taken a slight offence to Brona’s lack of what she deemed “normal interest in the opposite sex,” even as a teenager. Brona had always had much more important things to worry about, and the idea of some boy trying to court her wasn’t at the top of the priority list.
There had been more than once that Leandra had had to smooth things over with some local family after her eldest had… discouraged such boys from coming near her.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested at all in men, or women, for that matter. She had been around plenty in the king’s army, in the Chantry with the templars, and in the Red Iron while on jobs. They were pleasant, but she couldn’t afford the distraction, and in prioritising her sister’s safety over anything else, she had begun to resent the very idea— the idea that if her sister was suddenly safe, she would no longer have an excuse to avoid it. She dreaded— and intensely worked for— that day.
“I’m going to the Chantry,” Brona replied, avoiding the implied question.
“You’re never going to find a husband dressing like that, and especially not here in Kirkwall.”
“I don’t want a husband, Mother.”
“Bethany and I are fine here. No one even glances at us. You could certainly find—“ Brona turned her head to look at her with a stoic expression, and Leandra changed courses, albeit with a fresh frown. “Your father and I married for love, you know. You could at least look. Women even— elves— I just can’t stand that you’re finally free of Meeran and all you want to do still is work.”
“I’m working so we can get out of Uncle’s house.” It was a pointed reminder. “The sooner, the better. And once we are free, comfortable, and you two safe— then I promise, I will consider…” she took in a breath, and let it out as the last word: “romance.”
She ignored most of her mother’s mumblings to Bethany as she gathered up her belt and bag. “I have some more errands to run. I should be back by tonight.”
She didn’t really wait for a response, or any protests. She was away and out into Lowtown, taking the steps quickly before she began the long walk up the Chantry. She avoided everyone in the bustle of the markets, and she had no trouble until she reached the entrance of the Chantry itself.
There a Templar was standing, talking with one of the Sisters. They were blocking the entrance, and so Brona stood nearer to the stairs, waiting for them to move and being grateful that her sister had not insisted on coming with her.
“When?” The Sister wondered, and the Templar shook his head lightly. “You don’t know? You came here to give a warning, and you don’t know?”
“We know it’ll be soon, one of the nights this week. We will ensure that no one here will be in any danger.” He glanced over to Brona, as if just then realising that they were blocking the Chantry. He then took a second glance, armour making a dissatisfied noise as he shifted. “Once I know more, I will return.”
“As you say,” the Sister muttered, turning back to the Chantry with a shake of her head.
Brona went to enter after her, but the templar stepped in front of her, hand at the hilt of his sword.
“You look familiar.”
Her eyebrows rose at the statement, eyes searching over his rather plain face to see if perhaps she knew him from a previous Chantry. He looked like just about every other templar she had run across in the city, and to be quite honest, she hadn’t been paying as much attention to them here as she had previously. There were simply too many, spread out over too wide of an area, for her to bother with.
He wore his full set of armour, which he filled out well. He kept fit, clearly, and there was some wear and tear on his leather, and some weathering along the edges of his armour. Despite it being clean of dirt and most smudges, the metal did harbour quite a few scratches and nicks— signs of previous battles. He kept his hair to his scalp, but he had a bit of stubble over his cheeks and down his jaw to what she could see of his neck. Laziness, or a defiance?
Regardless, she didn’t recognise him.
“I do? I apologise, but I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”
His eyes were doing something similar. “It was years ago, I think. I was traveling from Denerim, and it was only that one day I was there at the Chantry, but I’m sure of it. Your hair, the sound of your voice…” He trailed off, and then glanced behind him. “Are you a lay sister here, as well?”
“No, just a visitor,” she replied. “Am I in danger here? Why did you have to warn the Sister?”
“No, you shouldn’t be in any danger,” he waved away the concern. His voice became lighter as he continued. “Just some fool mage who thinks he can avoid the Circle. Nothing new there, is there?”
“No, I suppose not. Why would one come to the Chantry?”
“Seeking refuge, perhaps? I cannot try to get inside the mind of such an apostate.” He took in a breath as he looked her over, again. “Do you need any company? It’s been some time since I’ve visited the Chantry for my own reasons, and I am not so eager to leave your company.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ser—“
“Frian.”
“Ser Frian, but I am actually only here on an errand myself.” Her eyes darted away from him, uncomfortable, into the Chantry, hoping beyond hope to see Sebastian there. If anyone could save her from this nightmare, it was him. A Mother, another templar— anyone.
“Still, some company,” he insisted, offering her a smile that she returned weakly. “What’s your name?” He directed her to go before him with a hand, and so she went.
“Brona.”
“Ah, yes. Your family is quite devout, I suppose? Being named after Andraste’s mother, I would have to assume.”
“They are, actually. The Amells— do you know them?”
“I’ve heard the name, but I cannot say I know any of them personally. Nobles, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Although, not quite so at the moment. Still, Kirkwall is our home.”
Her eyes had been scanning the hallway as they approached the statue of Andraste, and luckily, Sebastian was there. He was coming down the stairs holding two large bags, looking to be filled with food. Brona had never been so relieved to see anyone.
“Ah, there is my errand,” she said to Ser Frian quickly, nodding to the Prince.
He followed her gaze. “A Brother?” He made a disbelieving kind of sound, and followed her to go and greet him, not getting the hint that Brona was quite done speaking with him.
“Sebastian!” Brona called out as she approached, footsteps quickening to reach him before the templar. The Prince looked up at her with a smile, gladly handing her one of the heavy bags there on the steps. “Please help rid me of this templar,” she whispered in a desperate tone as she took it.
Sebastian looked over her shoulder and down to the Templar. “Ser Frian,” he stated, walking down the last few steps with Brona at his heels. “Sister Carol said that we might have some trouble over the next few nights?”
“Unfortunately so, though nothing that would endanger you,” Frian agreed. “I was just telling Lady Amell here that it is only an apostate, and we’ll have sentries posted here until he’s apprehended.”
Sebastian glanced at her at that name, but didn’t look to correct it. “Well, that is very reassuring. It is just the one?”
“Perhaps two.”
“Perhaps two?” He repeated, pausing outside of a door that he didn’t look to open, perhaps because he was afraid that Frian would follow them down to the kitchens. He turned to look at him anyway. “Your intelligence is lacking, it would seem. How can you seek to protect us if you’re not even sure what you’re protecting us from?”
“Y-yes, of course,” Frian said quickly. “I will go and find out right away.”
“Yes, you will. It would not do to have the faithful injured because the Templars slacked on their duties— especially to harass nobility.”
Ser Frian glanced at Brona before his attention was back to the Prince. “That wasn’t my intention—“ He cut off when Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “Right away, ser.”
The Templar scurried away, slowly regaining his dignity, but Sebastian’s attention returned to Brona. “Lady Amell?” He wondered, amused, as he opened the door and stepped through. She was quick to follow, shutting it again behind them.
“He apparently knew me from one of the Chantries I was in before.”
“Have you considered dyeing your hair?”
They were descending to the kitchens, which she could tell by the smells and the rising heat level.
“I have, yes. Do you think I should?”
“It’s stark white, Brona. Even dyeing it a little, so that it is more of a blonde, will help considerably.”
“Let’s get some tea while down here, then,” she jested, to which he breathed out a laugh.
“You joke, but I will help you.” There was a pause. “Are you back because you completed the bounty?”
“Oh! Yes. All groups dead and accounted for, but their information was less so.”
Their conversation paused as they delivered the bags to a harried looking Sister with a wooden spoon holding back her hair, and then another set a bucket full of potatoes in front of them. Sebastian frowned, but he had a knife out to begin to peel them, so Brona copied him. At least in the din of the kitchens, there was no risk of anyone else overhearing them.
“I have some information about who hired them, but it’s all a bit jumbled. It’s all yours, of course. Maybe you can make some better sense out of it.”
“Thank you,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “I will sleep better at night knowing that there is no one immediately wanting my death.”
“Me too.”
They were quiet for a time, just working on the potatoes, before he wondered, “why were you so insistent that Ser Frian leave?”
“I had tried to ditch him before, but he simply wouldn’t take the hint. I cannot afford to anger any templars, but I would have, had he persisted much longer, and we had not spotted you.”
“As templars go, he seems to be of an all right sort. I suppose not on the top of your list for possible suitors.”
“No. As much as my mother wishes me to marry, I think that she would abhor having such a man for a son-in-law.”
“Does she? She must be having troubles finding any suitors, since the Amells aren’t quite…” he trailed off, glancing at her. “Well, wealthy.”
“We’re not nobility, Sebastian. It’s all right to say it.”
“You will be again, because you’ll succeed,” he reminded her. “You’ll just have to tell her to wait, that’s all. I’m sure soon they’ll be lining up.”
“Yes, I am sure that will make her infinitely happy.”
He seemed to catch her tone. “But not you?” Her potato plopped loudly into the waiting pot, and she picked up another. “You really have no interest in marriage?”
“It’s hardly what’s important. I’d rather focus on the immediate problems than something so abstract.” He frowned down at his potato, which she saw when she glanced at him. “What of you? I mean, if you weren’t a Brother.”
“I’ve never given it much thought. I had no illusions when I was growing up, before the Chantry. I knew what I was giving up when I took my vows, but now, with my entire family murdered… it seems unbelievable to me that it might rest on my shoulders alone to reclaim the throne and regain some of my family’s honour. I just took my vows, and now I actively seek to break them.” His bright blue eyes went over to her, and she nearly cut herself as she returned it before her knife stilled. “Is it worth it? To leave the Chantry and pursue being a Prince once more…”
“It’s your family. What would they want for you, and for your city, if they were here to advise you?”
“They aren’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“It will be hard and grueling, but why not take the risk? If you fail, then you always have the Chantry to fall back on.”
“I suppose they would take me back, but I doubt I’d be worthy of it again. Even just commissioning you to take out those assassins was…” He sighed, attention returning to his work instead of her. “I don’t know. The Grand Cleric has barely spoken to me since I put up that bounty. I know it was the right thing to do, for my family, for my own livelihood, but her words still ring in my ears.”
Brona let him ponder that line of thought for a while before she chose to comment. “I guess you can’t fail then. You need to have solid alliances, a great general leading a strong army. All of which is achievable. You’re the Prince. It is your duty.”
“It is my duty,” he agreed in a soft voice, and then again in a firmer one. “It might take years, but it will surely be worth it. My people are worth it, their families, their lives.” She smiled at that. “Thank you, Brona, for what you’ve done for me.”
“Of course, Sebastian,” she returned. She bit her lip as silence fell between them again as they worked, unsure of how to bring up such a sensitive topic. “Not right away, but the bounty for those mercenaries that you promised would do my work some good—“
“And you’ll have it,” he cut in, throwing her a quick smile. “Next time I see you, when we’re not peeling potatoes.”
“Or I could help you finish.”
“Well, I won’t complain. Will you tell me all about the adventure while we work?”
Her tale of tracking down his would-be assassins carried them through all the potatoes and up back into the Chantry proper. She followed him to his quarters, standing awkwardly in the hallway while he went inside to retrieve the bounty. Another Brother walked by, holding a book to his chest as he eyed her suspiciously.
Sebastian stood in the doorway and watched him pass with a frown for him, which the other man took with quickening steps to lead him out of the hallway. Only when he was gone was Brona handed the bag of coins.
“Thank you, sincerely,” she said upon stowing it in her bag securely. “I promise it goes towards a good cause.”
“I know it does.” He waved a hand for her to follow, and they left the hallways full of the small rooms for the Brothers interred there. “Does that happen often?”
“Does what happen often?”
“Do men look at you, bother you, try to court you?”
Hawke’s head turned to him quickly, genuinely surprised at the question. It took her three breaths to compose her thoughts. “I suppose they do. I try not to think much about it.” He didn’t immediately reply, so she wondered, “surely you have the same issue, though, with women?”
He breathed out a laugh. “Yes, I suppose I do, at times. Despite what it might seem though, I spend most of my time in solitude, and even more so since arriving in Kirkwall. I have a genuine reason for turning them down, as gently as possible. It can’t be as easy as that for you.”
“No, you saw that templar,” she muttered, pausing before the entrance of the Chantry with him. She looked to the door before her eyes returned to him. “No matter. I’ll see you again?”
“I sincerely hope so, yes, despite how busy our futures are looking.” She smiled anyway, walking backwards a step with a wave. “Before you go to the Deep Roads, please tell me.”
“I will,” she promised with another wave.
Toro Tokuda 