A/N: Thank you Oleander's One! Your comma sense is appreciated, as is your beta greatness and your friendship.
Thank you to all who are reading and reviewing!

Running with the Stars

"Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them."
―Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

~~~oOo~~~

Aerin,

I write in the hope that this finds both you and Laria well and safe. The hardships that Fereldans suffer as the land heals have caused great unrest here in Highever as levies grow and crops are sent south to feed those whose land was devastated. I fear for the life of the king and am considering a move to the Free Marches for the safety of our Reformationists.

However, as the revered mother here, I hate to lose the ground we've gained. The people of Highever look to the mages to assist in many ways, and their superstitions wane. This is the goal, is it not? The templars assist the mages, who assist the populace. Should I leave that behind in the hope that another country will be as friendly towards our endeavors?

I thought you should know that we lost young Fletcher. We were weaning him off the lyrium and his poor body and mind just couldn't take it. I wonder how many more we'll lose in this endeavor and wonder if we should subject them to it? How can the Chantry claim to care for all when it does this to its most devout? Should we, instead, contact the lyrium dealers in Orzammar so that our templars don't have to endure such agonies?

I would like your thoughts on the matter. Perhaps you can contact the Chasind and explain our need for a safer way of loosening lyrium's hold on our templars? I look forward to hearing from you. If you and Laria should decide to come north, please know that you will have a home.

Maker guide your steps,
Glynis

For long moments, Aerin remembered the excruciating torture of withdrawing from lyrium, when it felt as if his blood was on fire and his veins made of ice. It had felt as if his body fought itself with sharpened needles, stabbing hot and then cold, making him want to tear open his veins and purge the fiery ice.

His stomach had been in a constant state of rebellion and he'd been parched, his throat raw from the incessant retching, and his head had throbbed with unrelenting pain. He had twisted and turned, trying to avoid the pain, and he had begged for the torture to end. Days had blended into nights and then into what seemed like weeks.

And the nightmares … the nightmares had been worse than the physical agony had ever been. Unspeakable creatures, loved ones distorted and contorted by demons and fire, or mocking and contemptuous as they had tortured him. The nightmares had lasted well beyond the physical pain. There were nights when he was sure they were waiting in the Fade for him even now.

He blinked away the sudden memory of his own lyrium withdrawal, pushing away the echo of remembered pain. He doubted that the Chasind would have some magical formula to alleviate the pain of lyrium withdrawal, especially since they didn't use lyrium in any context. The Chantry taught that lyrium was the basis for magic. Neither the Chasind nor the Dalish used lyrium in their magic, thus proving that lyrium may help those with limited magical abilities, but it wasn't necessary. And that was just one more flaw in the whole system, as far as he was concerned.

What they needed to do was prevent the addiction and the only way that would happen would be for Reformationists to infiltrate the monasteries where templars took their final orders and received their first taste of the sweet blue liquid. The ranks of the Reformationists were beginning to swell again, now that the Blight was over.

He folded the letter from Glynis and stepped out of the tent in search of Laria and Con. Con rested on soft, lush grass, soaking up the sun's kiss. Laria was bent over the fire, stirring it back into life before propping up a sharpened willow branch, laden with three small fish. He saw a small kettle of water sitting on a low, flat rock among the ash.

Her hair gleamed golden brown in the early morning sun, the curls blowing gently in the light breeze. He knew their texture and richness, knew the way they drifted across his chest like silk when she lay in his arms each night, and the way a strand wound around his finger when he captured one of her irresistible curls. His heart softened, his memories and fears receded. For a moment his feelings tightened his throat, making it impossible to speak.

"How would you like your fish? Burnt or raw?" she asked, smiling over her shoulder.

Her words released him, returning his voice. "The usual. Burnt on one side, raw on the other," he replied, his tone light and teasing.

An hour later they were deep in the Brecilian forest. Sunlight streamed through the trees, creating intricate patterns of light and dark on the well-worn path. Looking up through the delicate green leaves, Aerin saw the vivid blue of a spring sky free of dark clouds and reached instinctively for Laria's hand. He squeezed it, as he saw her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

"I'd forgotten what spring looks like," she whispered, as if speaking aloud would disturb the glory of such a sight.

Aerin pulled her closer, leaning in to smell her sun-warmed skin. She smelled of fish and river and sky and earth. A surge of love so powerful it tightened his chest swept through him. "Anything to please my Lady Hawk," he replied when his voice could be trusted.

"In that case, I request a hot bath, a roast lamb dinner, and a night on a feather bed. With you."

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and breathed in again, smiling. "Would you settle for a long walk, hard tack, and a bed under the stars?"

She reached up and traced the long, jagged scar that ran from his left temple to just below his ear. "My handsome wolf," she whispered, leaning up to drop a kiss on his right cheek, where another red and puckered scar resided. "With you by my side, even the stars are more beautiful."

The bitterness he felt at having his face so twisted by scars faltered briefly, and for a moment he believed her. Closing his eyes, he held her loosely and remembered a time when he was her wolf, her protector. A time when he had failed her, leaving him broken and bloody because he had followed his duty rather than his heart.

Never again would he submit to the Chantry hierarchy or his duties as a templar. He would listen to his heart and Laria's words. He would not leave her side, he would protect her always, and they would follow where their hearts dictated. They would find a life despite the ravages from the Blight. They would continue to reform the Chantry from within. He had only to believe again. Somehow.

They camped on the edge of a large meadow that swayed with the grace of wildflowers, scenting the air with the sweet pungency of elfroot and wild verbena. The stars brightened the moonless night; glittering and beautiful spots of color in the darkness. Laria, her hand twined lovingly with his, stood beside him, and he heard her breath catch. He knew that she was as transfixed by the sight as he was. He lowered her gently to the ground and then stretched out beside her, holding her as they stared at the beauty of the night sky.

A gentle breeze stirred the grass, and he heard the soft whistle of leaves from the nearby trees as they danced with the night wind that cooled his skin, leaving him content and at peace.

"So, my Lady Hawk, how do you like my gift?" he asked, waving his hand at the brilliant sky full of stars.

"I could wish for nothing more, Ser Bryant Aerin Sinclair," she replied, her warm breath stirring along his chest.

"Nothing?" he asked, his voice gone husky with desire.

"Well, perhaps one thing more, Ser Wolf."

~~~oOo~~~

Dear Cousin Carver,

I can't imagine why you would want to traipse around in the Deep Roads. There are horrors untold there, and the chances of one of your party becoming infected with the darkspawn taint are extremely high. I suppose if you are like your sister, you won't heed my warning, so I'll send you some maps as soon as my cartographer has them copied.

If you won't heed my warning regarding the Deep Roads, please do so with regard to Anders, I beg you. He is dangerous, and while the First Warden seems reluctant to handle the matter, I am not. I will send one of my most trusted Wardens with the maps, and he can keep an eye on Anders. He'll also prove invaluable in the Deep Roads. Where you have no business going, I might add. Did I mention how foolish it is to wander around in the home of darkspawn?

I had hoped to see Laria later this month, but I am unable to leave at present. It's reassuring to know I have family both here and in Kirkwall. Please give my kind regards to your mother and uncle.

Fondly,

Addie Amell Arainai
Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and other nonsensical titles too numerous and ridiculous to mention

Carver's mouth curved into a brash gloat of a grin. "I told you I'd get the maps, didn't I?" he boasted, waving the letter at Varric, who rolled his eyes.

"Sure, Junior, you promised. Now all you need is the gold."

There was a salt-tipped wind blowing in from the water, touching the darkened corners of the city with a tender breath, blowing away the dank smell. Overhead, the sun pierced the clouds with single-minded intent, warm on Carver's face. Without losing his grin, Carver nodded and jiggled the loose coins in his pocket.

"Won't be long before I have that too. I figure about the time Addie sends her Warden with the maps. In fact, Shorty, I talked Aveline into hiring us to clean up the streets at night. You think you can stop nagging at me about how little gold we have and actually earn some?"

Varric's brow raised and his scoffing chuckle was low. "The real question is whether you can keep up with Bianca."

"Let's go find that surly elf. He more than owes us after all the trouble we had helping him. What's his name? Flinders? Fannris? No, no, Fenris."

"What about Rivaini? She's pretty handy in a fight."

A frown pushed the grin away and Carver shrugged, embarrassment settling in his cheeks. "She touches me," he complained, and then felt idiotic for admitting how uncomfortable the Rivaini pirate made him feel. Isabela. She was a dark beauty and any man with eyes would agree. He shouldn't be anything but flattered, even though he knew she was a practiced flirt and meant nothing by her words and touches.

It wasn't even that he disliked her; she was both fun and funny. But she would figure out soon enough that he wasn't interested in her or any woman and then the taunts and teasing would begin in earnest. His male friends would find reasons to avoid him, as if he would ever impose his feelings on someone who wasn't interested.

He remembered discussing his attraction to males with his father, and his father had commiserated, telling him that being different brought a host of problems but there was beauty in individuality. He'd recommended concentrating on that beauty, pointing to the night sky and explaining that every star was different and that's what made the darkness beautiful. "Run with the stars," his father had told him.

Varric broke into his thoughts, the words of Malcolm Hawke slipping into the past.

"Many a man would envy those touches, Farm Boy."

"Well from the sound of it, many a man have," Carver replied promptly.

"So tell her you aren't interested. Of course you'd have to be dead not to be, but hey, what do I know?"

"Not bloody much, Little Man, not bloody much," Carver growled, striding along the street, his pleasure in the balmy wind forgotten. "I don't know why I tell you anything personal."

"Because I'm willing to listen, I'm charming, and I'm just downright loveable."

"Or a pain in the arse."

"That too, Longshanks, that too."

Anger dissipating as quickly as it had formed, Carver slowed his steps. "Sorry, Mate, just feeling a bit frustrated. Mother is not happy with her current home, Maker only knows why. I mean, what are a few rats among family?"

"Mothers are never happy unless all their children are married and producing grandchildren. She could be living in her old mansion and still be miserable until you put a bouncing baby on her lap."

"Well that's not bloody likely. She never listens to me on that subject any more than anyone ever listens to me. Even you don't hear half of what I say."

"Quit bitching at your betters, Junior," Varric replied, sounding slightly out of breath and a twitch away from laughter.

"Betters? You can't be serious, Dwarf. I am superior to you in every way."

"Right, you just go on believing that. In the meantime, I'll see you here for drinks later. We'll come up with a plan to rid the city of miscreants and charge Aveline through the nose for doing it. Beats me why her city guards can't do the job."

Carver glanced up, surprised to see that they were standing in front of the Hanged Man. His anger and frustration had carried him farther than he'd thought. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yeah, sounds right, Mate. I'll talk to Fenris and meet you here at dusk. Talk to Isabela and tell her to keep her hands to herself."

"Maybe I'll send her the elf's way. Might make him a bit less surly and give me some great material for a story."

The wind stirred and ruffled Carver's hair like a lover's hand. He sighed heavily and turned away from Varric. Friends and nothing more. Ever. Varric had made that abundantly clear in a hundred subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Carver, with years of interpreting such signals, recognized them all by now. He would rather forego any foolish hopes and maintain their friendship than risk it all by voicing his desires. And sooner or later he would have to remind his mother that he wasn't likely to marry, no matter how much she hoped otherwise.

He made it to Hightown in minutes and pounded up the steps to the dilapidated mansion Fenris had taken over. The door creaked as Fenris opened it, and hostile green eyes glared at him beneath heavy black brows. "Yes? What do you want?"

For you to not be so damned churlish. The thought hovered, yearning for freedom, but Carver bit it back and took a deep breath before speaking. "You still need coin and you still owe me a favor. How about chucking the attitude?"

The door opened wider and Fenris beckoned him in, looking faintly chagrinned. "How may I be of service?" he asked, motioning Carver into a moth-eaten velvet chair that wobbled when he sat down.

"Hand me that piece of bark over by the firewood, for starters," Carver replied, and once he had the flat piece of bark in his hand, he stood and placed it under the shorter leg before settling into the chair. "Much better," he said, testing his repair with a self-satisfied grin.

"Yes, you are remarkably talented," Fenris agreed dryly. He settled in a chair across the room and picked up a bottle of wine, waving it at Carver. "Can I offer you a drink as payment for your carpentry skills?"

Glancing around the roughly furnished room, he shook his head. "Seems like you're doing enough drinking for the both of us, which is a shame since I had a job lined up for us, but I can't use a drunk."

Green eyes took on the cold, hard glitter of emeralds as the elf glared at Carver and he waved the bottle in an extravagant gesture. "I am not drunk, merely relaxed."

"Right, and I'm the Viscount of Kirkwall."

"I very much doubt it. Now, what is this job you have need of me for?"

"Guard Captain Aveline has hired us to clean out the gangs that are taking over the city at night. We're meeting tonight at the Hanged Man and we'll go from there."

Fenris glanced at the bottle in his hand and then with deft grace hurled it against the wall. The explosion of shattered glass and wine didn't seem to disturb the elf at all, even though Carver was hard pressed not to leap from his seat, sword in hand. The dark red rivulets dripping down the wall reminded him of blood and he turned away.

"You could have just put the damned thing down, Mate."

"Better to destroy it than have it destroy me."

"True enough. So, I'll see you and your sword at the Hanged Man at sunset."

"Will that pirate be there?" Fenris asked. Carver wanted to roll his eyes at the elf's studied disinterest when it was obvious that he was interested in the answer. And if Fenris could keep Isabela's attention, who was he to complain?

Before he could form a reply, Fenris shrugged. "No matter, I will be there. You have my word on it, such as it is."

Carver rose and stared at the elf, whose bitterness seemed bone deep. "Listen, whatever happened to you before, you are among friends now. Maybe you'd be better off focusing on the good in your life. You know … running with the stars."

Frowning, the elf spoke softly, as if tasting the wisdom of the words. "Running with the stars. Ah, yes, I take your meaning. The philosopher Gerius said: 'There is no greater beauty than stars lingering in a sea of night. Take heed and travel with such beauty for they may never be seen again.'"