Author's Note.

So my brother's living with me again. I'm pretty excited in the I-know-he's-gonna-find-any-limitless-number-of-ways-to-piss-me-off-for-his-own-amusement-but-he-buys-me-shit-so-I-guess-it's-fine sort of way. You know, sibling stuff.

The reason I mention this is because last night (admittedly, at my own urging) we engaged in a drinking contest, though which of us won is up for debate. I drank more, but he didn't get nauseous or hungover, so... draw? Anyway, inebriation often leads to poor decision-making – at least in my case – and one of those decisions was to try to finish this chapter despite the fact that the room would not stop spinning.

Poor lifestyle choices aside, I hope you enjoy the beginnings of my little brainchild. I started it more for myself than anything, but figured I'd put it out there just in case anyone was hoping to see our favorite choir boy show a bit of depth. I've always thought BioWare to be among the best when it comes to characters and development, but we can't be perfect all the time and Sebastion's character always felt a little flat to me.

Because he has a great deal of potential, and because he's cute, and just a tiny bit because of his bitchin' accent, I decided to start this project to let him shine a little.

Note: 'oOoOo' separates scenes. Lines separate perspectives.

The day was gorgeous.

The Lay Brothers and Sisters had gathered within the main hall of the Chantry, chanting hymns in praise of the Maker. Their voices were soft, could bring peace to any tumultuous hearts passing through the courtyard - and yet, the gentle rumble of their collective call betrayed their numbers, hinted at the power behind their unity.

A breeze rustled the changing leaves in the rooftop gardens, where Brother Sebastion had gone that morning in pursuit of spiritual contemplation. Sunlight filtered a gentle pink through the stained glass of the gazebo rooftop under which he stood. At passing glance, he was a fitting part of the scenery; but to any who knew him, something was clearly wrong. His stillness was too stiff, too tense. In his hand, a feeble bit of parchment threatened to take flight with the wind as it struggled against his grasp. His knuckles were white under the strain of clenched fists.

It was some time before he noticed he was shaking - from the chill, or from the burden he had just been hefted, he could not tell.

oOoOo

He stalked to the communal chambers of the Chantry Brothers, his demeanor enough to quiet inquisitive remarks from the affirmed as he passed. Such clear rage, lines of hatred etched into the features of the face, was not a common sight among the faithful. He slammed the door to the men's quarters wide open, too impatient to regret the resounding crash that momentarily disrupted the Chant wafting up from below. Several brothers were within, all eyes on him as he trudged through the commons. One of them - Brother Fhait? - stood and departed quickly, presumably to inform Elthina of the young man's disagreeable state. Uncaring, Sebastion swiped at the curtain that separated his own space from those of the others, taking a seat at a small wooden desk within. He found a quill and his own bit of parchment, and began scratching hastily in barely distinguishable lines. When he stood, he knocked the inkwell over, saturating the page and losing everything he had just written. With a frustrated hiss, he found another sheet and began again.

Finished for a second time, he moved to exit the room, but something made him pause. He reconsidered, turning back to rummage through the contents of a chest near his bed. He removed a dusty quiver and wiped it clean. If mercenaries were after him, it would be unwise to roam about the city unarmed. He set it aside and removed his old bow, testing the tension of the string and frowning; it would need replaced, but he didn't have another one here. This would have to do for now. At the bottom of the trunk was his armor; the vestments of Starkhaven royalty, abandoned years ago when he'd taken his vows. He wondered briefly, what would donning it suggest now? Would this mean he was leaving the Chantry?

'Questions for another time,' he thought dismissively. For now, it was just a tool, and would remain such until the Maker willed otherwise.

oOoOo

As he descended the stairwell from the upper floor, he spotted the Grand Cleric, watching for him. If she seemed surprised by his change of dress, she did not allow her reaction to surface; she waited to speak until he'd reached the landing.

"Sebastion," she began in her wise cadence, "You've sparked concern among your fellows; this is unlike you."

His eyes darted over to the assembled faithful, committed to their prayers as they remained oblivious to the exchange unfolding before them. He looked about for Fhait, but the brother was not among them. "My apologies, your Grace. I've just... I've received troubling news."

"What has happened?" Elthina questioned seriously, her brows furrowed. Sebastion opened his mouth to speak, but words evaded him. Instead, he removed the missive that had come to him during his meditations and offered it to her. She unfolded the crumpled paper tenderly, eyes flitting across the page and widening as she went. Sebastion did not wait for her to finish, making his way quickly through the main doors and down the steps to the Chanter's Board. She followed him when she had finished reading, and he could hear her calling his name. He did not spare his attention, however, until he'd nailed his request to the board and was momentarily without task.

"Sebastion!" she barked scoldingly, looking over his post and rounding on him. "This-" she gestured derisively to the board "-is what you intend?"

"I have a duty to my family."

"You have a duty to the Maker; it is not our place to exact revenge, to... to summon death upon others without cause!"

"'Without cause'?" He spat viciously. It was its own remark on the absurdity of her words, and so he abandoned the train of thought for a different one. "What would you have me do? Leave these mercenaries to their fate? Let them go on with their lives while my parents, my brothers, lie cold!?" It hadn't been his intent to raise his voice to the Grand Cleric, but there was no calming him now.

"The path of the faithful is not an easy one, Sebastion. True strength is being able to give the Maker your prayers, and trust that this is His will."

He sucked in a tense breath and inclined his head, a thin mask of diplomacy as he attempted to reign in his anger. "I am grateful for your guidance, your Grace. But I cannot believe that I am to simply stand by; the Maker is calling me to act. I know it."

Elthina pulled his note down, waving it about for emphasis. "The Maker does not abide murder-!"

Something whistled past her, tearing the parchment from her hands and embedding itself firmly into the board. She looked back in shock, glimpsing the fletching of one of his arrows with her peripheral before staring him down with incredulity.

He returned her gaze with one of his own; resolutely, he sheathed his bow and straightened out. "What happened to my family was murder," he declared, turning his back on her and brushing a bit closely past someone who had been behind him. He had no energy left in him to apologize. Feeling drained after such a confrontation, he fled Hightown in search of somewhere quiet to consider what he would do next.

Hawke rubbed her temples, trying to relieve the nagging pain that seemed to surface whenever she opened one of Meeran's letters. He'd been hounding her about coming back to do some more jobs, and though she could certainly use the coin, she wasn't cut out for the life of a mercenary. Not to mention, every job offer he'd made had been ridiculously trivial and not worth the effort. Meeran was a decent enough fellow in his own rite, but he'd grown accustomed to having her around. Now that she wasn't there to save the day, he had to go find someone else who could. The fact that every day promised yet another desperate plea folded neatly on the desk was a fine indicator of how well that had gone.

"He's gotten more complementary," Bethany observed, reading the latest note from over her sister's shoulder. "'The way you handle blades is heavenly,'" she quoted with a giggle. "He's quite the charmer."

"I'm not even sure why I read these," Hawke sighed, pushing the note back and rubbing her arms. A draft was coming through and she scowled up at the holes in the roof and walls.

"Well... we could use the coin. If we can get in on this expedition..."

"But are we really so desperate that we need to crawl back to him again?"

"I'd say so," the young mage shrugged, gesturing toward their mother. Mistress Hawke was wearing one of Carver's old tunics, struggling to keep warm just inches from the hearth. Hawke sighed.

"I'm boarding up the blasted holes today, and that's that. I don't care how stuffy it gets, it's better than freezing." Her sister gave her an expectant look. "And I guess... we'll go see Meeran. But not until evening," she added hastily, hoping to postpone the inevitable by as much as she could. "He's a last resort. We pick up whatever jobs we can from elsewhere first."

"Excellent!" Bethany clapped her hands together, pleased. She reached for their cloaks and tossed one at her unsuspecting sibling. The fabric draped itself haphazardly over Marian's head, and she cursed as she fought with it. "We're going out mother; we'll see you tonight!" the youngest of the three women announced, leading her struggling sister carefully through the door.

"Blasted thing, sod it all," Hawke grumbled, trying to free one of the buttons from her hair. With Bethany's help, she was soon righted and they were strolling briskly toward the Hanged Man to find Varric.

oOoOo

"I'm just saying, they could use a different uniform is all. Was it always orange, or did the red just fade over time?"

"Oran- they're not orange, they're brown!"

Bethany shuddered. "Ugh, brown? That's even worse, isn't it?"

"The guard's uniforms are perfectly fine," Aveline huffed. "No sense in spending the coin to have them repainted; they'll still stop a blade sure as anything. Besides, they're recognizable."

"Well, maybe having nicer uniforms would make the guardsmen happier. You know, morale?"

The red-headed warrior chuckled teasingly, "It's obvious you were never a soldier. Morale comes from leadership, not pretty clothes."

"Pretty clothes make me happy."

"I'll be sure to remember that if you ever join the guard."

"Er- I hate to interrupt this... riveting discussion," Varric began, nodding to the courtyard before them, where some kind of scene was taking place. "Looks like trouble," he mumbled to Hawke.

"Maybe there'll be coin for taking care of it?" She wondered halfheartedly, continuing on with the others close behind. They hadn't been very successful in finding work so far, and she'd already made peace with the fact that Meeran would be the next stop, after the Chanter's Board.

"What happened to my family was murder," a man with an interesting brogue was saying; Hawke had stopped just short of him, ignorant of his role in all this ruckus until he'd spoken. He quickly turned, and Hawke had to sidestep him to keep from colliding with his breastplate. She watched him disappear around a corner and turned back to see Grand Cleric Elthina shake her head, before she, too, departed.

"So... think that means there's something on the board worth doing?" Varric broke their watchful silence.

"After that performance, I'll be disappointed if we only find someone needing their roof thatched," Hawke replied, walking up to scan the postings. It was Aveline who drew attention to the post in question.

"Hiring mercenaries to hunt other mercenaries. I wonder if he realizes how he's feeding the beast, with this."

"Let me see that," Hawke took the bit of paper, ripped at the top where it had been yanked free of the arrow. "He wants the Flint Mercenary Company eradicated. The murder of his family, blah blah blah... four sovereigns, look at that," she grinned cheekily at her sister. "More than we'd get from Meeran in a fortnight. Guess that makes this more important that whatever piss-ant job he's got lined up, eh?"

"So just imagine how much we'd get for doing this and helping Meeran," Bethany shot back. "And guess what? Anything more than 'nothing' makes it something worth doing."

Marian crossed her arms with a frown. "You know, sometimes I hate that you had to go and learn how to talk."

oOoOo

"Hawke, you're not going back to the Red Iron, are you?" Aveline asked suddenly, as if she had been thinking on it for some time.

"Going back to- oh, Andraste's ass, no. I just wanted to see what he was offering. This job, at least, seems worth it; he's given me worse."

"You can do better than sell-sword, Hawke. I hope you know that."

Marian shrugged in acknowledgement. "Unfortunately, the things that I want to do and the things available to be done aren't one in the same, and I have a family to think about."

They were ascending the steps to the Viscount's Keep; Aveline had to report for duty soon, and Hawke had sent Bethany off with Varric for groceries. He had a gift for haggling, and they needed their coin to stretch as far as it could. Walking Aveline to the Keep had been only half of her motive for parting ways, however.

"I know," Aveline sighed. "Just try to keep it clean, all right?"

"Don't I always?" Hawke smiled innocently.

"I've been nice enough not to lecture you about every little thing the other guards catch you doing when I'm not around. Don't push it," the guardswoman warned, but had a contradictory smile as she spoke.

They arrived at the top of the stairs, and Hawke figured it best to wrap things up. "All right, I know to quit when I'm ahead." She clapped her friend on the shoulder. "Be careful out there. If you run into trouble, you know where to find me."

"Same to you," Aveline nodded, then headed into the Keep.

Hawke watched her for a couple of moments before turning away. Instead of heading straight to the Bazaar, she took a detour toward the Chantry. She couldn't exactly put her finger on it, but something plagued her conscience. She had a lot of things to consider, but she'd mulled them over on her own for long enough. She didn't want to trouble Bethany or mother, she could already guess what Aveline would say, and Varric, well... even if he had the patience to hear her out, he probably wasn't the best avenue for advice.

She felt her safest bet was where the people were obligated to be selfless, and she didn't have the money to spare for the brothel.

He'd wandered to the docks and had found somewhere relatively secluded to skip rocks and grumble to himself about nothing in particular. He had no intention of removing the bounty from the Flint Company's heads, he was certain enough about this. In spite of it, though, he knew there was wisdom in Elthina's words. That wasn't the heaviest thing to weigh on his heart, however.

It had been years since he'd last seen his family. Even though they'd occasionally exchange letters, over time their faces had faded from memory. He felt apart from them, almost as if they weren't real. Now that they were dead, he couldn't say that he felt much loss. Maybe that he no longer had the option to return home and visit, but the closest thing to emotion he'd experienced was outrage, and even that had faded after just a few hours.

Perhaps it would be wise to apologize to Elthina for his behavior. She hadn't deserved his anger, and she might have some insight to help him. Figuring he ought to get back anyway, he got to his feet and maneuvered through the winding paths home.

oOoOo

Darkness had descended quickly, and the people going about their business were soon replaced with less and less favorable types. He'd had to fire off warning shots at least four times between the docks and Hightown, making it known that he was not an easy target. Along with the dark and the thugs came the cold, which claimed the sensation in his appendages quickly. Once he reached the courtyard, he exhaled in relief and the fog of his breath was so thick it briefly blinded him.

Just outside the Chantry doors, he noticed a hooded figure. They stood several feet away from the entrance to the building, looking up at it with unreadable intent. A threat, or something else? He approached cautiously, readying himself for anything. "Are you all right?" He asked, and though the figure jumped at his voice, it turned to him steadily. A young woman, face nipped with cold and eyes wide, like she'd been caught at something. He didn't miss her careful stance, or the fact that she kept her hands hidden.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you approach," she answered breathlessly. "Am I in your way?"

"N-no, you just seem..." What did she seem? Confused, suspicious? "...lost."

"Oh, em... perhaps," she admitted, relaxing slightly. He did the same when he glimpsed her hands, free of weapons beneath her shifting coat. "I'm a little out of my element."

The Chantry Brother within him, that compassionate part that sought to aid the lost and the fearful, had surfaced. His own turmoils could wait a bit longer, he decided. "What brings you here?" he asked more gently.

She seemed to consider this herself, frowning as she thought. "If I told you I wasn't sure, would you laugh?"

At the question, he did laugh, much in the way a parent laughs at their children's jokes. "There's nothing wrong with that," he assured, stepping to the door and holding it open for her. "Please, come in from the cold. We can talk, if you'd like."

She smiled gratefully and proceeded inside.

If not for that man, she might never have entered the Chantry. She had realized only once she drew close to the building that she'd never been in one this nice before. Back in Lothering, the Chantry was more like a Town Hall, and everyone there was either a farmer or merchant. Here, the Chantry was in Hightown, the roost of nobility. She took no issue with traipsing among the nobles in filthy armor and stained rags, but the faithful here were used to a much higher class of patrons. For reasons she couldn't fully grasp, she found herself fearful of being judged by the people in this place. Perhaps because she felt it was her last hope for getting this weight off her shoulders.

Inside, the building was more grand than even the Viscount's Keep, and certainly put Lothering's Chantry to shame. She was relieved to find that it was much warmer, and pulled her hood back to see better. The lighting was dim and put her at ease; her poor state of dress would not be so obvious. A few initiates were about, tending to the candles or the cleaning, and the man from outside gestured for her to follow him, which she did.

"So, who are you?" she found herself asking, realizing she knew nothing of him or his relation to the Chantry.

"I am Sebastion, Lay Brother and humble servant to the Maker," he answered pleasantly. He spoke with an accent, and she furrowed her brow when she noticed. She'd heard someone talk like that today, hadn't she? "If I might ask, what's your name? W- unless you don't want to say; it's alright."

"I'm Marian. A lot of people just call me Hawke, though."

"Do you have a preference?"

She shrugged, though he couldn't see it, being in front of her. "Not really. Hawke's faster and easier to say; I guess that's why people like it."

"Well I think Marian's a lovely name," he offered. Can one hear a smile? Because she was certain she could hear his.

"Thank you," she accepted awkwardly. She wasn't used to... well, gentlemen. Her friends treated her about the same as a man, and to strangers, she was a wench who needed bedding. Or a beating. Or both. She'd grown accustomed to that.

They used a short staircase that brought them to a small platform, presumably for delivering sermons or directing choir. Dozens of candles decorated the feet of a massive shrine that she'd managed to overlook until she was before it. The Brother had taken a seat at a bench tucked out of the way on the side of the platform, and when she looked back he waved for her to join him. She left an appropriate amount of space between them when she sat, trying not to fidget. This was all incredibly awkward to her.

"Is there something troubling you?" He began encouragingly.

"Er, well..." she hesitated, looking him over. He had a shine in his eyes that reminded her of Bethany; genuine, well-meaning. "It's just that, you seem really nice, and a little bit..." what was the word she wanted? Sheltered? Naive?

"I'm not some innocent alter boy," he laughed, somehow anticipating her meaning before she could vocalize it. "I hear some pretty wild stories, I assure you. It's not my place to judge others; I offer my counsel, and that's all."

"Alright," she sucked in a breath. "Well, I guess I'm here because... something doesn't feel right. Ever since my family and I left home, came here, something's been eating at me. I never used to question myself, or feel so pressured. Now it's all I think about."

"You're Ferelden?"

She nodded. "The Blight took everything from us. Some things, we could go back and reclaim, I suppose. Others... we'll never get back." She shut her eyes when she thought of Carver. More than a year had passed, but she could still remember the way he'd bicker with their sister at the dinner table, or the stupid way he laughed when he found something funny, or how she'd wake up sometimes with her hand in a pail of water, or beetles in her bed, or, or...

"Oftentimes the Maker's will is difficult for us to understand. That you came here, to Kirkwall, must mean something," he presented.

"I'm here for my family. My mother was born and raised here; with my father gone, our village destroyed, I guess she just wanted to come home."

"Would you rather be in Ferelden?"

"No... I mean, if there was some way to go back in time, to get father back, to get my brother back..." she sighed, leaving the thought unfinished. "It doesn't matter to me where we end up. Just as long as I'm with what family I have left. I'll do whatever I can to keep them happy... safe."

"And yet you're unhappy."

She was beginning to feel like her confusion, all her doubts, were foolish. Her feelings, circumstances, goals... it was like a puzzle she'd been too impatient to work out herself. Bouncing thoughts off of him made it all feel ridiculously simple, as though she was close enough to her epiphany that she could leave right then and work it out on her own.

But she'd found herself enjoying his company. It was rare for her to meet anyone who wasn't pitiful, condescending, self-serving, or just all-around repulsive. And it wasn't as if figuring out what her problem was would mean she'd know how to solve it. "I thought there'd be opportunity for us here. We live in a hut, barely bring in enough coin to keep us fed, and the only way anyone will hire me is if I'm willing to... compromise my values."

She watched his face soften, and wondered how many others had come in with stories exactly like hers. She looked away, too prideful to accept the pity his expression offered. "You're wondering where the line is; whether or not your ends justify your means."

"It's just... been a long time since I've really believed in what I've been doing."

"I think I might understand. If you don't mind my input...?"

"Oh, no, not at all. Please," she insisted, somewhat embarrassed. She suddenly worried that she might have been hogging the conversation, and the thought made her sink into her seat a bit.

"Well, you barely escaped with your lives. All you had left was your mother and sister; you already blame yourself for the ones who died. You're doing all of this because you don't want to lose anyone else, and you feel like you need to make amends for where you failed."

She swallowed hard. His words resounded painfully inside her mind; his statement a simplification of her chaotic life. In just those few sentences, he had swept away the debris, the little details she'd occupied herself with sifting through, and shot straight to the core of the matter. She discovered with astonishment that the thing truly bothering her, what fueled her self-sabotaging thoughts and feelings of inadequacy, wasn't at all what she would have guessed.

It wasn't so much that what he said was accurate, or even that he cared enough to listen; simply put, they had made a connection. The fact that someone else understood her struggles, knew what she was feeling, was enough to lift much of the burden from her shoulders. She felt less alone now, and the poignancy of the realization sent a painful jolt through her core, as if she had only just discovered an emptiness there. She'd been lonely? She hadn't even noticed, never once thought...

She placed a hand over her mouth to quiet what was almost a sob; she drew her arms close, protecting herself as she averted her gaze. This man had been kind enough to her, she wouldn't fall apart on him and make things uncomfortable. If she needed to cry, she'd find somewhere else to do it.

"Your life, their lives; you escaped Ferelden with much more than that. By the Maker's grace, we know love, honor, self-worth; with all of these, we are complete. Only with none of them are we ever truly lost. If you have even just one of those things, you have a foothold to reclaim the others." He placed a hand on her shoulder, clearly intending to comfort her, and though she was humbled by the gesture it was his compassion that was reducing her to a puddle. "The person you were then is not far off from the person you've become; you haven't lost yourself."

She struggled to keep from breaking down. The relief his assurances brought, that it was not too late for her; the humility that she felt, to discover someone so generous in their time and gracious in their counsel... she felt free. Once chained by the burden of her responsibilities, she could now accept that she had choices. She was not damned by her mistakes. And she didn't have to face them alone.

The Brother waited patiently for her to calm down, and she thanked the Maker for small mercies. When she finally regained her composure, she offered him thanks. "Wow, I... didn't realize how much all of this really bothered me. Just having a name for my troubles is enough of a relief. I don't know how to thank you," she said as she stood.

"I'm merely doing my part in service to the Maker. If you ever need to talk, please, do not hesitate to find me."

"I won't," she smiled gratefully. Inclining her head, she bade him farewell.

Sebastion was on his bed, hands resting on his abdomen, gazing up at the ceiling. He hadn't changed into his nightclothes yet- wasn't sure if he ought to, what with mercenaries out to destroy his family line. He had no thought as to how bold they might be, couldn't be sure that they wouldn't barge into the Chantry to kill him, and so he found himself tossing around the idea of sleeping in his armor.

The Grand Cleric, as frustrated as she was, had forgiven him. She made no mention of the bounty he'd issued, he guessed because she knew pursuing it would be futile. She merely offered him her prayers, and commended his family to the Maker's side.

His feelings on their murder no longer vexed him, but Elthina hadn't been the one to help him find peace. That young lady, Marian; she faced so much, knew struggles he could not claim to have known himself- not really. He couldn't help but think, hers were exactly the kind of challenges that the Maker sets down to temper His champions. She would know pain, certainly, but she would become better for it.

In helping her, he'd been reminded of what he was doing here. Helping others was meditative; it expanded his knowledge of the world and of people themselves, and bringing calm to them brought calm to himself.

"It's late. Are you sure you wouldn't like someone to walk you home?"

"Don't worry about me," she grinned, pulling out a blade and twirling it between her fingers briefly, before quickly sheathing it again. She walked to the doors, waving goodbye over her shoulder and slipping quickly into the night.

The memory made him chuckle. He wasn't quite sure what to make of her, but he hoped she'd come around again. Crises of conscience aside, she seemed the type of girl one could have many interesting conversations with.

For now, though, he was left still with many things to consider. For a small period of time that day, the idea that he would leave the Chantry to reclaim Starkhaven didn't seem so much an option as it did an eventuality. Now, he felt less certain. Where would he serve the Maker best? And could he trust himself with ruling, believe what he told himself his intentions were?

He shut his eyes, silently praying to the Maker for guidance on the subject, before he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

She had been nearly asleep, wandering that line between wake and slumber, when her half-conscious brain made a connection that sent her vaulting upright in abrupt realization. Her head smacked into a board supporting the bunk above, and Bethany let out a tired squeak of surprise.

"Sister?" she mumbled, looking over the edge while rubbing her eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Ow! Shit, no..." Hawke clutched her forehead with both hands, trying to figure out what in the Maker's name had caused her to bolt up like that.

"You need healing? Anders taught me a new spell yesterday. Wouldn't let me practice on any of his patients, though."

"I'll be fine. Go back to sleep," she sighed, sliding her legs out to let them dangle over the side of the bed. Her sister shrugged and rolled over. She was already snoring softly by the time Hawke remembered what it was she'd... well, remembered. Grabbing for her pack, she unbuckled one of the pockets and removed a neatly folded bounty letter.

"What happened to my family was murder."

So the man she'd had such an enlightening conversation with was the same one with the vendetta against Flint Company. Huh. She wasn't sure what to make of that. 'Guess everyone has problems.'

Having finally established the connection, she allowed herself to collapse back onto the bed, head pounding. There wasn't very much she could do with the information right now, and she was exhausted and possibly concussed. Resigned to think more on the subject tomorrow, and somewhat oblivious to the fact that her feet were still on the floor, her eyes gradually closed and she was asleep again.

Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think, I find the input of others incredibly valuable. There were a few parts that gave me trouble, and while I know how I intended things to sound I'm too close to the story to know exactly how someone else would read it, coming in with fresh eyes. (Also, 5,300 words, jfc... normal chapters for me are usually around 2,000 - 2,500.)

So, please, if anything tripped you up or didn't seem quite clear, feel free to tell me in the reviews.

~Cold Toes