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Slip the jesses, my love
This hunter you own from the hood to the glove
When the circling and striking are done, and I land,
Let me come back to your hand,
Let me come back to your hand
The first time Sebastian touched Hawke’s hands, it was all business. They had just come out of an ambush on the Wounded Coast, and Dali Hawke had taken a sword-blow to her hand when blocking a raider’s swing. The long haft of her warhammer deflected most of it, but the sword slipped down and caught nastily in a gauntlet-joint. The cut wasn’t deep - luckily, as Anders was still back in his clinic - and so they could make do with potions and bandages.
He held her wrist steady as he poured a potion over the open gouge. She hissed at the sting, fingers curling and tensing, and for some reason the motion fascinated him. Perhaps it was simply her hands - so different from his own. It put into perspective not only their different fighting styles, but also their backgrounds. Other than his archer’s calluses, Sebastian’s hands were pristine and unmarked, long-fingered and graceful - a nobleman’s hands, in most all senses of the word. In comparison, Hawke’s were a patchwork of scars starkly pale against brown, and her knuckles were broad and knobby from popping or getting hit without the protection of gauntlets.
He made a pad of linen, and asked her to hold it in place over the wound as he wrapped the hand. She complied, and as she did Sebastian noticed something... off. He tied the bandage and glanced at her other hand. Hawke blinked at him with slight bemusement and then at her hand, as if remembering.
“Ah, so you finally noticed.” She grinned and held up the hand in question, the pinky and ring finger of her left hand both missing to the first knuckle, the middle finger notched and bent at the same height from a break in some time past. “Varric knew it from the moment he saw me, the observant bastard. Author’s eye, I think he calls it, always looking for the little details.”
Fascinated at least as much by her nonchalance as by the fingers themselves, Sebastian reached forward without thinking, and Hawke offered the stumps for him to feel. They were rounded slightly at the tips, and didn’t seem to be painful in the least. “How did it happen?”
“Sometime during Ostagar, after the flanking charge was called off - I can’t even remember how it happened, really. All that chaos... most of it just runs together in my memory, and at the time I was so intent on getting out of there that I was numb to most of the pain. I assume it was darkspawn; I’m just damn lucky I didn’t catch the Taint. It was only afterward that I realized they were missing, when...” There was a slight catch and shudder in her breath, but the pause was only momentary. “...when Carver and I were patching what we could. Hurt like the Void after that, of course, and nearly got infected on the boat ride to Kirkwall, but they’ve healed up nicely since then.”
She looked up and his eyes met hers. “Carver?” The question was quiet, hesitant.
“...everyone lost family to the Blight, Vael. I’m certainly not the exception.”
Somehow, he fell into what he might almost call a team. Hawke didn’t like to bring him along when she had Anders in tow, and she definitely didn’t like bringing Fenris and Anders along together unless she had no other choice.
It happened once. Varric’s reaction was ‘disaster waiting to happen’. Even when Hawke’s formidable hammer and even more formidable personality kept the mage and the escaped slave working together, it couldn’t keep them from verbally shredding one another. After that, Hawke didn’t ask them to accompany her at the same time unless it was of the utmost importance. With Sebastian and Anders it wasn’t quite so explosive, but... well.
And so he and Fenris ended up following Hawke together quite often. With them came Merrill, as Hawke insisted on having a mage along in the party. Fenris didn’t like it, but Fenris didn’t like any mages - though he got on better with Merrill than he did with Anders - and neither of them were quite comfortable with the idea of Hawke keeping company with a blood mage. Merrill, though, was... Merrill, and Sebastian found himself enjoying her company despite all better judgement.
It was the three of them that Hawke took out beyond Kirkwall the most, enough so that Varric even dubbed their little group with a nickname.
The Hunting Party.
“You don’t have to worry about our dear Dali tempting you away from your vows, you know.”
Sebastian looked up from his Diamondback hand to blink quizzically at Isabela. “...beg pardon?”
She lazily waved a hand in the air, leaning over in her chair with all the languid grace of a panther, and he had to tear his eyes up from the inviting sight of her cleavage. “Hawke. She’s as celibate as you are.” The roguish pirate heaved a great sigh of long-suffering, which made it even more difficult to ignore her ample breasts. By this point, Sebastian was fairly sure she was just trying to distract him from the game. It was working.
“She’s not a Sister of the faith, Isabela. I’m pretty sure I’d have heard about it if Hawke took her vows.” It didn’t stop him from sneaking a glance over to the bar, though, where Hawke leaned while she waited for more whiskey.
“She hasn’t taken any vows.” Isabela eyed her cards before flicking down a Priestess card with a smug twist to her lips. “She just doesn’t want sex. She’s not a prude, she just... doesn’t care. You know, like how there’s some people who are all about it-” Tempting, terrible woman - she knew exactly what she was doing to him as she practically purred those words, and his face was heating up in response. “-see! I can still make you react, even though you’ve sworn off all the juicy pleasures of life. But Hawke doesn’t work like that.”
Sebastian raised his chin and soldiered on, laying his choice of Queen card faceup on the table, and raised an eyebrow at the pirate. “And you know this... how?”
Isabela scoffed, but it ended up half a laugh anyway. “How do you think? I’ve tried nearly every trick in the book, and some not in any books besides. I can tell when a woman or man is aroused. With Hawke… there’s a spark of attraction, but no want. So,” she shrugged. “I asked her, just to be sure. She said she’s never felt the need. And so that’s that.”
“Damn straight.” Two glasses of whiskey thunked down in front of the card players – one for Isabela and one for Hawke, who batted her blue-dusted eyes at the two of them. “Don’t worry, Sebastian, I can still tell how pretty you are, or how utterly dashing dear ‘Bela is when she’s bouncing idiots’ heads off of the bar.”
Isabela flung a dramatic hand across her brow. “Thank Andraste’s sweet ass for that! I would never have known if you didn’t keep telling me.” She smacked her next card onto the table with a grin of triumph. “Priestess and Magician! You can’t get a better hand than that, Vael. You lose,” she singsonged as he laid down his cards in defeat, then she leaned over the table as her grin turned wicked. “And a bet’s a bet. So tell me, what would you do with me if you didn’t have those pesky vows holding you back?”
“It wasn’t technically a bet, you know. You are simply an incorrigible woman, and a terrible influence on a poor Brother.” Sebastian sighed heavily, but there was a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “But I did give my word, didn’t I?” More or less. He rose enough to close with the Rivaini and murmur quietly in her ear. Isabela groaned throatily and sank back into her chair as Hawke looked on with mild intrigue.
“Ugh, Choirboy, why couldn’t I have known you back then…?”
His outdoor boots left in the foyer, Sebastian paused as he padded into the main room of the Hawke manor. Dali Hawke herself paced back and forth in the middle of the room, her warhound watching from the rug in front of the fireplace. Leandra was nowhere to be seen – likely out in the marketplace – and Sandal fussed quietly with something in his hands. Most intriguing, though, was the sight and sound of the elder dwarf fine-tuning a fiddle. Hawke froze when she turned and caught sight of him, then released a surprising sigh of relief.
“Sebastian! Thank the Maker you’re here, and thank half of Merrill’s Creators for good measure. I need your help.”
Sebastian spread his hands, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a soft smile. “As ever, I am at your service, Hawke. I take it this isn’t the usual kind of ‘help’, though, or you’d have let me know to bring my bow.”
Hawke closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mother’s trying to find me a suitor. She’s throwing a party, and all of the eligible ‘noble’ bachelors of Kirkwall will be there. Probably a few more from as far as halfway across the Free Marches, as well.” There was a tinge of wondering disgust to her voice that had Sebastian suppressing a smile. Hawke famously had no patience for the Game of the noble families, but she could hardly avoid rubbing shoulders with Kirkwall’s upper echelons now that she herself was counted amongst them.
“You’re looking for inside information on them, then – which ones are desperate and which ones to avoid, or perhaps blackmail? That is, if you plan to attend at all, but I’m sure that if you need someone to come up with a story to get you out of it-”
“I need you to teach me how to dance.”
“-then I’m sure Varric could...” Her words took a moment to sink in. Sebastian blinked. “Wait, what?”
Hawke crossed her arms and scowled. “Bodahn can fiddle well enough for me to practice, but Sandal’s a bit too short to serve as a partner. Also, I doubt he’s familiar with court dancing in the Free Marches. You, however, probably know them all by heart.” She tilted her head, her long, nape-bound hair shifting slightly, and frowned. “That is… I assume you do - Prince of Starkhaven and all that - which might be a bit presumptive of me. Shit.” Dali glanced away, her frown deepening. “Look, if you d-”
“I know what the court will expect,” Sebastian interrupted her gently before she could continue. “-though you’ll have to forgive me, as my knowledge may be a little out of date. It’s been a fair while since I was called upon to remember any of this.”
It had been a long while, but he remembered the court dances of his parents and brothers with the clarity of fondness, reinforced by muscle memory. The more he thought about it, the easier he could imagine the dances in his head, step by step as the beat of faint music whispered through his mind. He chuckled at Hawke’s relieved sigh. “You seem more stressed about this than facing down raiders or Qunari. Does it truly worry you so?”
“No, and yes. Suitors or not, this is the most excited I’ve seen Mother since…” She bit off the rest of the sentence. “For her sake, I’d rather not make a fool of myself. I know Fereldan dances - the Whirligig, Heart’s Ease, Rufty Tufty, Toss The Wench-”
“Ferelden has a dance called ‘toss the wench’?”
“...not the point. The point is that I have no idea what these nobles in all their frippery expect me to know, and as little as I care about their opinions, I’d rather not trip over my own feet.”
Sebastian hummed, mulling over what he remembered of the court dances - the coupled ones, as they could hardly practice long-hall dances with just the two of them and Sandal. “There was one that was particularly popular in Starkhaven around the time I was-” ...given away, politely exiled, dragged away kicking and screaming... “-dedicated to the Chantry. I remember it well, as I quite enjoyed it. Perhaps we could start with that, if Bodahn knows Road to the Marches?”
The dwarf gave a short bow, fiddle in hand. “That I do, that I do indeed, Messere. Shall I give you a measure before the start?”
“That would be excellent, Serah Feddic,” he replied with a smile before turning to Hawke. Dali. “Normally, before the dance begins, one bows to one’s partner before the start. For this one, though, the pair begins in the starting position.” Sebastian held out his hand. “May I?”
Dali took it, and Sebastian drew her back towards the wall so that there was plenty of space in the room before them, then stepped behind her. Hawke tensed slightly as he did so, but that tension was gone with her next breath. Something stuck for a moment in Sebastian’s throat at that - that she trusted him so easily at her back outside of the necessity of battle. He guided their positions so that he stood with her left shoulder pressed into the right side of his chest and his right arm rested over her broad shoulders, with Hawke reaching up - his right hand in her right hand and his left in hers.
“It starts with a step to the left - point your toe out and touch it down lightly, yes, like that. Now cross that foot behind the other, then step out with your right foot, then left again, then point-and-step with your right like you did with the left on the other side.” Hawke’s feet followed his, a small frown of concentration furrowing her brow as they slowly walked through the motions. Her mabari barked encouragingly from the other side of the room. “Now we do the same back in the other direction.”
Bodahn took up the tune but slowed it down to nearly half its normal pace. Sebastian couldn’t see Hawke’s expression very well, but her jaw was set with determination and she moved steadily, her feet shadowing Sebastian’s as he led her through the dance steps – point, cross, over, step, point, and-back – growing surer with every repetition. After a few tries of that first part, he waved their fiddler to a stop.
“All right now, this next part has simpler steps, but is more difficult on the timing. You see how we ended with the left toe out in the ‘touch’ step? Now, step back with that foot - the left, yes - and then with the left foot we step straight forward, right, left, hop. Then left, right, left - but now the tricky part - it’s a hop-and-turn.” She twisted her head to eye him dubiously, but she had managed the opening steps well enough to a slowed tune, and he gave Dali an encouraging smile. Her nose wrinkled in disbelief, but she didn’t let go of his hands. “Yes, you turn while jumping, so you end up facing the opposite direction. Just let your arms go slack - they’ll follow mine naturally as long as I have a hold on them. From there, it is simple - three steps back, on the beat. Do you think you can manage?”
“I’ve had dances with darkspawn less difficult than this sounds, but you know me. Backing down?” She aimed a grin at him that would likely terrify any of the nobles she’d be dancing with later. “Let’s do this.”
There was a flutter in his heart, and it looked like it was there to stay. Sebastian squeezed her hands lightly and guided them both back to the starting position. The first part went smoothly, as they had practiced, and then they came to the new steps.
…left, right, left, hop - left, right, left, turn…
Hawke’s knee swung wide and bumped hard into his leg, throwing off their balance, and the two of them crashed down to the floor in a tangle as Bodahn’s fiddle screeched to a discordant halt. Sebastian oof-ed as Dali’s elbow caught him in the gut, and got a mouthful of her hair when he did so. Everything was dead silent for a moment, and Sebastian wanted nothing more than to sink through the floorboards – this was a terrible idea, I should have gone with one of the simpler dances to start, I’ve embarrassed her and she’s going to kill me…
Something rumbled on top of his chest, but he didn’t realize what it was until Dali laid her head back, and he could see her shaking with held-in laughter. Between his relief and the ridiculousness of the situation, Sebastian laughed as well, out loud, infectious enough that she joined him. When it died down into snickers, Dali rolled off of him – Maker, but she’s heavier than she looks – disentangling her legs and arms from his, and lifted her chin to look at him. There was a flush of high colour on her cheeks, and Sebastian wondered how long it had been since Dali Hawke was given a reason to laugh like that.
“Please tell me it gets easier.”
Sebastian shot her a sheepish grin. “There’s a bit where you spin under my hand while we walk forward, but the hop is really the hardest part. Time it with the music and you should be fine with a bit of practice.”
Dali levered herself back onto her feet, then extended a hand down to help him up. She was still smiling. “Come on. Let’s try this again.”
The nickname came as a surprise.
Not Varric’s nickname for him, as Varric nicknamed everyone with the exception of Dali herself, but Hawke’s nickname for him.
Falcon.
Fenris snorted the first time he heard it. “Trying to make us your hunting party in truth, Hawke?”
Dali and Fenris both had a tendency to make grins look like bared teeth, and this time was no exception. “Ah, but Fenris, I would need a tame hound and jessed bird for that, and neither of you are anywhere close to qualifying.”
There was a quiet satisfaction that settled in Fenris’ stance at that, but Merrill piped up at Hawke’s side. “But... what does that make me, then?”
Hawke’s toothy grin gentled as she nudged Merrill’s shoulder. “The very forest itself, Merrill. And if anyone tried to prune back your wildness, they’d be in for a shock, wouldn’t they?” Merrill giggled and leaned into Hawke as Fenris and Sebastian shot each other a wary look.
Sebastian didn’t think much of the nickname until one day in Varric’s presence. Fenris couldn’t come with them, as he was tracking down a lead on a group of slavers, and Aveline was busy with her duties. Varric was nearly Hawke’s shadow half the time anyway, so it was unsurprising when he agreed to come with them on their outing.
“Tal-Vashoth outside the city, with at least one saarebas,” Hawke told the dwarf. “Care to practice your headshots? You and Bianca are damned fast, but let’s see if you can compete with the falcon for precision.” Immediately after the words left her mouth, Hawke flushed and turned, pretending nonchalance. Varric, of course, could hardly let go of such an interesting turn of events. He glanced over towards the other archer, curiously regarding him for a moment before something clicked.
Should I be worried about that look on his face?
Varric leaned back in his chair with all the smug superiority of a man who knew he had a foolproof advantage and smirked at Hawke from behind steepled fingers.
“’Falcon’? Really, Hawke?”
The woman in question sniffed disdainfully. “I never saw the announcement that you were the only one allowed to hand out nicknames, Varric.”
“Yeah, but have you given one to any of the others besides Choirboy?”
“None of your business, Varric.”
The dwarf started laughing so hard that Sebastian worried he’d fall over. “You haven’t. Andraste’s flaming knickers, Hawke. And it had to be a bird to match.” Varric ducked to dodge her swat, and managed to calm his laughter to a light wheeze as he wiped away mirthful tears. Merrill, for her part, simply looked confused.
“But I didn’t think hawks and falcons liked to share territory? At least, the ones on Sundermount don’t, and I don’t think the ones in the Brecilian Forest did either. I could be wrong though; that was something the hunters would know more than me.”
“Daisy, Daisy, let me... elaborate.” Varric’s smirk deepened, and Sebastian decided that yes, he should probably be worried, especially with Hawke still refusing to look at Varric. “One of the things you have to know about humans is that the nobles really like hunting birds - raptors. It’s a sign of status to have a hawk or falcon on your arm in...well, everywhere south of Tevinter, really. The rarer the bird, the more likely they are to covet it.”
“Back before the Fourth Blight, the queen of Antiva captured the son of an Orlesian duke.” Varric leaned over towards Merrill, who listened with rapturous attention. “This son was the duke’s eldest, and heir to all his holdings. His father doted upon him, as Orlesians are wont to do. And so, when news of the kidnapping reached him, he immediately offered two hundred thousand gold sovereigns for his son’s safe return.”
Merrill gasped, eyes wide. “So very much! Goodness, that has to be... you could buy Kirkwall with that, couldn’t you? Or at least a very nice house. With lots of gardens, big ones, like the Viscount’s.”
“Just so.” Varric leaned back and spread his hands wide. “But the queen did not take it! She had gold aplenty already, and so she turned down his offer.” The dwarf’s voice rose and fell with the cadence of a seasoned storyteller, and Merrill was thoroughly ensnared. Even though he knew the story of the queen and the kidnapping, Sebastian couldn’t help but be pulled in as well. Varric had an undeniable gift for this.
Varric’s voice canted low, and his captive audience leaned closer in response. “The queen wanted something rare, something even more valuable than two hundred thousand sovereigns. She knew that this duke bred falcons, the king’s birds, and the rarest and most precious even of those. What the queen of Antiva demanded from the duke was nothing less than twelve white gyrfalcons.”
Merrill blinked. “Oh. Is that all...?” Her almost-disappointed question trailed off as her eyes flicked up to Hawke, then to Sebastian, his white armor gleaming. “Ohhh.”
Varric guffawed and patted Merrill gently on the back. “Now you’re catching on, Daisy.”
Oh, Sebastian’s thoughts echoed. He looked over to Hawke, who raised her chin and met his gaze for a bare moment before they both glanced away.
Oh.
He and Anders... agreed to disagree. Sebastian might even go so far as to say they respected each other.
Sebastian did believe that Anders’ ‘mage manifesto’ and even his impassioned speeches were a step in the right direction for the mage rights that the ex-Warden so fervently fought for. His clinic was an even bigger one, in the Brother’s eyes, for the way Anders gave so freely of his healing services to the poor and unfortunate was the very embodiment of ‘magic exists to serve man’. If there was any greater example of the Chant’s word on magic, Sebastian had yet to see it.
But with the cold, unearthly light of Justice hiding behind those warm brown eyes, he could not make respect become trust - especially after what Anders almost did to the runaway mage girl. There was nothing of the gentle healer in the spirit’s unforgiving fury then. If Hawke hadn’t been there with a snapped command to ‘stand down’…
Trusted or not, he could at least rely on the mage in a fight. Anders was ice and force and the sweet relief of healing magic in the midst of battle, no matter if their foes were – as they were now – apostates, lethal spells flying and summoned demons rising from the ground.
Hawke and Aveline charged in, the unstoppable force and the immovable shield – anything that escaped immediate death-by-crushing broke ineffectually against the solid wall that was the Guard-Captain. Anders froze an abomination in its tracks and it shattered under a single blow from Dali’s massive hammer. Sebastian’s arrows punched through twisted abomination and demonic flesh alike with enough force to break armor, and his unfailing accuracy found the eye or throat of any enemy mage about to cast.
Whatever their differences, the years together honed them all as a team. It was over very quickly.
Hawke knelt to riffle through the pockets of the fallen as the brilliance of her last Holy Smite died away. Sebastian and Anders did as well, looking to see if there was any indication if they were part of a larger movement. Aveline stood watch, just in case – even if they had killed all of this group, Kirkwall was full of opportunists more than willing to slice a throat or two for the contents of a belt pouch.
With an inaudible whisper on his lips, Anders gently closed the eyes of a young mage, one who probably hadn’t even seen her twentieth year. Spears of ice marred her chest and belly – Anders’ own handiwork – and almost entirely distracted one’s gaze from the thin slices on her hands and forearms, hallmarks of blood magic. Sebastian bowed his head and silently breathed a prayer for the slain, as he did after every one of their battles without fail. Draw your last breath, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky, rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be forgiven.
“This should not have happened. Mages should not be driven to this.” Anders’ voice was rife with pain, heavy and quiet as he added yet another soul to the invisible burden on his heart.
“They should not be driven to run, no.” That they feel they must run means that the Chantry is failing them, that the Templars who are supposed to be protecting the mages are failing them. But how could laxity ever be the answer as more and more maleficarum threaten the lives of innocents? “But attacking people on the streets, blood magic – those are choices. ”
“Choices they shouldn’t have to make! This-” Anders gestured helplessly to the corpse of the young mage, blood and water mixing on the paving stones as the ice slowly melted. “-this would not happen if there were no Circle, if mages were treated like people instead of dangerous animals to be corralled and caged.”
“This is what would happen if the mages in the Circle rebelled, and you know it.” Unconsciously, the archer’s weight shifted forward again, as if anticipating another fight. Lives lost and blood spilled for such a war – how do you justify that, if there is any other way you might have chosen?
Anders shot him a chilling glance, sensing the rising tension. “The less Meredith and her templars know, the greater a chance of any mages escaping that… that prison alive.”
“And you think they don’t know, or even suspect?” Sharp blue narrowed. “You've made no secret of your intent to lead the mages here in revolution.”
Anders huffed in annoyance as he rose to his feet. There was a scornful curl to his lips as he faced the other man. “Well, I've tried not to shout it from the rooftops. You've just been around when I talk with my friends.”
A muscle twitched in Sebastian’s jaw as his teeth clenched, but he kept his tone even and steady. “Well, as we have mutual friends—who for some reason don't want you to get hurt—let me tell you this: If you go forward with this revolt, the Chantry will bring its full might to bear. They will kill you.”
“Andraste was killed. That doesn’t mean she failed.”
Sebastian’s calm cracked under the force of his temper, and in the blink of an eye he was right up in Anders’ face, snarling. “Do not compare yourself to Andraste.”
Anders just looked at him, unfazed, and the pity in the healer’s eyes burned his blood far more than the blasphemy. “And what about you, Prince Vael? You couldn’t even honor the most basic duties of a Brother, forsaking your vows. You preach peace and forgiveness, but underneath that shiny veneer you’re baying for vengeance – and you refuse to commit to either one or the other.”
The archer’s breath hissed through his teeth, anger pulling broad shoulders taut, and his leather glove creaked at his sudden vice-grip on his bow. The mage’s remark hit far too close to the truth for comfort. “I cannot act unless I know that it is not vengeance driving me-”
Anders cut him off before he could continue. “And what was that bounty on the Flint mercenaries, if not revenge? You’ve already acted upon it, even if you want to deny it to yourself for your own peace of mind.” Anders’ lips pressed into a thin line, and crackle-lines of inhuman blue flickered through his irises.
“At least I stand for something. I cannot say the same for you.”
“Thanks for doing this.”
Her gratitude was tense and unhappy, but it was hardly a situation for gladness.
Hawke had paid for the funeral services and cremation of every single one of the dead miners in the Bone Pit - at least, for those bodies or pieces that they could find. With every little clay urn the clerics handed to a grieving family, Hawke’s face grew colder and stonier, but she stayed, silent, until there were no more bereft kin to collect the jars that remained.
And several did remain.
Dali found him after the service, Sisters parting before her icy countenance like sparrows before a hawk, but Sebastian stood before her and worried what that look meant for Dali herself.
“Half of these poor bastards didn’t even have families to take their ashes. Care to take a walk and help me carry?”
So it was that they made their way to the cliffs just outside of the city. Sebastian had said a prayer for the soul of each man and woman as Hawke broke the wax seals on each urn one by one, tossing the ashes to drift out over the cresting waves of the Waking Sea.
“May the Maker’s will carry their bodies to wherever they wish to rest, for their souls now stand in peace at His side.”
Sebastian watched the waves as they broke against the cliff and the great gates of the city. “You’re welcome. I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more. They deserved better than this.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say.
“They did deserve better. I’m pretty much convinced now that they were right from the start; the Bone Pit is cursed.” Hawke scowled and kicked at a stray rock. “I should never have taken that fucking deal, Sebastian. I needed gold, that’s what it boiled down to. I might have half-convinced myself that I was helping out fellow refugees, giving them a chance like I had, giving them... something, hell, anything - a job, hope, something to wake up for in the morning, even if it was grungy mining labor. Better that then slinking into Darktown and never making it back out.”
“But it was benefiting me, and I convinced them to go back and work, even after the first slew of deaths.” The next kicked rock flew over the cliff edge and down into the ocean. “And again, and again, and every time I tried to make the mine safer, something worse would take its place. Flames take it, they were right. Cursed. And I kept sending them back to that hellhole.”
“And look at what happened. Ashes, all of them that weren’t a dragon’s dinner, and I can’t do more for them than hope those ashes wind up on Fereldan shores.” Hawke’s voice was filled with disgust and self-loathing, clearly blaming herself for the lives lost. As much as he wanted to ease some of that pain, Sebastian did not try to correct her. Her points were, after all, valid. Hawke would shoulder the responsibility with all the grace of a born leader, firming her resolve to never let such disaster happen again.
It was a quality of hers that he envied.
There was an unidentifiable undercurrent in her tone, though, beneath the anger and regret. The archer glanced over. “...there’s something else that bothers you, isn’t there?”
Limned with the light of the setting sun, Hawke looked like a figure of living bronze against the backdrop of Kirkwall’s pale stone, immortal and unbreakable. It was entirely at odds with the barely-noticeable slump to her shoulders as she quietly exhaled.
“Where will they spread my ashes?”
Sebastian jolted in shock. To hear such a thing from Hawke of all people, he wondered for a moment if he had completely misheard. Hawke... Hawke was grit and determination and the furthest thing from fatalistic.
She huffed and shook her head when she caught his surprise. “Don’t look like that. I don’t intend on meeting the Maker anytime soon, if I can help it. It’s just that...”
“I’m not all that sure what I am any more, Sebastian. Even after all the years I’ve spent here, I still call myself Fereldan, like those miners did. And yet – I wouldn’t go back, even if there was still a Lothering to return to. Kirkwall, festering cesspit that it is-” A fond look crossed her face in the tug of her lips and furrow of her brow, taking the sting out of the derogatory description. “-is just as much home as the farms and wilds ever were. But I’ll never be a true Marcher, not really. Too much of me will always be Fereldan for that.”
“...why do you feel like you have to choose?”
“Are you a Prince, or a Brother?” She shot the question right back, knowing full well that at the moment he was something in between - both and yet neither. The rebuke caught him off-guard, and he cut off with a click of teeth, averting his eyes. Hawke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Marchers adorn me with their titles, calling me Champion and Messere, even as they whisper ‘upstart dog-lord’ behind their hands. I’m both, I can’t not be both, but sometimes it feels like I’m being pulled in both directions at once.”
You are Dali Hawke, and that is all that truly matters was not a reassurance he could offer her for this, even if it was true.
Hawke looked at him for a long, silent moment, as if she could hear what he left unsaid, then turned her face to the waves. Standing in the Marches, looking towards Ferelden, the Waking Sea between.
“Maybe my ashes will follow theirs.”
It had been about two weeks since their disastrous trip to Sundermount.
Their patrol out to the Wounded Coast had been a matter of routine; there were always brigands or Tal-Vashoth or rogue mages to deal with, and this trip had hardly been out of the ordinary. If Fenris was more violent than usual, or Merrill a bit more quiet, he could not blame them after what happened with Varania and Marethari. Otherwise, however, their jaunt outside of Kirkwall had been uneventful, and so Sebastian was surprised when, after they parted with Merrill in Lowtown and then Fenris in Hightown, Hawke dragged him aside before they got to the Chantry courtyard.
“What in the Void was that back there?” Her expression was thunderous, words snapped as if she had to bite each one out.
“Hawke, what are you talking about? I don’t know what...”
Her gauntleted finger thudded into his chestplate. “You. Guilt-tripping Merrill. She’s been unstable enough as it is ever since the Keeper’s death, and then when you speak up on the matter it’s all ‘atonement’ and ‘repent’ and ‘admitting your failings’. Did you think that that would actually help?”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice calm and collected as he banked the hot flare of temper that rose to answer Hawke’s anger. “I am trying to help. She’s wallowing, Hawke. Varric’s been dragging her out of her home or taking her food, or she wouldn’t even be eating. Merrill’s lost in her despair. Do you want to lose her to that sorrow? Because if she doesn’t snap out of it, then she’ll just... wither away. Yes, Marethari is dead, and it is undeniably due to Merrill’s pride. But if she never moves past the guilt and accepts what she did...”
“Hypocrite!” Hawke snarled. Sebastian jerked back as if she’d struck him, but she stepped after the archer, not giving him any distance. “Merrill’s actions inadvertently led to Marethari’s possession and death, but remember back when you and I first met? You deliberately sought to kill those who hurt you and yours. I saw you in the Chantry courtyard when you posted up the bounty for your family’s killers with an arrow. You shot it right out of the Grand Cleric’s hands. How is you being lost to your anger any different than Merrill to her shame now?”
“What did it take to snap you out of it? Death. Elthina was right. It was revenge, it was murder, even if you want to paint it as justice. You ask of Merrill what you never gave yourself. Where was the acceptance? Where was the atonement? Where was the guilt?”
“You dare compare the slaughter of my family with her situation?” Sebastian roared, his whole body trembling with anger, with absolute rage. Hawke had no right to say such, especially when she knew, he had told her the details, one low and lonely evening – the way the mercenaries mounted his mother and father and eldest brother’s heads on Starkhaven’s gates and left them there to rot, dragged his brothers’ children from their beds and slit their throats, strangled or stabbed the babes in their cradles.
She had no right.
“For all Merrill’s good intentions, from the start she was dealing with blood magic. She made a pact with a demon, despite claiming to understand that ‘all spirits are dangerous’ - what did she think was going to happen? That she could get away without consequences?” Sebastian was in her face now as much as she in his, bristling, shoulders stiff, looming with every inch of his superior height.
“If her Keeper did not love her so much as to submit to Audacity in her place, we would have been facing Merrill instead of Marethari. What would you have done then, Hawke? You are strong, stronger than any I have ever known, but Merrill’s power, combined with that of the demon? Even you and Fenris and I might not have been enough to stop her.”
“It was her fault - her pride led her to deal with that demon, and if she hadn’t-!” Hawke cut him off with a vicious swipe of her hand through the air
“You think she doesn’t know that? You think that she doesn’t torment herself with her mistake, and everything she could have done differently? Merrill is grieving, and all you did was twist the knife. ‘You need to seek atonement?’” Hawke’s face twisted into ugly fury, as if she wanted to sneer and bare her teeth like a mabari. Part of him wanted to recoil from her, just as part wanted to step further into her space with hackles raised. Caught between the two, he stood his ground as she snapped at him, his hands clenched and shaking. “What happened to leading by example? When did you start turning to thinly veiled proselytizing? That was nothing more than taking advantage of the death of a loved one, and I would not have believed you capable of it had I not heard it myself. The Sebastian that I know respects others, and would never lower himself to such filth.”
“There is a point when lack of tact becomes callous, bullying hurt, Vael, and you were way past that line.”
There was a weighty finality to her voice that said this conversation is over. He did not challenge it, even though every part of him wanted to lash out in retaliation. Hawke held his gaze a moment longer, then spun on her heel and stalked away, heavy boots ringing on the flagstones with every step. Sebastian watched her go, anger and pain roiling together in his gut until he couldn’t tell one from the other
They didn’t speak to each other for over a week.
Fenris was in the Chantry again.
He saw the warrior there on occasion, but always left him alone unless Fenris sought him out. It was not his place to interrupt. Usually, it made him glad to see his friend in the Chantry, and in knowing that the former slave could find some small measure of peace there, whether he believed or not. At the moment, though, the elf’s presence reminded him painfully of Merrill - and, consequently, of his argument with Hawke.
Kneeling to light a candle, Fenris looked up and caught Sebastian’s eyes.
With a sigh, he walked over and sank down on his knees next to Fenris, a head taller than the elf even then. The two stayed like that for some time in silence, watching the gently flickering light of the candle, each lost to his own thoughts. It was the warrior who broke their quiet reverie first.
“She’s still mad at you.”
“So am I. Some of what Hawke said... she meant to hurt me with it, and she of all people knows how to do that best.” Sebastian breathed in, slow and controlled, and released it with a sigh, remembering the biting accusations between them and the blistering fury in Dali’s eyes. “But... in some things, she was also right.”
It was a hard realization. After their fight, Sebastian had returned to the Chantry and immediately tried to lose himself in prayer and the comfort of the Chant of Light. He failed. Try as he might, he could not calm himself, and kept running over the argument in his head - every challenge, every spat invective - but it only made the hurt and anger worse. It wasn’t until days later that he was able to remove himself from the furor of his emotion enough to remember it in a more critical mind.
And it unsettled him. Callous. Bully. Have I truly become so arrogant, that I cause pain without thinking and take refuge in platitudes?
The memory of Merrill’s tears and choked voice said ‘yes’.
Fenris’ gaze snapped to him, and Sebastian wondered just how much the elf knew of what was said between he and Hawke. The archer glanced away from those large, vibrant eyes with another sigh. “I was... unfair - and insensitive - in some of the things I said to Merrill the last time we were out.”
With a light huff, Fenris curled his lip up slightly in distaste. “Her blood magic and demon pact came to the only end there is for such. Her Keeper was a fool to pay the toll for her, but... I suppose that’s what love will do.” An armored hand curled into a fist where it lay on Fenris’ thigh, and Sebastian wondered if he thought of the sister who would have sold him for power.
“Aye. And Hawke did not disagree with that - she of all people knows the evil of blood magic. She was not trying to absolve Merrill of her guilt. But... that does not excuse my actions. Hawke brought my own fault to my eyes, when I was blind to it.” Sebastian raised his eyes to the statue of the warrior-queen wrought in gold above the flickering candlelight. Praise be, Andraste, for lending me the strength to realize.
He bowed his head. “And I acknowledge that I have been… less than tactful… when speaking to you at times as well, Fenris. I don’t always realize and recognise if I cause hurt, and for that I am truly sorry. I do not ask for your forgiveness, only your understanding that I… I am trying to do better.”
A moment’s pause. Metal clinked, and the weight of a gauntlet rested on his shoulder. “That is what friends do, yes? You... are not the only one trying.”
Fenris rose, the well-oiled leathers of his armor giving nary a creak in the quiet sanctuary. He looked down at Sebastian, his expression almost-unreadable. Almost.
“Make things right with Hawke, for both your sakes.”
Sebastian released a slow breath and turned his eyes away, back towards the slow burn of the candle.
“I owe Merrill an apology first.”
Hawke showed up at the Chantry two days later.
“It was wrong of me to bring up your family like that. I...” Piercing blue wavered, her gaze flickering away before coming back to meet his properly. “...I’m sorry.”
She must know that he had apologised to Merrill - showed up at the door of her tiny home, no shining armor this time, her eyes wide and surprised when she opened the door, and the remembered hurt he saw there only convinced him even more that this was the right thing, that he should try to make amends for the pain he made worse - or she would not be before him now. Hawke’s own door had been barred whenever he attempted to reach her.
“I must apologise as well. But... thank you, for making me realize that I was wrong, and that I needed to.”
Hawke did not smile at him, but her eyes and the corners of her mouth softened.
She came back again the day after.
“I’m going to retake Starkhaven.”
Dali looked at him. Sebastian leaned against the railing of the Chantry’s upper level, lacing his fingers together and waiting. The decision had been long in coming, and was not an easy one. He wanted Hawke to be the first to know. The respect he held for her would not have it any other way. For all that she had never outright pushed him one way or another, the time he spent with Hawke – Hawke herself - was an undeniable influence on his choice.
She did not ask whether he was sure. It would have been redundant at this point, and Hawke was anything but redundant. “You mean to take back the throne, rather than support and solidify your cousin’s position.” Dali stepped up beside him, her grip light on the balustrade. “You would not go as a Chantry advisor, then?”
“After being here to see what happened with Sister Petrice, with the weak leadership of the Viscount...” Sebastian sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “The one currently on the throne of Starkhaven cannot lead. I don’t even know how well Goran would rule as Prince in peacetime, much less in any kind of crisis. I... I cannot in good conscience leave the city under him and his manipulators. As an advisor alone, my voice one against many?”
He shook his head, still looking down at the glowing candles and braziers below. “A good ruler listens to their people and their counselors, weighing the consequences of their decisions against what needs to be done. I fear that Goran would listen to the loudest only, and make decisions based on what would benefit him personally, rather than Starkhaven entire.”
Hawke must have heard something in his tone or in his words, or perhaps she simply knew him too well, for her next question lanced straight to what he hadn’t voiced. “You would rather return to the Chantry and take up your vows as a Brother once more.”
Sebastian looked up at her. “Yes. I would.”
It was a complicated truth. The Chantry had given him strength, purpose, peace. There was, as there ever was, that part of Sebastian that wanted to rule - ambition, unlike carelessness, could not be so easily tempered – but the humble Brother realized the weight and responsibility far more than the arrogant princeling with only his title and no cares in the world ever did. The weight of the crown frightened him, even as he craved it. It would be so much simpler, so much easier to lead a life of holy service.
“I...” His voice cracked, stumbling, and he broke eye contact. “...I was never meant to be the heir, Hawke. I wasn’t even the spare. But… I can rule. I don’t want anyone to die for me, and that will happen if I instigate a coup against Goran. But if I do not, then Starkhaven stands to fall to decay and lawlessness, even open war. I…” His breath shuddered on the inhale, but he straightened tall and raised his eyes to Hawke’s with a level gaze. “I will not let that happen.”
I must have faith that this is the right choice, and take responsibility for whatever comes.
This is where I take my stand.
How did one ask a Champion to become a Princess?
Sebastian’s parents had an arranged marriage. Both of his brothers’ marriages were arranged. Love was not a consideration when one needed to uphold their duty; Starkhaven needed to solidify alliances, after all, and a strong Princess was far more necessary than love. Sebastian was the only princeling of the three not bound by betrothal, and once he had taken as much advantage of that as he possibly could.
It left him with scarce little experience of how to confess what he felt to Hawke. What more could he say? What he had not already proven with his actions? He followed her into battle and she trusted him to watch her back; he voiced to her all the fears and regrets that he told no-one else. She had held him through sorrow and raged against him in fury, and looked at him with something in her eyes that she turned to no other.
He was already hers. But just a simple I love you… Sebastian always believed that actions spoke louder than words. If it were possible, he would lay his heart in Dali’s hands for her keeping.
Perhaps, symbolically, he could.
A gift.
However, there was something inherently frustrating in trying to find something suitable.
What did you give to a woman like Hawke? He could not ask for her hand with something so transient or everyday as a whetstone and armor polish, or even one of her jealously-guarded pots of blue Rivaini eye-dust. Her library was impressive, and Varric supplied her with new books regularly enough - his own works as well as others’ - and she did not want for any volume in particular. She had more enchanted rings and amulets than she knew what to do with - though perhaps useful, one more would be nothing special. The same went for armor. She had bits and pieces of several suits neatly packed away - boots and gauntlets, helms and chestplates - using what she needed whenever she saw fit.
What do you give to a woman like Hawke...
Something more personal. It had to be personal.
Watching her back, always, keeping her safe from those trying to flank her. Breath and heart slowing in time together to let the arrow fly, a perfect shot. The fletching brushes her cheek, the man behind her dies, and Hawke continues on in a roaring whirlwind of steel.
“It had to be a bird to match.”
That... could work. It wouldn’t be easy, but he was still a Vael. That had to count for something.
Sebastian needed to send a few letters.
Hawke blinked at the figure in her doorway. “Sebastian?”
He gave Hawke his best smile, trying not to seem too nervous. “Dali. Do you mind if I come in?”
“When do I ever?” She stepped aside and waved him inside the manor. Her mabari, older and more scarred now, but still hearty as ever, woofed happily at him from in front of the fireplace. Sunlight slanted in through the high glass windows, the interior well-lit. Bodahn and Sandal were nowhere to be seen, and some of the nervous tension bled from the set of Sebastian’s shoulders.
Hawke closed the door and led him past the foyer. “Normally, I’d figure you just came to visit, but you’ve been quiet for a while, even when we’re out on patrol. That, and you’re holding something behind your back.” Busted. Not that he had been trying hard to hide it, but now he had lost the element of surprise. Sebastian’s smile turned wry and he brought the delicately bundled red cotton out to hold before him. Hawke eyed him curiously. “Is there something special going on that I should know about? Satinalia is still a few months away.”
“It is a gift, but not for anything in particular. Just... because.” Because you are Hawke, with a warm heart under the brusque exterior. Because you are more than worthy of all the respect I have to give.
Because you mean more to me than anyone else.
With both hands, the archer offered her the red cloth, wrapped and folded over itself to conceal what lay inside. It was light, the entire bundle not much heavier than the cotton itself. Hawke raised an eyebrow, hefting the bundle in one hand as she judged the weight of it. “Something paper, perhaps? That doesn’t explain why one end is heavier than the other, though. What do you have in here?”
Breathless, pulse like a war drum in his veins, Sebastian gestured to the gift. “Open it and see.”
Hawke’s raised eyebrow and amused skepticism remained, but she complied, and as the fabric unfolded, her eyes widened.
In her right hand lay three feathers - two handspans long, a pure, solid white striped with black barring across the top, and bound at the quills by a flattened cuff of gold that held them fanned out for display. A long white ribbon threaded through the back of the cuff, and the Hawke family crest was engraved on the top and inlaid with black enamel. Dali released a soft breath, her fingertips hovering over the gift as if afraid it would disappear with a touch.
“…these can’t be what I think they are.”
“It isn’t quite a duke’s ransom, but… yes.” Her positive reaction brought a light, quivering feeling to his chest, and Sebastian rocked forward slightly onto the balls of his feet, a hopeful curve to his lips. “My grandfather was an avid hunter, and the Vaels maintained good relations with several falconers. I managed to convince one to part with some gyrfalcon remiges.”
For her, he was not the Brother, not the Prince; this was what she named him – something both of those and yet more than the sum. Even if you don’t feel for me the way I do for you, this is part of me that will always be yours. Let all with eyes to see know that you have a falcon at your call.
“Shit, Sebastian. I know that some people might promise nothing less than the sun and stars, but I didn’t realize that you could actually try to fulfill it. I never expected…” Gentle wonder wove through Hawke’s face as she ran her mismatched, calloused warrior’s fingers down the spine of a feather. One corner of her mouth twitched up as she gave a short chuckle. “…though it’s hardly the normal lover’s favor that can be worn into a fight.”
And fights were where Hawke was, more often than not. Sebastian had anticipated this. He reached into his largest belt pouch and brought his hand out with a sheepish smile. In it he held another three feathers, but these were made of folded steel and enameled in white and black and gold, each dangling at the end of a short chain that all joined to a ring at the end – easily attached to wherever on her armor that she might choose. They chimed off of one another with a faint metallic sound, glinting in the sunlight.
Dali stared, gaping at them for a moment before a slight, bemusedly happy smile stole its way across her mouth. “But of course. You never do anything by halves, do you, Sebastian?” She glanced down at the real gyrfalcon feathers in her hand, one thumb tracing the Hawke crest.
“May I?”
With a nod, she offered the gift back to him, as gentle as if it were spun glass. He lifted it from the cloth and stepped around her. Dali tended to bind her hair with a strip of leather, plain and sensible; it was over this that Sebastian tied the ribbon, weaving it through the leather tie to secure the hold firmly. When he finished, the sigil-stamped cuff rested over the nape of her neck, the feathers trailing down past her shoulders. The gold and white gleamed starkly against the deep black tail of her hair.
The tips of Sebastian’s fingers lingered on the back of her neck, reluctant to lose the contact even as he stepped back around to face Hawke. The metal feathers still dangled from his hand, but the look on Dali’s face stilled him before he could give them to her.
“Is that what we are, then? Lovers?” Hawke tilted her head with a hint of curiosity, but her expression was unreadable and her voice was wary. “Going to retake Starkhaven means that you won’t be a Brother any more. You won’t have any vows holding you back from bedding anyone.”
The unspoken ‘Why stay chaste when you don’t have to?’ hung in the air between them.
Before he could speak, Dali’s brow furrowed and her words tumbled from her mouth, quickening with uncertainty as her eyes avoided his. “I don’t abhor the idea of it, and you’ll need heirs eventually, but I don’t... hunger for it like Merrill or Isabela or... you. Could you live with that – with a woman who doesn’t yearn for sex like others do?”
Sebastian caught her gaze and made sure that he held it before he spoke. Of all the things he ever said to her, he wanted, needed Hawke to understand this.
“Back when I was younger, I thought it inconceivable to live life without all the bodily pleasures I could get - wine, women, everything I thought a prince was due as his right. I really was much closer to being Isabela than the man that stands before you now.” His mouth was dry, tongue-tip flashing out to wet his lips nervously, I need you to understand... “I won’t lie; I can’t deny that you wake desire in me, Dali. But one thing that my vows let me realize was that I didn’t need all of that to be fulfilled, to be... happy.”
Perhaps… perhaps that was part of the Maker’s purpose in guiding me to the Chantry, so that this could be my answer for you, and for myself.
“If I could kiss you, if I could hold your hand for the simple intimacy of it, if I could fall asleep in your arms at night – that would be enough for me.” Sebastian reached forward, taking her hand in his, and turned it upward. The steel-and-enamel feathers clinked as they settled into her palm. He pushed her fingers gently to curl around the gift, but remained there, her hand clasped between both of his.
"I love you, Dali Hawke, and I would not try to change you for anything.”
Soul laid bare before her, Sebastian wasn’t sure what kind of response to expect. Perhaps he imagined the short stutter of her breathing. Hawke always thought things over, but was never one to hesitate or to refrain from saying exactly what she thought, and the lengthening silence was…
In one smooth movement, her hand full of feathers, Hawke stepped in close and pressed her face to his, tall enough that she only needed to lift her head a little. He inhaled sharply in surprise and then the arch of her nose bumped his cheekbone, lips soft but sure against his with all the force and tenacity of the woman herself behind them. Her free hand tangled in his hair, snaring through the red-brown strands and pulling him closer, willingly captured.
It could have been moments or an eternity before she eased back, though only barely. Sebastian’s lashes fluttered as he reveled in the continuing touch – the side of her nose against his, foreheads resting against one another, the tiniest bit of shared breath where the corners of their mouths met. The archer released one hand from their combined grasp, reaching up to run his fingers down the long, soft mass of her hair, brushing feathers as he went. Her lips curved against his in a quiet, near-breathless laugh, and in that moment he lost his heart to her all over again.
“I’ll have to get you pinions to match.”
Sebastian went into their next skirmish with a trio of brown hawk feathers flying from his quiver, as white-gold trailed from Hawke’s pauldron.
“There can be no half measures. There can be no turning back.”
His throat was raw from screaming and sobbing – Elthina Elthina Elthina! – and dust and something sulfurous clogged the air, burning in lungs and eyes. The Brothers and Sisters, the laymen, the orphans, all the people in the Chantry seeking comfort and sanctuary, rest and healing and hope…
Gone.
There should have been a silence, as if the world itself skipped a breath in the wake of such a horror, but there was none. The explosion had ripped through the sky with a sound like an avalanche, and the faint cries of the terrified and the injured and the dying followed, rising up from where flying boulders crashed down over the city like a deadly rain.
And Anders just stood there, robes fluttering from the shockwave and his head held high. “I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise.”
Murderer! Murderer! I’ll kill you!
Sebastian barely registered the outrage and fear from both Meredith and Orsino; his single-minded fury blazed with a single target. “Why are we debating the Right of Annulment when the monster who did this is right here? I swear to you, I will kill him.”
Anders turned his back to them all as the Knight-Commander left to rally her troops, the First Enchanter fleeing to warn his people. Is that to be it, then? We just leave him here after all that he has done?! No. No, I will not stand for it.
The archer rounded on the lone mage, the weight of his small belt knife suddenly heavy at his side. If Hawke wouldn’t do it, then he would. The edges of his vision were wet and blurred, and so intent was he on his prey that he didn’t, couldn’t notice anything else - before he had gone two steps Hawke’s forearm slammed across his chest with a crack of metal and enamel, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Sebastian spun on her, tears streaming, teeth bared, you would stop me from-?!
“You of all people know the power of a martyr.”
Sebastian froze on the spot.
She’s right. He couldn’t kill him. Sebastian wanted to see the Vengeance Abomination bleeding out on the ground, see Anders pay for the lives he stole and the sin he committed but he couldn’t, because Hawke was right, damn her for being right. The strength seeped from his limbs at the realization, threatening to send him back to his knees. Denied the focus for his rage, now there was nothing to balance out the pain. A keen of pure grief split the night, wrenched from his chest without hope of reining it in. For the second time in his life, he had lost everything, the only one left as his home crumbled into ashes.
The pressure of Hawke’s arm still held him back.
…no. Not everything.
Sebastian reached up to take her hand in his and clung to it as if it were all that kept him standing. Perhaps it was. Hawke’s fingers twined through his, a firm, grounding, blessedly alive grip. He bowed his head, curled in around their joined hands, and wept.
Leather and cold metal touched his cheek – some part of his mind recognized it as Hawke’s other gauntlet, two fingers shorter than the rest. She did not wipe away his tears, but cupped his face, thumb brushing along a cheekbone before she turned his head gently to meet her gaze.
“We have to stop this madness from spreading or all of Kirkwall will go up in flames, and Meredith will kill innocents for Anders’ crime. Every passing moment here is more lives lost down there.” Her hand in his tightened. “I need you at my back.”
It was not a demand, but a question. Jaw set, Sebastian raised his chin, though his eyes were still wet. In the corner of his sight, pale feathers gleamed at Dali’s right arm.
“I’m with you, Hawke.”
Even though siding with Orsino would bring the wrath of the templars against her, even though Anders still drew breath – he would not turn from her now.
I will not be your Maferath.
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Addendum/References:
Sebastian tries to escape the Chantry [1]
Quoted Anders-Sebastian Act 3 dialogue and mentioned Sebastian-Merrill Act 3 dialogue [1][2]
Quoted Chant of Light verses [1]- Transfigurations 1:2, Trials 1:16
Road to the Isles (dance steps) [1][2]
Other mentioned dances (the Wherligig, Heart’s Ease, Rufty Tufty, Toss the Wench/Toss the Duchess/’Official Bransle’) [1][2][3][4][5]
Ottoman Sultan Beyazit Ransoms the son of the Duke of Burgundy for Twelve White Gyrfalcons [1][2][3]