seanair - grandfather
dadaidh - father
mamaidh - mother
Sebastian Vael was awake very early for an eleven year old boy. His eyes had opened suddenly in the darkness, and he lay still and silent while his dream scattered and thought swam up to the surface. Today was The Day. He breathed in a stutter, staring at the canopy over his bed and trying to marshal the flood of feelings that came with this knowledge. He threw off his wool-stuffed doona and slid down to the floor, bare legs pimpling with gooseflesh in the chilly room, and pressed an eye to the archers' slit in the wall.
The sky was as grey and dull as a lazy guardsman's helmet, much to his frustration. It had rained all yesterday in blustery squalls, as the weather was prone to in the dying days of Starkhaven's winter. The moor grass would be slippery and the woods boggy. The horses would shy and toss their heads at the mud.
But they wouldn't call it off, surely? He chewed a thumbnail in a sudden fit of anxiety as he moved away from the portal. He was sure Angus and Connall had been taken in bad weather before. His father couldn't go back on his promise now, he couldn't. His breath appeared in puffs of white smoke past his nose, eyes fixed on the treacherous rectangle of clouds as one hand worried the ties of a thin cotton nightshirt. No, he couldn't waver now. He would simply be ready and waiting to go by the time his father ordered the horses out. He would tie himself to a horse leg if he had to.
He fished a taper out from a basket at the foot of his bed, and crossed the room to light the grate. The coals hadn't been banked and raked after he'd gone to sleep, as per usual. His lip curled in disgust at the thought of his nurse; a simple, stupid woman who never needed much convincing to abandon her charge in order to spend the evening in the servant's hall drinking gin with the cooks. Thoughts of tending her charge's fire, or indeed any of his needs, were never high in her mind.
Making a note to pour ashes in her shawl later, he blew on the cold coals until a glow warmed in the centre. He lit the taper and touched it to a lantern, filling the room with jumping yellow light and long shadows. As he hastened to dress, he fought to suppress the nerves churning his guts. For every year as long as he could remember, he'd asked his dadaidh to allow him to accompany the men's party in the hunting season. His older brothers often crowed that they'd been hunting while he'd still been wetting his swaddling.
He'd clung to their saddle horns, begging them to swing him up and take him along, which had usually earned him a kick from a stirrup and a jibe about his place being with the women. They would ride out in their heavy woollen cloaks and sterling doe pins, sitting straight in the saddle as they were surrounded by his father's bannermen. The Vael princes. And every season, he'd had to watch hunt after hunt leave from the cobbled courtyard, the back of his coat held in the fist of a manservant while the females of the house pressed flowery embroidered squares to their mouths and whispered nonsense. They would often turn and stroke his hair with pitying smiles but he threw off their hands with dark scowls. How dare they lay hands on a man – a Vael man – with such coarse casualness? It was beyond tolerance, being so openly numbered among the weak and subservient.
But this year was going to be different. He pulled on his boots with a hand that trembled. Two days ago, he'd found his mamaidh and dadaidh as they breakfasted in the garden with the other clan heads who'd arrived for the beginning of the season. He'd been clutching a practice bow, and his father had spared him only a brief, cool glance before turning back to his guests. Sebastian had waited, eyes on the toes of his boots, sweat sliding his hand on the wood, until his father had finally turned and barked for him to speak. He'd stated his case, and same as every year, his father dismissed his pleas. But Sebastian reminded him that two years ago he'd said that if he could put an arrow through the flag over the east parapets, he'd consider it. With a heart beating blood so loud he could hear it in his throat, he'd turned and loosed an arrow that skimmed back a corner of the family crest flapping in the breeze.
Later that night, a note had come to Sebastian's room to be ready to ride two mornings hence.
He pulled on a cloak over his shoulders. He had no sterling pin to fasten it with, but he tied it in a knot on his shoulder in the best mimic he could manage of how the older men wore their tartan. He cast his eyes about for his practice bow, which he now was convinced was blessed with luck. As he looped it over his head, his eyes landed on the sword leaning on his trunk, strapped into its scabbard. He let uncertain fingers rest on the pommel, disturbing the settled dust. A queasy feeling wormed through his stomach, and he lifted his hand away. He couldn't understand all their devotion to it! Just because Angus and Connall could swing swords that were almost as tall as themselves didn't make them better warriors. Once he could draw a proper bow, he would fell a charging horse!
Without thinking, he wrapped a hand over his bicep. One day, he would catch up. He squeezed his arm with gritted teeth. He hadn't asked to be born sickly. He would be the captain of the militia one day, whatever his brothers said, whatever the servants murmured over their scouring when they thought they were alone. Today was the day he proved it.
The stables were eerily quiet, save the snorting and pawing of the great draught beasts in their mangers. Their breath curled into damp steam in the frigid morning air. He'd not yet been given a horse of his own, but he often rode a grey breeding pony with a temper he liked. He found her in the end stable, pulling carefully at her hay bundle. Sebastian smiled and rubbed a hand down her nose in greeting, which she in turn licked affectionately. He liked how thoughtful she seemed, never fussed or distressed even in the storms that rattled the wooden beams of the ancient building. She was like him; always watching.
"Are you going to carry me to a fat buck today?" he asked her in a murmur, throwing a saddle blanket on her back. She snorted and continued her breakfast, unconcerned as Sebastian busied himself with tacking and saddling.
He paused when he heard the heavy wooden door open with a thud. A train of stablehands flowed in, chattering and laughing until they caught sight of the young prince in the last manger. Their joviality died as they awkwardly touched their caps. Sebastian nodded stiffly and buried his head back in the pony's side. He could hear them readying the horses for the rest of the day's party, and he curled his hands in the blanket as he was rushed through with nervous excitement. Finishing the final preparations in a hurry, he gripped the reins and led the pony through the barn, doing his best to ignore the heat of the stares following him. Servants were not to be acknowledged; it was one of the few things his mother had ever roused herself enough to admonish him over.
The stableyard was empty, but he knew the rest of the party would exit through an adjoining gate that headed one of several bridges that crossed the steep ditches down one side of the castle. Arrow's Rest was protected by the Bannockburn tributary on one side, the other with row after row of architectural defenses, most built after the second Blight. Beyond the stable gate was a grassy paddock full of trails stamped down by horse hooves. A hedgerow marked the edge of the castle bounds, and to most within its walls, the edge of the civilised world. A line of trees leaned over the hedge like crones bent over their cauldrons.
Sebastian smiled as he tied the reins to the gate post and sat on a rung to wait. His father and brothers probably thought today was the first time he'd ventured into the wilder parts of Starkhaven. Little did they know that he'd roamed those woods for years with nothing more than a bow and knife as an escort. He knew which nests always had eggs and the stretch of creek where the wild boar always drank. He'd snuck out and eaten countless meals of sorrel and mulberries on the days when his nurse had withheld supper as punishment, or had been too sotted to remember to fetch it. He'd panicked when his seanair had caught him by the chin one day and declared he was getting tan, but he'd merely been told not to kill the forest creatures unless in self-defense.
He watched the sheep cutting the grass a few paddocks beyond. The crown flock's wool was coming in thick; the pregnant ewes were practically staggering under their heavy grey and black coats. The shearing season for all Starkhaven would begin soon, followed shortly after by lambing. It was a time of year Sebastian had grown to dread, as it also marked the beginning of the Emancipation Feasts. An entire week devoted to the celebration of Starkhaven's liberation from the Tevinters, during which all male Vael children were forced to compete in exhibitions of martial skill. His brothers could both cut the heads off the wooden dolls they used with one blow from an axe or broadsword. His father had not yet allowed him to compete, instead forcing him to sit conspicuously by his mother's knee while his brothers were toasted and cheered by the crowds. The burning pride in his father's eyes as he watched them throw cabers or pin a contender to the ground made Sebastian feel hollow. If his mother stated something more ignorant than usual, his father would turn to snap and his eyes would glance down as though surprised to see he was still there. Or surprised he existed at all. Sebastian wasn't sure what was better.
He closed his eyes and ran a hand down the nocks on his bow. Not today. Today his father would see him with fresh eyes.
A loud whinny disturbed his thoughts, and he turned to see the last of the hunting mares being led into the inner courtyard. He clambered quickly into the saddle, giving the pony an impatient kick. She tossed her head and broke into a canter. He rounded the corner just in time to see his father and his clan heads swinging onto their mounts; great swarthy beasts that stood several hands higher than his Shetland. The men's yew bows were as thick as their wrists and strung with braided linen. The plates of their beaten armour clanked and rustled as they hooked into the stirrups. Several of them were spitting and cursing over the weather as Sebastian rode to join the group, but to his relief, no one was speaking of calling off the hunt.
The Heir Apparent Lachlan Vael was brusquely dictating a list of duties to an aide as his son edged up to his side. His eyes slid over him without missing a beat, and he continued reciting until eventually dismissing the servant with a flick of two fingers. Sebastian took a deep breath, steeling himself as his father finally turned in the saddle towards him.
There was a long pause. The older man looked him up and down, expression closed.
"You're ready?" he asked roughly. Sebastian watched his black brows draw together in vague disbelief. "You still look like a bundle of twigs."
"I'm ready, ser," Sebastian responded with fervour. "I can put an arrow in a target from sixty paces now, and -"
"Well, come if you're coming," Lachlan interrupted as he took up the reins and set his horse at the gate. "But keep up and keep quiet." With a click of his tongue, the mare trotted to the head of the pack with the others falling in behind. His brothers shot him filthy looks as they passed.
Sebastian could barely believe his luck. Despite the note he'd read and reread, he was sure his father would turn him away at the last moment. But now, the women and servants all stood arrayed on the stone steps below him, his mother waving a kerchief with complete disinterest. There was no hand on his jacket. The green cloaked backs of the men were drawing away, and with a gasp of delight, Sebastian kicked his pony to catch up.
As predicted, the woods were sodden. Water hung in glass beads from the woollen fibres of his cloak, where the group had brushed through low hanging branches. He strained to hear the soft noises he usually heard in the forest over the sound of squelching hooves and the older men murmuring among each other.
Angus drew level with him, his roan's shoulder bumping the neck of his pony. "Don't think this means anything, tit-biter," he hissed. "You're still weak as watery piss."
Sebastian looked determinedly ahead. "Dadaidh says I can be here, so I'm here. You think you know better than him?"
His brother's eyes narrowed. "You're a sack of stones he's got to drag, that's all. A thieving stray." He gestured to the party riding ahead. "All these men will lose grazing country in pecks and pinches because of you."
"He won't need to divide anything when I'm captain of the castle arms," Sebastian replied mutinously, staring up into his brother's hard grey eyes.
Angus laughed loudly, before leaning over. "That's never going to happen," he whispered conspiratorially, as though he'd shared a private joke.
Sebastian gritted his teeth, veering his mount away. "Sod off, Angus. Don't take it out on me because the serving girls won't lie with you."
His brother's mouth fell open. "You little shit!" he pronounced slowly, his expression morphing from stunned to murderous. "I knew you'd been hiding in my rooms again! Come over here so I can wring your bloody neck!"
Sebastian, judging that it was a good time to retreat, broke off to turn down a path he knew well. Angus' angry hisses faded into the trees.
The path twisted into little more than a rabbit trail. The Stark beech grew denser, branches clasping hands with their neighbours over their path. His grey trotted with high, deliberate steps and he gave her her head so he could irritably swat the leaves out of his face. Ugly brute, he thought mulishly. Halfwit brother. His seanair was always telling him to look beyond the surface of people, but his eldest brother had lived life without a single heartache. As far as Sebastian knew, he wanted for nothing. He was the pride of the Vaels, and who could ask for a greater gift from the Maker? He simply had nothing but spite and loathing in him. Sebastian relished the prospect of the day when he could call forth battalions of men with a single word. We'll see about weakness that day, brother.
The clustered trees began to thin, giving way to thorny blackberries and tufts of wiry grass. The weak sunlight grew stronger as he spotted a break in the wall of foliage. Through the fog that still clung to the ground in wispy swathes, he saw a clearing that housed several does grazing on the dewy grass.
He sucked in a breath as a tall, proud buck with velvety branching antlers wandered over to join their patch. Every nerve in his body thrummed with sudden tension. He looked over his shoulder. Barely, he could see the colours of his brother's horses as they trotted back to the main group. No one was paying him the least attention.
He turned back. The deer stood forty paces away, blissfully unaware of their observer. If it weren't for the trees, he could put an arrow through the eye of the hart from this very spot. Carefully, silently, he unslung his bow and pulled a shaft from the quiver. A small part of his mind told him to turn back and tell the others, but the look on Angus' face if he happened to fell the hart first... he shook his head. No, he could do it. He'd put a thousand arrows into practice butts far farther away. If he could just move closer to the edge of the trees, he could find a clear shot.
With a gentle squeeze of his knees, he urged his pony forward. He nocked the arrow, raising the bow to his shoulder. The pony stepped carefully, slowly through the damp undergrowth. With every roll of her hips, they inched closer. The ears of the does twitched as they nibbled delicately. He drew until the wood creaked softly. His teeth bit his lower lip, heart banging like a drum in his ears. Just a little further was all he needed.
And then, the hart raised his head, ears pricking high. Sebastian froze. The huge animal looked straight into the trees for a moment that seemed to hang in time. The two breaths Sebastian drew seemed to drag out into hours. And then, he darted away.
Sebastian swore at the top of his lungs. He was barely twenty paces away! He couldn't let a chance come so close only to lose it! With a sharp rap on the pony's hind with the stave of his bow, he bent forward over the horn. She started forward with a high, nervous whinny. When she barely moved up to a canter, he dug his heels in with a desperate kick, eyes watching the white tuft of the deer's tail as it reached the other side of the clearing and melted into the trees. Finally, she moved into a full gallop and Sebastian grabbed the reins with one hand, bow and arrow dangling from the other.
"Come on!" he shouted. "Come on, faster!" The beast panted as Sebastian wove her through the undergrowth, barely avoiding losing an eye to the lower branches. She crossed the clearing in four strides, and Sebastian saw the does scattering into the trees in panicky flight. From somewhere behind him, he heard a shout. He ignored it. The prize was his; he could practically taste it!
The trees closed in around the horse and rider again, passing in grey and green blurs. Bark scraped holes into the hose over his knees, scuffing the leather of his boots. He could still just catch glimpses of spotted brown hindquarters darting through the growth. So agonizingly close! Sebastian kicked his mount hard in the ribs when he felt her shying, and she screeched her displeasure.
The trail widened to reveal a dip in the landscape, and a muddy ditch rose up in their path. The deer leapt over with a graceful bound. Sebastian gripped the saddlehorn, bending low enough that mane was whipping his cheek.
"Do it. Come on," he urged desperately. The hart was fleeing into scrubland he knew would soon open onto the moor; a chance at a perfect shot. He squeezed in his heels with all his strength. The pony plunged on.
The muscles in her back legs coiled to jump. The pair sprung into the air, and for one glorious second, Sebastian thought they would land clear. But as soon as they began dropping back to earth, he knew.
Her front hooves touched the soft mud. As the rest of their weight came to bear, one slipped out to the side. A fleshy crack echoed through the woods as loud as a splitting log. A second later it was followed by the animal's scream, and Sebastian was thrown clear over the head of the beast as it crashed into the earth, hind legs tumbling over front.
He lay for a few moments where he'd skidded to a halt in the damp forest litter, not sure where he was or how he got there. Cold mud oozed in spots through the back of his cloak. His ears were ringing like they had when he'd climbed the chantry belfry and the bell had tolled for prayers at Terce. It was too much to process in the scant few seconds that had passed. A haze clouded his eyes, and he finally realised he was looking at the sky instead of the back of a hart.
Another long scream shredded the silence of the woods. He sat up quickly, head rolling as nausea raced through his guts. He turned to the side and retched into the dirt. He coughed, pulling himself up slowly. He knew what he would see, but dread gripped his whole body in an instantaneous vice. Finally, he turned his head.
Three of her legs were still kicking frantically, as though still in gallop. The fourth was bent unnaturally under her body. Jagged white bone had broken the skin and thick, bright blood was pooling in the mud. Her head was tossing, froth starting to bubble from her mouth and eyes rolling to show the whites. Her jaw hung open, lips pulled back from her teeth as she shrieked in hoarse trills. It was an abnormal, enigmatic sound; the sound of a creature distorted by agony into something unholy. Sebastian felt his throat close as panic swept over him. He got shakily to his knees.
"Father?" he called, voice cracking.
"Angus? Connall? Help," he gasped. "Help!"
The pony began to keen, feet scrabbling in the mud as she tried to obey her instincts and stand. Tears sprang to his eyes.
"Help me!" He shouted as loud as his frayed voice could raise.
There was no reply. He rocked back on his heels and stared up at the grey sky with dim, blurry vision.
"Someone," he pleaded, and began to cry in earnest.
After a minute or two with nothing to break the unnatural silence except the gurgles and screams of the pony, he felt the drumming of hooves through the ground. A few moments later, he saw a green shape appear at the top of the rise. His father rode into sight. Sebastian tried to swallow some of his heaving sobs, to no avail.
Lachlan appraised the tableau quickly, eyes widening and lips pressing into a snarl until they were bloodless. He dismounted just as the rest of the party trotted past the treeline. They swore and cursed at the grisly scene. Angus cast his eyes upwards, shaking his head over and over. Connall's face turned paler than a sheet.
Sebastian tried to stammer an explanation through his tears as his father stalked towards him, but the prince was in a towering fury. A heavy backhand sent Sebastian reeling, cutting the corner of his lip.
"You stupid boy," his father said with deliberate slowness, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "You prideful, stupid whelp."
"She's not even shoed for wet weather," muttered one of the clansmen who'd knelt down by the dying animal, his knotty beard spotted with mud. "Your boy's not done right by this beast, Lachlan."
Sebastian shrank back as his father barked a single, sharp laugh. "Oh, he'll do right by her now. I'll see to it." He felt his father's hand twist in the back of his cloak, and he was hauled up to his feet.
As he stumbled forward, Lachlan worked at a clasp on his belt. "You're going to redeem yourself in the eyes of your kin, right now." A cruel shove sent him to his knees at the back of the pony's head. Dumbly, he allowed his hand to be grasped and a skinning knife to be placed within.
"You brought on her suffering." He looked up at his father. Black hair whipped around his ears, his teeth bared. He seemed in that moment like one of the wrathful gods in his seanair's pagan histories. "You'll end it with your own hand."
Realisation dawned on Sebastian, and he shied away from the muddy, tangled mane. "You want me to... I can't, dadaidh!"
"You will do it!" he thundered.
"No! I can't!" he whimpered. He squirmed away on his hands and knees, dropping the knife. A huge hand took hold of his hair, wrenching his head back as he let out a cry. His father's eyes burned with rage.
"Do you know how much you've cost me, boy?" he asked, flecks of spittle landing on Sebastian's upturned face. "Not just the hunt, and the price of this mare. You've lessened our clan in the eyes of the Maker and our blood-brothers with your reckless ignorance. You will regain your honour through mercy." Sebastian stared, pawing limply at the thick wrist above his scalp.
"Da, isn't this too much for -" Connall piped up, looking queasy and evasive.
"Silence!" Lachlan roared. Connall held up his hands and looked away.
Fresh tears wet down the boy's cheeks. He shook his head as fervently as he could while his hair was still tightly gripped. "No, please!" he tried. "I'll- I'll do anything else! I'll never sneak out again. I'll always sit by mother quietly -"
Lachlan released his son's hair and snatched up the knife from where it had fallen, wrenching open his fingers to shove it back into his grip. "Repay your debt! Show mercy! Repay your debt!" he shouted, skin mottled with red and purple, breath humid and foul on Sebastian's face.
The boy hiccuped great sobs. He searched for aid in the faces of the others. Aside from one or two who were eyeing him piteously, the men had all turned away. Their eyes darted, faces drained and drawn.
They're scared too, Sebastian realised, with a clarity that pierced the haze of misery. They can't fight him. They'd lose their holdings, their sheep.
He was his father's third, uncalled-for, runty son. There were no champions for those. No amount of dead harts would change either truth.
He looked at the pony again. She had stilled, the blood from her wound no longer surging with every heartbeat. Her cries had died, and her legs were floppy. She panted gently into the mud.
He kneeled above her head. Long, beautiful lashes flickered over a glazed eye. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll help you now." He plunged the knife into her throat.
"Ah!" a voice cried out. "I've got one!"
Anders flipped a fish out of the water onto their rocky perch. Sebastian watched it flap helplessly on the mossy ground by their feet.
"Are you going to eat it?" Hawke asked.
Anders scratched the back of his head. "I suppose I could fry it up for supper."
Hawke promptly caught up the slippery thing and dashed its head on the rocks. It stilled instantly.
"Maker's breath, Hawke, you didn't have be so keen about it!"
"Mercy for all creatures," Hawke murmured. "My papa always said that."
"Mercy for the innocent," Sebastian corrected under his breath. Hawke turned to him, brow creasing, looking very much like she wanted to say something. But Anders interrupted with a question about gutting fish and she turned away.
Written in a similar universe to tarysande's "Canticles", hence the borrowed first names. Thanks for the inspiration, friend. Find it on Archive of Our Own dot org.