He is stumbling down a familiar hallway, a whore on each arm. Around the corner ahead is the twins' room, he knows, where they will be fucking like rabbits in a few minutes, him doing his best to please both women at once, and mainly succeeding. Though some part of him knows it does not matter if he truly succeeds or fails, anyway, they are whores, they will pretend to enjoy whatever he does. It is what his money buys him, the illusion of passion, of love, not the reality of it. He knows and does not care; there is no passion in his life, no love, not from a cold father, a distant mother, uncaring brothers who have their set places and see him for what he is... the extra. The useless third.
And so he buries himself in the loins of one whore while kissing and toying with a second, and enjoys the ephemeral warmth of their embrace, because it is at least something, a moment in time when someone acts like they care. He ignores the feeling of shame at what he does, knowing he should not be here. He is sworn to chastity. For a moment he finds a place where he is kneeling on hard stone, alone, at prayer, a feeling of peace rising inside him, but it is fleeting, and then he is on his knees on a soft mattress, and it is not in the shape of words of prayer that his mouth is moving, as he thrusts into the whore on her hands and knees before him, but words of profanity, stark and heated.
He concentrates on the woman in his arms, not particularly noticing when it changes to the curvaceous blond he had once in the back room of a tavern, not until he finds himself winding her long braids around his hands, his wrists, joking that she has caught him, has snared him, has bound him in desire. She laughs, and he is on his back on the straw-strewn floor, her warm weight sinking down on him, around him, skirts a loose puddle cloaking his thighs, a fierce ache waking in his groin as she envelops him.
It is not the warmth of a woman he is buried in, it is a mouth, a hot warm mouth, and a faint scratchiness against the inside of his thighs, as the stubble on the cheeks of his first man rubs against tender, sensitized flesh and he wonders if his own smooth-shaven cheeks have ever felt like such a coarse rasp against the thighs of the women he's pleasured with his lips and tongue, the thought making his groin ache with an even fiercer heat. There are candles, he can smell the hot waxy scent of them, and he wills it not to become the chantry, not him rutting in the aisle under Andraste's disapproving gaze, as it sometimes does.
It is worse, it is a candle-lit room instead, draped in silk and satin, floored in velvet and fur, and hot with the flames of the shielded candles, hot with the shifting pile of bodies as he buries himself in a mound of whores, all for him. He has been told his freedom will end, that he will be pledged to the chantry, and is rebelling in the only way he knows, having escaped the castle and spent the last of his coin on an orgy of flesh, whores of both sexes, and strong drink, on this his last night of freedom, losing himself in lust, in the pleasure of fucking and being fucked. He does not want this dream, he knows how it ends, with his father walking in on him, and sending the whores away, eyes full of distaste, of scorn, as he unthreads his belt to punish his youngest, wastrel son before sending him away to exile and enforced chastitude... he ruts all the more desperately, willing it not to reach that final, terrible, unforgiving scene with his father.
And then beyond the dusky-skinned flank of a whore he catches a glimpse of lambent green eyes. The wolf has finally come, seeking him as it does every night. The whores vanish, the walls melt away, he is armed and armoured, bow held firmly in one hand, turning and turning, seeking sight of his enemy, his prey, safe in the hunt.
He stalks the wolf with care, sometimes catching a glimpse of it in the shadowed woods ahead, a flash of white teeth, a glance of glowing green eyes, the satiny curve of a flank, moonlight painting its fur with bright silver highlights. The ache in his loins fades as he follows the wolf, seeking the signs of its passing – a wisp of fur caught on a thorn, a footprint bigger than the palm of his own hand in the soft mud by a stream. Shadowed forest melts to heavy brush, to the desolation of the Wounded Coast, to the echoing cobblestone streets of a city that is both Starkhaven and Kirkwall, elements of both muddled together in the torturous logic of dreams.
He sees the wolf again, a skinny slinking beast of bedraggled white with black tips and shadings, gaunt and footsore, its bright green eyes watching him warily. He raises his bow, aims and fires an arrows, and misses, the beast's claws skittering against hard stone as it dodges and escapes down a noisome alley. He follows, into a narrow stone-walled canyon, floored in dry sand and the brittle remains of some drought-resistant vine. The canyon twists, turns, opens out to a wide sand-floored ground encircled by high cliff walls.
The wolf is there, on a rise at the middle of the ground, big as a cart horse, coat as black as night, the glints of moonlight making little flecks like stars gleaming against the velvety darkness of its fur, bright green eyes laughing at him. Its mouth lolls open, showing white teeth, an expanse of dark red tongue as it grins at him. Again he raises bow, again he misses, the wolf a flurry of movement that seems to flow out of his arrow's path only a hair's breadth ahead of its razor-edged glittering point. And the wolf is gone again, vanished into the night as sandy ground becomes a brushy tangle of blackberry brambles, of clumps of wild roses, of raspberry canes and nettles, all sharp-edged and eager to bite if he brushes against them incautiously in his search for the animal.
He continues hunting, the wolf sometimes visible, sometimes not. It avoids him easily, his arrows never strike it, but that is good, since it is a hunt he doesn't want to end. He wishes it could last forever, this chase, this courtship through forest and fen, hills and highlands, streets and swamps.
And then the wolf is before him again, on a high hilltop smelling of heather and the clean night wind. No longer running, but stalking him now, head lowered, lambent green eyes meeting his, unafraid. Its coat is dark silky grey, limed in silver from the moon high overhead. It is a danger to him now, he knows, and draws an arrow, aims, fires. Misses, the wolf shifting lithely to one side to avoid the arrow. Fires again, misses again, and then the wolf leaps and is on him, the impact driving him painfully onto his back among the heather, sharp white fangs closing around his throat.
He closes his eyes, expecting to die then, powerful jaws tearing out his throat, but nothing happens. He can feel its hot breath on the tender flesh of his throat, the prickling contact of sharp-tipped teeth as a deep growl reverberates through its heavy frame.
He is nude beneath it, no armour proof against the presence of the beast. Its sleek form lowers onto him, pinning him to the ground, a velvety weight that covers him from shoulder to knees, its muscular tail pressed warm against one naked shin. It has released his throat, the narrow chin presses against his shoulder instead, as it buries its cool moist nose in the hair behind his ear. He opens his eyes and finds bright green wolf-eyes staring back into his own blue man-eyes. He feels a gust of warm breath as it noses among the hair at the nape of his neck, feels its tongue lave against his neck, wide and wet and warm, tasting his flesh. The touch tickles, startling a laugh from him.
The wolf tenses at the sudden sound, and he becomes uncomfortably aware of the sharp claws on its paws, pressing hard and sharp against his naked, vulnerable flesh, digging into shoulder and rib cage and the tender flesh of his thigh and just above one knee. It could kill him so easily, as defenceless as he now lies under it, but it refrains. And snuffles among his hair again instead.
Emboldened, he raises one hand, slowly, carefully. The wolf growls warningly, still tense, but does not move to avoid his hand as he reaches to touch fingers gently against the soft fur. He strokes his hand lightly down its neck, ghosting along the tips of the guard hairs, then again, firmer, and again, firmer yet, before reaching up and sinking his fingertips into the soft warmth behind one sharp-tipped ear, digging down into the velvety softness to scratch behind its ears. Its growl continues, a low vibration that sinks into him, shaking him down to his very bones, but its green eyes are half-hooded in pleasure, and it does not avoid his touch.
For a timeless moment they lay together, the man trapped under the silken weight of living wolf, pressed down against the ground, touching along the length of their bodies, the contact soothing and comforting and above-all dangerous, but all the more pleasurable for that very danger. And then the wolf is gone, leaving just a memory of warmth as the cold night air blows across his naked skin.
Sebastian bit back a curse. He'd managed to kick his sheets off again, and the cold night air flowing in the nearby window had awoken him. Even though the curse never actually crossed his lips, he whispered a brief prayer anyway, asking for forgiveness, for the thought of it had been in his head. He decided he might as well rise and prepare for the day ahead; it's earlier than he normally wakes, but not by very much, so there is little point in trying to sleep any further.
He rose from his pallet, naked as the Maker made him, and stepped over to the low table near the window. A pitcher of water waited there, where he'd placed it before retiring the night before, and a cloth, a bar of soap, the razor-edged dagger he uses to shave. He wiped himself clean quickly, ignoring the protest of flesh at the touch of the cold wet cloth, then lathered up his chin and neck and carefully scraped the sharp-edged knife over his flesh, checking by touch that he hasn't missed any stubble. Once he was satisfied that he was sufficiently smooth-shaven, his skin clean and fresh, he dressed quickly and neatly. Smallclothes first, then finely knitted stockings and undershirt, followed by snugly fitted long sueded leather pants, soft as butter, and a padded linen gambeson, clean and smelling of soap and the wind that dried it. His armour over top of that, the plate and mail settling over him, a comforting shield between him and the world.
He headed to the nave of the chantry, and lit a candle in remembrance of his slain family before saying his morning prayers. By then others were stirring, the chantry beginning its morning routine. He slipped into the kitchens, wheedled a warm roll and a slice of soft creamy cheese from one of the cooks, and went outside to eat it, leaning against the wall near the chantry board and enjoying watching the sun rise over the city, mouth full of yeasty bread and meltingly soft cheese.
It was there that Hawke found him, bounding up to him with all the enthusiasm of one of those mabari hounds that Fereldans so much loved, and which the warrior rather frankly resembled, with his compact muscular ugliness. A tall cloaked form approached more cautiously behind him; Anders, the apostate understandably nervous at proximity to the chantry.
"Sebastian! Just the man I was hoping to see. I've got a little job to do today, and I could use a good archer..."
Unbidden, Sebastian felt a smile rising to his lips. The man's enthusiasm was infectious, and he had to admit he nearly always enjoyed his outings with Hawke and his assorted unlikely companions. "Of course," he said. "One moment while I get my bow."
Hawke nodded. "Meet us outside the elf's place, I'm hoping broody will come along as well."
Sebastian nodded, neither of them needing to say that the square in front of the chantry was not a place for the champion to linger, not with Anders along anyway. Hawke hurried off, the tall mage trailing along in his wake.
Fenris was just emerging from the dilapidated mansion he inhabited when Sebastian caught up with the party. He fell in step beside him, his accustomed place within the group, watching Hawke bounding along beside the mage, grinning up at the much taller man. He'd never been quite sure what the two men saw in each other, but that they loved each other deeply he'd never doubted. He loved Hawke as well, of course, but like a brother – better than a brother, he corrected, thinking of the lack of warmth there'd been between him and his two older siblings. Like the brother he'd wished he had.
He glanced at the diminutive warrior stalking along beside him, all dark armour, prickly edges, and feral grace. "A fine morning for a little hunt," he observed, pleased that the elf would be part of today's group.
Fenris glanced back at him briefly, a warm smile momentarily curving his lips, lighting his lambent green eyes, before he looked away again, returning to a wary watchfulness of their surroundings, cautious even here in the comparative safety of the city streets. "Yes," Fenris agreed.