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The walls of his tiny chambers in the chantry are shrinking, and he fears if he stays for a moment longer they may very well suffocate him.
The moon hangs above Hightown as he slips through his window, the climb to the courtyard below familiar and washed in a milky glow. He feels he can breathe again without the press of incense against his nose, though there’s still a princely part of him that wants to recoil from Kirkwall’s permanent, sharp scent of metal and ocean. But at least the air is cool against the skin that peeks out around his armor. A reprieve from his sweltering room, so he thanks the Maker for that.
He sticks to the shadows as he makes his way around the courtyard, though he’s not sure why. He’d long since grown accustomed to Elthina’s disapproving looks.
It’s just habit , he supposes, justifies. Something he’d vowed to forget.
He could laugh at the thought of another half-promised, broken vow.
When he lands lightly in the alley beside the chantry, he doesn’t even have a chance to catch his breath before his feet are carrying him to her .
Hawke’s estate being so close to the chantry varies somewhere between a blessing and a curse, depending on the day and exactly how distracted he’d been during prayer. Tonight though, when he sees the dim light of a candle flickering in her window, it is a blessing.
The thought of enduring another night staring at his ceiling, thinking of his home being haunted by betrayals and usurpers, makes him want to scream. It makes him want to pray for forgiveness. It makes him want to put an arrow through the heart of anyone who let his family become ashes.
The spark of rage in his chest is begging to be made a flame, so he seeks out the only person he knows might be able to put it out.
He all but sprints to the estate, only pausing to check around corners for bandits. There’s nothing but silent, empty streets and his own desperate need to not be alone. He inhales as he steps into the nook that hides her front door.
His knuckle raps on her door once, twice. He feels relieved and foolish all at once, hoping Bodahn and Leandra had retired for the night.
Pax makes a few soft woofs beyond the door before he hears shuffling and Hawke’s teasing voice. “Yes, yes, you’re very scary. A very scary guard dog, not even moving from the doormat.”
He’s smiling when she opens the door, Pax poking his head from between her knees. Her grey eyes widen, though she recovers quickly. It’s become an unspoken, mutual understanding. There are times when the world is too much, and there is something of a refuge to be found here between them.
He is certain she’d do the same for any of her friends, her door was practically revolving, but he can’t help feel a little special when he manages to have her to himself. It’s a rare and precious thing.
“Sebastian,” she breathes. “Is everything alright?”
His smile falls and he finds his words knotting up in his throat. Tangled in grief and wanting. But that’s answer enough for Hawke, so she takes his hand silently and pulls him inside.
It never ceases to surprise him how at home he feels inside the estate-- with Hawke . He shakes the thought away.
The estate is always warm and lived in and, unlike most places he’s ever been, there had never been anyone within that was disappointed he was there.
Maven drags him into the sitting room, where the fireplace awaits them with its welcoming crackles.
Her dressing gown sways above her shins as she walks, and her dark hair is down around her shoulders. It surprises him at first, because for all their shared time even at the estate, she had always been armored in some way. Usually literally, in leathers and light plate, with kohl around her eyes to make them even more unyielding and her hair pulled away from her face. Her friends and escapades kept her battle-ready at all hours of the night.
He had never seen her quite so bare. Human. A young woman with too much responsibility rather than a force of nature.
The thought makes him flush with equal parts shame and warmth.
She shoves him down into the settee, Pax circling the rug before the fire and plopping down to fall asleep. Hawke’s worry and vulnerability is replaced with a smirk that makes his skin itch. Her fist lands on her jutted hip, eyebrow raised suggestively. “Pray tell, choir boy, how can I help you at an hour such as this?”
Her attitude is a different type of armor, perhaps, but armor all the same. He’s the only one of her friends that truly seems to see through it.
“I saw you still had candles lit, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
She studies him, rightfully and almost instantly determining he’s lying. “Casually sneaking out of the chantry again, were you? Though I do suppose that technically means you were in the neighborhood.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Aye. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.”
“You should know by now that nowhere in Kirkwall is quite safe enough for a midnight stroll, Sebastian.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I ended up here. We’re a lot harder to kill together.”
That seems to pull a genuine smile from her. “You’re very lucky to have me, then.”
“I am,” he says, with enough sincerity to make her blush.
It’s a small moment of triumph he tucks away into his heart.
She clears her throat and takes a seat next to him, tucking her feet beneath her. Frustratingly close, frustratingly far. Her knee brushes his thigh as she settles into the cushions to face him. “I was just doing some paperwork. The Viscount grows overwhelmed.” She chuckles ruefully and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m starting to wonder if I should just ask for an office in the Keep.”
The light from the fireplace catches the hollows of her face and he knows although she might be joking, it weighs on her more than she allows anyone to see.
He reaches out and rests a hand upon her folded ones. “Whatever you need of me, Hawke. Never hesitate to ask.” She halfheartedly matches the small smile he offers. “I would tell you you’re allowed to say no to these people everyone once in a while, but you wouldn’t listen to me, would you?”
“Probably not, but I appreciate the concern.” She unfolds her hands to allow her fingers to trace the seams of his doeskin gloves. “I feel my best when I’m of use to someone.”
He prays his face isn’t as red as it feels, but he doesn’t pull away. He instead finds it hard to look away from where her pale fingers twined against his. “Maven,” he warns softly.
She pauses as he says her name, shaking her head and withdrawing from him gently. The absence of her forms as an ache in his gut. “But enough about me. You said you had trouble sleeping. Do you want to talk about it?”
He has to bite his tongue from groaning. “Not really.”
She laughs, tossing her head back. “Oh, I understand exactly how you feel.” She catches his tired look with a cheeky grin. “You’ll feel better if you do, though.”
“You won’t allow me peace until I talk, will you?”
She beams. “Nope.”
He snorts. “Fine.”
Hawke is watching him with that knowing gaze of hers, waiting. She always seemed like she was waiting for something from him. He had a sinking feeling he knew what it was, and it uneased him how much he longed to give it to her.
He takes a deep breath and settles deeper into the back of the settee. His hand scrubs across his face. “I feel terribly lost, Hawke. I don’t know where to go or what to do.”
“About Starkhaven, you mean?”
He nods, staring down at where his hands had fallen turned up in his lap. “I feel torn. Torn between Starkhaven and the chantry, between my vows and my people.”
She lets her head drop against her shoulder. “What does your heart tell you?”
“My heart?” He glances up at her through his lashes. “My heart tells me many things.”
“Bothersome things, hearts,” she teases. “Maybe you shouldn’t be coming to me for advice, my heart always gets me into trouble.”
He shakes his head at that. “You have a good heart, Hawke. You’re a good leader, and an even better friend. Starkhaven would be far better in your hands than it ever would in mine.”
“And it’s your willingness to face your mistakes that makes you a good man.” She reaches forward and taps her finger against the end of his nose like a child, pulling him from his melancholy. “And you know if you wanted to take back the throne, you wouldn’t have to do it alone either.”
“You have too many responsibilities already.”
“Ah, well,” she says, something slow and terrifying unfurling across her lips. “The good thing about me is I’m like a terrible venereal disease. Hard to get rid of.”
He shakes his head and tries in vain not to laugh. She looks far too pleased with herself for him to scold. “Alright then, wee clever one. What would you do in my position?”
“I would take back what is mine and never let go.”
“You say that with enough conviction I almost believe you.”
She shrugs. “The people need someone stable and good to be on the throne. They don’t have that now do they?” He shakes his head. “Then, you could be that,” she says. “You are that.”
“You think abandoning my vows makes me worthy of leading a whole city-state?”
“I do. I think the Maker set you on this path for a reason. If you hadn’t joined the chantry, you’d be dead.” She blinks, seemingly taken aback by the realization of it that washes over her. “But you’re here now, and you’re a different man than you were then, one that was made for this. You were made for this.”
“You make it sound simple, Hawke.”
“I never said it was simple. It will be almost impossibly hard. You’ll be met with jackals and doubters and people who would rather stick a knife in your back than see the Vaels return, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.” She absently picks at the hem of her gown, like she hadn’t just declared something earth-shaking. Strength came to Hawke like breathing came to everyone else.
He stares at her for a moment, that old piece of rage in his chest burning into something better, enduring. Determination like being bathed in Andraste’s light. “How do you do it?”
The corner of her mouth lifts, a spark of something in her eye. “How do I do what, Prince Vael?”
The sound of it coming from her lips is enough to make goosebumps breakout across his skin. “How do you continue to be a light in such darkness, to walk forward with so much weighing you down?”
“Someone has to.” She takes his hand again and squeezes. “And I have friends who help.”
He lets her hold his hand. “I know I won’t be able to lead Starkhaven alone. Are you sure you’re ready to carry some of that?”
Without breaking eye contact, she smooths her thumb across the tips of his fingers that peek out from his gloves and brings them to her mouth. A soft noise escapes him as her lips press against his knuckles. He feels her grin. “Only if you promise to carry some of mine.”
“Always, Hawke,” he says, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time.