Skewed Deception

Inspired by LDW's Winter Fanfiction Contest, Part I of IV: "Walls torn asunder and exiled into the shadows of SHIELD, the fallen prince scrambles for power and redemption in any form." Loki X OFC(Reader)

This fan fiction may contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. Its contents will be derived, apart from the author's imagination, mostly from the movie!verse (Thor and The Avengers) with a sprinkling of comic!verse and Norse lore. With respect to the rules of the contest set forth by the tumblr blog, Loki's Dirty Whispers, the pairing is set thusly to fulfill that one guideline - all whispers used, of which there are only five throughout the piece at present, will be bolded in the text and also linked in the author's notes found at the end of every chapter. Regarding the original character pairing, even knowing that that alone has cost the author some readers, said character's description will be vague and generic enough so that any reader can imagine themselves in her place.

Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Marvel universe (movies or comics) or the wiki, it's mine or actual lore.

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Blood, a little Bondage, Drama, Violence.

Beta: Ms. Pagliacci

Edited: 01.17.2013

Chapter One: The Cost of Betrayal

Bound by more than pride

A solemn notion best forgot

Fury bleeds and seethes

"I don't like it." Clinton Barton fingered his weapon, the metal cold against the tips of his fingers where the holster didn't cover. God, he missed his bow. His poignant glare pierced fog of his breath to fall upon their charge, hating the frigid air even more. Deep in the under-city of Stark Tower, Loki of Asgard, bound and gagged as he had been when Barton last saw him, stood in a cell designed just for him. Even from the observation room, the agent could feel the deity's angered stare as one of the guards began to pat him down for concealed weapons, the Asgardian finery a treasure trove of hiding places. "I don't like it one bit."

"I've already got Stark bitchin' in my ear for commandeering his basement. You wanna be the one to tell Daddy Deity that he needs to pick his son back up 'cause you kids won't pretend play nice with him? "

"No, sir."

Of course, he didn't. Barton couldn't help being a little intimidated when Odin accompanied Thor upon his return, arrayed in shining gold and wearing his power like a mantle of pride. What irked him now was what the king of the Norse gods left behind in Director Fury's care, one meant to serve the humans that he once tried to enslave as atonement. With nothing more than informing SHIELD's commander than that he had left his sons in his care, he vanished just as quickly as he arrived. Flashy bastard, I'll give him that much.

"Uh... Barton?"

"Yeah?"

"You might want to pay a bit more attention. Looks like he's not going down without a fight this time."

Blinking, Barton followed Fury's single line of sight to the scene through the glass before he began running. Inside, one of the guards crumpled beneath Loki's manacled wrists before another flailed against the wall next to one of his fallen fellows, kicked away in wild rage. In the next moment, a third found the prisoner's chain looped around his neck The poor marine lashed out, blood trickling past his lips, but the noose only tightened. Death loomed until Barton was at Loki's back, one of the other guardsmen's larger guns in his hands, taken in an afterthought with consideration of his foe. Clubbing his assailant in the back of head with the butt the weapon, Loki collapsed at their feet in a despondent heap, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness.

"Barely five minutes and he's already taken out three of our guys. Are you sure about this, Fury?"

"I'm never sure."

"What do you want me to do? Bend him over my knee? Give him a time out and think maybe he'll learn his lesson? Need I remind you that there's still a city with ruins in it just upstairs thanks to him?

Thor pressed a heavy hand to the glass, the one-way mirror giving him a glimpse of his brother as he slept and the prison SHIELD had given him. This was supposed to be their new home, but Thor could see the injustice between their treatments, shaming both of them. Around the would-be ruler of Earth, the quarters offered the barest comforts allowed a captive rather than the potential ally Loki was meant to be, its great expanse otherwise bare where Thor's own chambers were filled with luxuries. Within, a lonely table surrounded by a few chairs sat in the middle of the room, a meagre meal left untouched upon its top. There was bookcase, built into the wall itself, standing empty, given in the hopes of being filled to placate his brother's restless mind. Next to it pressed a dresser filled with Midgardian finery that Thor himself had chosen to suit his brother's taste in Midgardian fashion and a desk that bore nothing more than a single tome - the Bible, if Thor recalled, a work of fiction worshiped by many. Every creature-comfort had been provided along with privacy of his own facilities, yet it was upon the small bed wedged in the corner with a suit jacket draped over its edge that blue eyes fell.

Clad now in a simple white dress shirt tucked into black slacks, Loki lay quietly in his cell, unconscious and unaware. No belt was cinched about his hips a precaution made in light of the recent ordeal. A bare foot twitched and the Asgardian prince's eyes widened in hope, but his brother failed to stir awake. Thor then eyed the bruise from Barton's blow and felt guilt needle him. Still, the guards should not have had to pay the price for his negligence. Now he knew all too well that it had been folly to slink away to bribe one of SHIELD's agents for just the chance to contact his fair Jane Foster. How could he have known Loki would have acted so brashly; after all, had he not agreed to this banishment? His brother had been his responsibility and by his own hand, his honour became tarnished.

In this, he did not only serve the human's cause.

Resolve made clearer, the fingers of his other hand curled around the artefact that held his brother's power. Why had the All-Father trusted him with such a burden? Thor wondered as Loki's hostage magic pulsed against his palm. His love for his sibling would only prove to make the task more difficult. No matter how much he cared for Loki, being the one to preserve that which had been taken from him sundered the Thunderer's heart. Torn between duty to Loki as a brother and his duty to those Loki had wronged left him unsure of the path before them. Even now he pleaded to his comrades of the Avengers and to SHIELD with the desperate hope that they too would take up the yoke of his mission.

How could they not when the All-Father himself had charged them with Loki's protection and reformation? Were not many of them - the assassins in particular - possessed of dark pasts like his brother? Shadowy records and bloodied hands wiped clean in exchange for service? Surely the kinship they shared would ensure their aid, particularly since he knew so little of their realm.

Tearing his gaze away from the glass, the warrior looked towards his companions, those gathered to discuss Loki's future among them. In mute determination, he judged their motives and reactions in hopes of understanding only to find them unwilling to meet his eyes. Fury merely scowled into his cup of coffee while Philip Coulson, recently released from his sickbed, kept to himself, his eyes glued to the tablet on his lap. Clint Barton, pressed close to Natasha Romanoff, seemed to avoid him altogether, a hint of anxious shuffling reminding him of the man's history with his brother. The Black Widow, on the other hand, radiated an eerie calm as she stared into the room beyond, her mask a perfect impasse.

"Forgive me, but my father has a reason for everything that he does," Thor said at last, his fingers again tightening on the amulet, reminding that he did them for all, not just for his own selfish whims. "It is his wish for Loki to serve his punishment here as an obeisance to those he has wronged. It is true that I do know he will not make this easy for us or himself, but I am willing to try - his allegiance far outweighs his enmity. Should that not be pursued? Perhaps someone in your company or of your acquaintance may be of some assistance, able to read beyond his fronts and lies?"

Upon hearing the Asgardian's words, Coulson shifted in his wheelchair and shot a knowing look as his superior's single eye narrowed.

"We may just have that tool." Gloved hands shoving into his trench-coat's pockets, Fury let out a heavy sigh. Something changed in the SHIELD director's stance that betrayed his veiled reluctance. Yet to Thor's pleasure, the man continued despite despite the looming sense of misgiving. "Granted, she's a bit of a recluse and useless in the field, but her history might be just what you need. Let's just hope Loki won't mind being touched for once."

Barton and Natasha Romanoff exchanged worried glances as Coulson and Fury forged ahead with an unspoken plan, each wary of something unknown to the Asgardian prince. Intrigued, Thor cocked his head and studied his companions for any hint of their thoughts only to find none. The three stood in silence, glancing from time to time at Loki and then between themselves, until Thor grew tired of the quiet and sought to wayleigh his curiosity.

"Nice enough even though she can't fight worth a damn - no coordination, but you can't sneak up on her, either. Well, us normal humans can't, anyways." Barton shrugged his shoulders as he crossed his arms, his weight leaning against the wall. "Suppose that's why we keep her around. You'll learn soon enough - sometimes I think she's a witch. Don't think even that snake of your brother could keep her out, not without his powers."

With a grand gesture of his hand, Barton pointed to the glittering amulet in Thor's hands, the prison for Loki's power, not unlike Mjölnir had been for his own. The barest touch and Barton reeled back as if burned, sticking his finger in his mouth out of habit as Romanoff snatched him away with a hiss aloud for him to keep his hands to himself.

"What the hell was that?" she asked with her deadly eyes burning in studious reform - anything that caused pain warranted a closer investigate. That was what she did as an assassin, a spy: she learned and countered in kind. Whatever she believed, to her, Thor held danger.

"Loki was born of Jötunnheimr, a land of darkness and ice. One touch of a jötunn's skin would burn anyone un-enchanted against such for within this lies his true magic, raw and untamed - perhaps this is how his magic has decided to protect itself."

Thor stared into the depths of the opalescent gem at the centre of the amulet, the silver filigree around it dull in the fluorescent lighting. It seemed to glow from within, its colours shifting - blue to green to purple, flecked with golds and whites - every shade imaginable flowing, whirling, ever moving. Such a small thing, a mere trinket, but within it roiled something greater - a deadly beauty set to , he held it between his hands as he would a fragile child.

"The Loki you see before you has been changed over the years, affected by the magicks of Asgard and its citizens, of our father. It is that which makes him into one of the æsir like myself. It also by the magic my father placed upon him as a babe so that he too might control his other form when he lets it surface - without it, he is free to master either, affected by both their strengths and their weaknesses. Even now I only can handle the amulet until I relinquish its keep, all thanks to more of the All-Father's magic upon me.

"My friends, believe me when I say that my brother is a good soul, but one broken by the past - although he and our father refuse to share all that transpired during his exile, I warrant that the scars run deeper than we can imagine. Can you not understand his plight? Yes, I would chance much pain and more for the sake of his redemption - he will always be my brother, no matter what he says. That is why we have come here seeking your help and that of this tool of whom you speak. Would you not offer him the same opportunity to redeem himself and wash his hands clean as SHIELD has done for you?"

Again, the assassins shared another wary look, their true thoughts masked behind shrewd expressions. Though the warrior prince's impassioned words struck home, Romanoff offered Thor nothing more to satisfy his questions and Barton had only an opinion to share: "No, no I don't. But I'm not the boss here and in this, I don't envy him, that's for sure. Your brother's not going to like this, not at all."

The Universe watched a child born into this realm with the name Aura Henley on its lips, her fate twisted by many hands. Many years later, this was her story - your story - as the Universe saw it unfold, the path shared alongside another's, the end yet undetermined...

To be continued...

Blessing

A blood-soaked city in the distance, the prince in exile must journey along a wearisome path to the throne while his beloved Champion battles her own demons. Sebastian x F!Hawke.

This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. Taking place after the initial chaos, the fall of the Chantry and the deaths of First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith, the heart of this work will attempt to chronicle an evolving intimate relationship between Prince Sebastian Vael and a disconsolate female mage Hawke and their efforts to take back Starkhaven.

Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, and Romance.

Beta: Lywinis - She who made me murder my darlings, but made it better.

Edited: 07.30.2012 - Rewritten bits and bobs; please read the Author's Note at the end...

Chapter One: A Blessing Received

Destiny changes
Whispers of promises lost
The Queen of light calls

The Free Marches trundled by as a coach persisted in its journey beyond Kirkwall's last claim. Young trees bowed in the wind whilst birds of prey rode the currents, nature unhindered by the coach's passing. As it rattled onwards, gray-tinged clouds crested the peaks of the Vimmark Mountains. After the sun set and the moon hung prominent in the sky, Prince Sebastian Vael predicted rain to blanket the valley with fleeting observation. The coming rain, a potential hazard for the future, held no great interest for him. Even more than the reclamation of his homeland of Starkhaven, more than the loss of his dear Grand Cleric Elthina, it was she who drew his fractured, dithering concentration; the Champion, sorrowful, broken, and lost.

Hair awry and her eyes glazed, Maria Hawke sat across from him, her features unable to completely express the turmoil within her. The hood of her cloak drooped low and cast her face in shadow. Over the past few days, fate altered its courses for each of them. In those final hours, many events broke her again and again: the betrayals, the lies, things beyond the realm of reason and decency.

Each line and curve of her face and form etched itself into his memory. Even now, Sebastian recalled that look of defeat that overtook the remains of her control as she collapsed outside the Gallows...

"This - this is wrong..." Maria Hawke choked on her words as her knees buckled beneath her and her staff tumbled from her weakened grasp. "All of them dead. Dead because of fear, because of anger. It's all wrong..."

The carefully maintained façade crumbled and crushed her with the lies. Kirkwall's Champion, gone. Her sobs echoed against the high walls while her anguish drowned out the shouts and muffled clangs of metal. It was as if the earth, the very world around them acknowledged the pain of those whose blood stained the stones, engulfed them in near stillness save for her cries. No one saw the one they named Champion after the battle that night, only a shade of a shattered woman far removed from a simple existence.

"Hawke..." Her name died on the prince's tongue, his own grief over the Grand Cleric's death quelled, overridden. Her empty gaze robbed him of his breath. Whatever warmth they once held, the fires sputtered and were extinguished. Yet, his respect did not waver, nor did his heart. Screwing his courage, he grabbed her arm and dragged her up from the flagstones, purposefully rough. "Come."

She offered no resistance when they escorted her from a battlefield unlike any other. Sebastian's stalwart fingers never left hers even with silence as her only answer to the comfort. Deeper into the city, Aveline led the group through Hightown, Fenris at their backs to cover their retreat and together they fled to the Hawke Estate. Orana fell upon her blood-spattered mistress with a cry of surprise and her desperate sobs for her mistress's well-being deafened. Maria's hand squeezed Sebastian's tighter, unwilling to be parted. The prince touched her face, his actions more reassuring than any words. Surrendering, the little maidservant guided Maria away to her chambers as she fussed over every scratch and bruise.

Midnight became dawn by the time the last of their companions slipped in the stillness of Hightown. Varric among them was the most enthusiastic of them all. Armed with a plethora of anecdotes, each fabrication more fantastical than the last, the night continued to dazzle and amaze, bloodshed mere spice. Unshakable, that one.

Only Starkhaven's sole surviving heir chose to linger.

"Messere?"

His bow lay on the table some metres away from the fireplace where he stood. Without thought, his hand reached for it out of instinct. Orana's startled shriek when he rounded on her checked his adrenaline-addled senses.

"Mistress Hawke asks for your presence, my lord," the shaking elf said, the fabric of her apron wringed between her thin hands. "I'm sorry... it's just that I'm afraid for her. If anything were to happen..."

Nothing would happen to her, he promised. Never again. Now was the time for action, something he should have done long ago.

"How would you like to serve a prince, Orana?" asked Sebastian, his voice level but carried with it authority like thunder in a storm. "If you care for your mistress, do as I command."

His directions were clear and precise, so he left her to the tasks as he mounted the stairs. Blood pounded in his ears, but he had made his decision - he would finish what he began without closure, the loss of the Grand Cleric too great even with their last conversation fresh enough to comfort him. In the back of his mind, he prayed she smiled down on him and approved.

On the landing, light flickered from the open door and spilled onto the floor outside her quarters. The heat of the hearth permeated the room when he entered, his steps quiet but quick. A great tub sat before the fire where it basked in the heat, cast darker shadows into the bedchamber. One bloodied arm hung over the side, its hand twitching amidst. The other cradled her head, her red-rimmed eyes unfocused but staring into nothingness. She barely moved as a chair scraped across the rugs, lost to the melancholy.

At first, Sebastian found himself unable to look upon her modesty out of shame, rather than his vows. Nevertheless, temptation proved stronger and his eyes strayed to take in the sight of a woman divested of all her armour. There was nothing left but the shell of her, a body and nothing more.

Maker help me.

His licentious gaze swept across the swell of her bosoms, pressed against the tub with a sheen of the bathwater which glinted in the firelight. Piercing blue eyes travelled down one side, crested over the curve of her wide hips and down the thigh overlapping its twin to thankfully preserve her dignity. Wanton thoughts burned him with ache even as the Chant of Light ghosted from his lips to calm his fevered mind.

Six years of tension released for the chance to console a soul in mourning.

Trembling fingers reached out, not for just for him, but something real, something to anchor her sanity. In every movement, in the silence, he saw the truth of her need. Bowman's hands brought them to his lips, his mouth dry as they accepted silence.

"Can't stay here." Her voice was hoarse, barely audible above the crackle of the fire.

"I know."

Maria had spoken not a word since the proposal. While the coach rocked and swayed on its path to Starkhaven, there she sat, mute and withdrawn in her thoughts. In the solitary moments, Sebastian studied her like one might a priceless painting. Even drifting between states of consciousness, he thought her beautiful. Not in body, even as he admired the curves of her form like the night before. No, that a beauty derived itself from her essence, however tormented it might be. Everything she accomplished, every word her lips formed, possessed a purpose. Although too many worked against the grain, they still rang with her will: to do what she believed to be right. His people needed a ruler - she fought to show him that no other would suffice. For six years, she tried to give him what he really wanted in the deepest part of his heart, wanted but never realized. Yet, he knew he could not do it alone - he need her more that he cared to admit. But what was he to do when the one he loved, the one needed most, retreated now from even his company?

"You bring her back."

Sebastian's breath caught in his throat as awe overtook him while his chest tightened.

Delicate fingers petted Maria's cherub cheeks, the mage's eyes closed in fitful slumber. A sheet of fine hair tumbled in a cascade from the unearthly woman's head, pooling about her waist. Her gown, silvery like moonlight, hugged her form to accentuate each flawless asset. She wore no adornments except a filigreed circlet of silverite with an opalescent jewel that glittered on her forehead and a fine chain, looped several times about the ivory column of her neck. From the delicate chain another gem dangled, a teardrop between her breasts which caught the pale light that poured the curtained window.

The prince gazed at her face in transient observation, curious and bewildered. Her soft smile held sorrow, a lifetime of sadness. But in her eyes a smouldering light brightened her visage, a hidden secret beyond mortal sight.

"You are fortunate, young prince," the lilting voice said, clear as the sky on a winter morn. "The Maker gave me many blessings, but perchance this one more than any other I do cherish. Fates gives so little in return, but many things are constant – oh, it took Him so very long to understand it."

Those same fingers reached behind her neck and waves of silken tresses glided over the smooth flesh. Familiarity confounded him, although he could not place it. Yet, unbidden, his hand closed around the pendant when she dropped in his palm. Pale hands cupped his fingers while they curled about the gem, the chain slipping between them.

"A gift, dear one, for your true bride," she murmured as her lips brushed his knuckles. "I do not want your vows, your promises. Turn not away from this path. This one's heart sits broken, its salvation lies within yours. Together, maybe then can you find peace among the remains."

Her face drew closer to his, the dim light aglow around her. Stunned, the flush of recognition flashed across his cheeks. The enigmatic woman's mouth curved into a gentle smile as she pressed her lips against his own, not demanding, not commanding. Sebastian's eyes fluttered closed, but when his sight returned, he found himself alone in silence. Nothing remained of the vision save for the teardrop jewel which rested heavily in his hand.

Maria's piteous whimper roused him from his ponderings, her fists clenched as the nightmares ripped through her shattered mind. Worry replaced the daze, the vision forgotten for greater purpose. The prince's gaze darkened as he joined her on her seat to allow his hand to caress her cheek, mimicking the woman from his revelation. She did not awake at his first touch, but her body shifted into his arms without pause. He placed a kiss atop her head and the scent of her filled him with hope. His thumb traced patterns on the tear-streaked flesh and tried to rub away the pain that wrought them. Small hands gripped his shirt, but her whimpering began to cease, chased away by his warmth.

Expecting that she would sleep more peacefully in his embrace, Sebastian revelled in a dream of the days to come until Maria's gasp of surprise drew him from it.

There, he saw it: the same curve of the mouth, the same eyes. But, after six years, all he saw was Maria Hawke and he wanted her, every battered, broken and beautiful piece.

"Sebastian?"

A leathery, sun-browned hand strayed into her hair and it brought her to him, his actions gentle as his mouth met hers. How long had he craved this? Six years and never once had he taken what was offered, desired. He left her breathless and that, in itself, granted him joy. This he would have never found in the Chantry, he mused in contentment as Maria's lips parted and he accepted the challenge. Her hands crept up his chest, uncertainty colouring her movements. Sebastian's own drew her tighter, snaked behind her to brace her spine and tugged her hips closer. His kisses left her mouth to trail along her jaw and to lavish her pulse where his tongue tasted sweat and the heady essence of arousal. A shuddering moan cast him back to his senses.

Too much, too fast.

"No." He growled against that soft skin, rebuffed himself even though he wanted nothing more than to mark it, to lay claim to his prize.

"Why?"

Tears pricked her eyes yet again and fear stained her speech.

"Here is wrong," he said without hesitation, knowing it to be a greater truth, but far from his desire.

"No, that's not what I meant." She returned his sentiment as she twisted to face him, her thighs parted to straddle his long legs. Though her stomach fluttered, she stayed her course, the sudden desire of flesh overcome by devotion born of ardour. Save for that contact, she held him at a distance, her expression a mixture of confusion, of pain, and of wonderment. Her eyes had yet to meet his, all of her willpower spent to maintain a selfish need to veil herself, to disguise the distress and the longing deep in her heart. "There's naught left of me to give you. It's all gone – the influence, the power... everything..."

She sank in his embrace, given to sobbing against his chest.

If only she could disappear...

Sebastian said nothing, he himself not aware of the full workings of the Maker's will, as he pushed aside her hair and looped the silver chain about her neck.

He counted each loop, named them after each pass.

First loop, their past.

Second loop, the present.

Third loop, a future.

Some day he would have the answer, but not today.

He graced her throat again with another kiss as she looked up, her countenance crimson and raw. Lithe fingers followed the chain to the pendant nestled between inviting breasts that peaked beneath her robes, loosened in her slumber. His own joined hers to touch the cool, smooth surface, the barest hint of magic taunting them.

"A Tear of Andraste..." Her father had told her fanciful legends of the gems - crystals of such great power unfathomable by man. Such an object was worth more than the entirety of a ransomed kingdom. No better material gift could be imagined. In curiosity, the precious stone responded to her magic and it tingled with unseen power; it was genuine. "But where - ?"

"That doesn't matter," Sebastian protested with a distracting smile. Beneath its mask, he hid his emotions with honed precision, unwilling to give in to baser instinct. Instead, he sucked in a heavy breath and focused. Swallowing his own desire, his expression hardened with the need at hand, the words readied for longer than he dared recall. Without pause, the prince gave her a sincere offer, a new vow which rolled off his tongue with surprising ease. It felt strange but necessary, despite the hardship it would bring them both. Unlike his proposal, this sentiment held a sweeter tone rather than the desperation of that night. "You once said that whatever I asked, the answer would be yes. Then allow me this, a simple promise - though I have taken you from your home to protect you, grant me your favour and all that I possess is yours. Together, we will find our own peace with the past. Just know that I love you."

The pain would never cease, but Sebastian knew peace might yet be had if only they sought it as one, now that he had spoken the truth, the truth that he loved her. On every breath, he prayed to be the one to guide her, to give her hope as she once had for the former brother he once was in another life, an old life that lay behind them in the ruins of Kirkwall. In every moment, he would give her purpose and impart strength. Though he never spoke it aloud, he wanted to love her without reservation, not simply saying the words in his heart. He only hoped she felt the same and healed from the wounds that ran deeper the flesh.

Still, he awaited her response with building apprehension. All the while, he tracked a lazy path across one breast - he wanted more than words. The act earned him a shiver and a pleasing gasp before he altered the path to graze her clavicle. It meant to be a comforting gesture, intended to sooth his nerves as well as ease her mind, but it became a small taste of something more. Sebastian teased her lips with another kiss to coax an answer from her. He wanted this, needed her as reason left him. What he felt was something more than physical, more than water to quench a wildfire or the direst thirst. He could pretend, if just for the moment, that nothing loomed to taint that prospect.

Sebastian Vael's future demanded Maria Hawke, the former Champion of Kirkwall and scion of the Amell family - no one else could fill that void.

Pain of many flavours released its grasp, its sting faded by slow degrees. He felt her heart drumming beneath his fingers, quickened by his words and actions. In her eyes, he glimpsed a glimmer of the hope, the unspoken wish for completion, to be whole once more. Every fibre of his being begged to be the pillar of strength, to defend her from not only the world, but from herself. As Prince, he could give her so much more, spurred by duty and need. With Maria at his side, even only in company, he felt absolute. What wonders lay before them if only she accepted him entirely, the title and the man, and stepped beyond the ashes to find herself again?

Outside, the Free Marches grew darker, the shadows of pines blending into the grass. Night fell in the space before the dwindling flame burned brighter. After a long, bated silence, Maria leaned forward to whisper tender words in his ear. Demure but resolute, she submitted to the fate he gave her to took that first step forward.

"I am yours if you would have me."

Even if he had neither a copper nor crumb to his name, he would have throw away everything for that answer.

"No other would do."

Though it would take time to fully accept the life, the Maker and Andraste Herself had given him this blessing - he dared not squander it, if only he could justify the new stirrings in his soul. In the wake of hope, Starkhaven raised higher in mind, another promise yet untouched. If only it was farther away, he mused, but there was much to be done. No rest lay ahead on this wearisome path plagued by doubt and more.