Authors Note: Penname was changed (from Kittieth)! Sorry for any confusion, and while I'm here: I am so, so sorry about the wait. Computer, writer's block and sickness really put this on hold. However, thank you for the favourites, follows and reviews! I haven't replied to any because I don't want to harass people's inboxes – but if you would like a reply, just let me know! And know I am so grateful for any feedback you leave.
Thanks guys!
'Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship,
Upon a painted ocean.'
—Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
ii.
upon her painted ocean.
She has taken to spending her days at the Chantry. Prayers and chants ricochet off the walls, echoing in the empty church; a reminder of a faithless world, a city that has long-since forgotten the Maker. Her own prayers are said to herself, spoken under breath, head bowed, hands clasped, and it occupies half of her monotonous day, at least. But the cycle is repeating itself and wearing thin on her; day after day, week after week, she is before the statue of Andraste, time drawing itself out slowly like a bad Orlesian play that has no ending.
And her prayers go unanswered. Is it because of her condition? Her sin? She really thought she would have it all figured out by now. It has been a year since her brother's death; five since her father's. She is older, more experienced, yet she feels younger, like a child without guidance or direction. She claws at faith in hope that something will change, but it never does; the demonic temptation grows and grows within her, gaining strength every day, and without distraction, she is vulnerable. Vulnerable to them, vulnerable to herself. She finds no weakness in the realisation, but it is more out of stubborn refusal than truth.
The real truth is a hard and bitter pill to swallow.
Heart coiled together like a ribbon, Bethany Hawke steps back from the statue, breathing deeply the cool, floral air of the Chantry. It's near-empty now that the morning sermons are over, and she lets her gaze explore the expanse freely without the paranoia of fifty pairs of eyes watching her. Cracks and flakes of paint scatter the surface of the walls, revealing the crumbling marble underneath. It is old, this building. Older than she could ever imagine. She wants to know the stories it holds—the ancient world it was built upon—and she wants to touch everything—to feel the hard marble, the cold gold linings, the soft tapestries beneath her fingertips—but she is stuck, hidden in the shadows, trying to not draw attention to herself.
And in the shadows he is, too. For a full minute, she does not even realise he is there. He moves towards her—glides, almost—metal armour clanging loudly, breaking the silence and snatching her attention away from the architecture. His eyes stare straight through her, assessing carefully. They are the brightest blue she has ever seen.
"What could blessed lady such as yourself need to pray for, Serah?" the Templar asks. His voice is the darkest depths of the ocean.
"I am blessed because I pray," she replies confidently. But she does not feel confident—her heart pounds against her chest, uneven beats of nerves and anxiety. He takes another intimidating step towards her, into the warm light. The insignia on his chest gleams brightly, taunting her. "Why do you ask, Ser?"
"It is my duty to ask. It is my duty to find suspicious behaviour. A lady praying from dawn to afternoon, every day, warrants curiosity." His blue eyes narrow, pressing against her skin like the point of a dagger. "Does it not?"
"I—"
"People pray to resolve their sins," he interrupts, louder, harsher. Colder. "Have you sinned, Serah?"
Before she was Eden Hawke's sister and the apostate mage, Bethany was a little girl peering through the crack in the tent flap. His name was Carver, and he was the first Templar she ever saw. He stood six metres away, armour shinier than anything her five-year-old eyes had ever seen. It glinted and gleamed and clanged as he moved his arms animatedly in conversation with her mother, deep baritone voice rumbling through the small slit in his helmet. He was everything the Templars represented to her—tall, strong, and dedicated. He was the prophet of the Maker, completing his worldly duties as only a mortal could.
But this man is different. No prophet, but a man whose sword is crimson with the blood of mages. He moves closer, into her shadow, face cruel as he studies her, waiting for her to crack and the wounds to show. Waiting for her to snap and the magic to trickle out, and bleed and bleed and bleed. He wants a victory, but she will not give it to him. For the sake of her family, she must not.
Maker, give me strength.
"Tell me, Ser, who has not sinned?"
A scowl shadows his face, though he does not say a word. Time is drawn out, the air thin and feeble from the tension that stretches between them, and her fists open, close, open, close, sweaty from fear and courage and impatience.
Eventually, he moves to the side, words dripping with spite as he speaks. "I will be watching you, Serah. The Chantry cannot protect you forever."
Her cue to leave. Without hesitation, Bethany sweeps past the Templar, making her way towards the towering doors of the church. She pulls the hood of her gown over her bowed head as she passes the sisters that line the hall in chant, hiding the scarlet cheeks and the small relieved smile that dances across her lips.
It is a minor victory for the youngest Hawke. Small and feeble with a dark, ominous truth lingering behind it, like a dripping faucet in the back of her mind: he knows, he knows, he knows. She should know better; she should be more aware. Her father never taught her to be so conspicuous, and now, with that Templar on her trail, she is to pay the price for her reckless behaviour.
Bethany grits her teeth. She is so sick of running.
The sun is warm on her skin as she exits the building, and the colours of Kirkwall dance in the golden sunlight—a myriad of browns and reds and yellows against the gorgeous blue sky. The Chantry courtyard itself is strangely empty on such a beautiful afternoon, save for one man. He has in his hand papers—a small pile, perhaps twenty slips—and he takes the steps to the church in twos, face twisted in annoyance.
Perhaps he is seeking solace within the building's walls. Perhaps he is looking for someone—or something. Whatever it is, he looks angered enough, and makes to sweep past Bethany in a rush; but instead of letting him pass her by, she steps onto his path.
Though full of unchecked magic, curiosity has always been Bethany Hawke's greatest sin.
"Oh, Ser, my apologies—I mustn't have been watching my step!"
The light collision has her desired effect, and in his surprise the man drops his papers. They catch the breeze, skimming the concrete surface across the courtyard and disappearing down into the Hightown markets.
His mouth forms a thin line as his papers disappear, but when he speaks his voice is gentle and forgiving. "No, I am sorry, my lady. I let my anger get the better of me—more attention to my surrounds should have been paid."
She studies him carefully. He is pleasing to the eye, with sharp, defined features and light, olive skin. His eyes reflect the sky above; a warm, glittering blue, but they are also sad, pained. She can see it clearly, hidden away beneath his welcome facade.
She frowns. "You're angry?"
"It is nothing, Lady—" His pauses, blue eyes studying her face carefully.
She feels herself warm underneath the examining gaze. "Bethany Hawke. Just, Bethany, though—um…" She chuckles softly. "I'm not much of a lady."
He raises one brow, extending his hand for her to shake. "Sebastian Vael, of Starkhaven. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hawke." Sebastian pauses, eyes thoughtful, and muses, "I daresay I have heard that name before."
She takes his hand, briefly, feeling her cheeks burn at the contact. When he lets go, she sweeps her hair off her face and across her cheek, hoping to wipe away some of the embarrassment. She feels ridiculous.
"My sister goes by Hawke," she explains.
"Ah, yes." He eyes flit to the ground, as if searching for something, before they return back to her. He smiles warmly then—as bright and as vibrant as the sun on her cheeks. "She did me a favour, not long ago. As her sister, it seems I am in your debt, as much as I am in hers."
Bethany giggles, scratching her chest and looking out across the courtyard of the Chantry. A sister walks the length of the area, but other than her, the two are alone. "She won't like to hear that."
He says, "She need not know."
A small smirk. "Indeed."
He laughs then, wide smile spreading across his features, blue eyes glittering like the surface of the ocean. Once he calms, there is a silence as he looks to the sky. His face darkens briefly. "It is getting late, Lady Hawke, and I must take my leave." He looks at her directly then, pinning her beneath his gaze. "It has been a pleasure to meet you. I hope this is not the last time."
"As do I."
He inclines his head towards her, before turning to the Chantry. Bethany watches as he slips through the doors, mind racing, hearting hammering against her chest, desperate to escape. She does not know how long she stands there, staring at the closed doors, but by the time she leaves the sun is setting and is dusk descending on Kirkwall in a depressing, dull glow.
She takes the longer route to her uncle's house, counting the amount of steps, the seconds that pass. Her deliberation weighs heavily in her chest, and the silence of the town is a stark contrast to the silence that had filled the Chantry—colder, as though it is suffocating her.
One-hundred and thirty-two. One-hundred—
The sound of a boot crunching on pavement stops her, frozen solid in the empty Lowtown Bazaar. Her stomach drops, fear trickling down her spine, skin erupting in a million, tiny goosebumps. She listens carefully, waiting for it again, but there is nothing except silence—impenetrable, heavy silence.
Bethany lets out a breath that she did not realise she was holding in. It is hard to let go. Heart full, she hurries away, steps faster and more desperate to get home than before. When she finally rounds the corner, her uncle's slum stands before her like a beacon—beautiful and safe and warm.
She is almost there, until a cold hand wraps around her wrist, forcing her still.
Her world collapses. Sounds and colours fade into dullness, and she feels the Templar breathing behind her, motionless; sees the knife at her back—envisions her death as the sword slides into her stomach—
"—thany?"
She blinks. That voice is familiar.
"Hello?"
The hand on her wrist yanks, and Bethany spins around to face her older sister.
"Eden." The word is unnatural, forced from her mouth, hanging between them like a promise. The slums around Bethany ignite as she stares at her. Relief floods her body and weakens her knees. All she can say is, "What are you doing out here?" but she wants to say more. So much more.
"Meeran said I was to meet someone." Eden's grey eyes narrow, and she asks, "You? I thought you would be with mother."
"I was at…" She trails off, glancing over her shoulder. It is only Eden and herself in the area, and she breathes in deeply, attempting to calm her chaotic heart. When had she become so paranoid? "Who are you meeting?"
Eden shrugs, beginning to walk. "Unsure. Anders was busy, so I was coming to get you. I don't think there will be any trouble, but—"
Bethany smiles, falling into step beside her. "You always manage to find trouble, sister."
"One of my many talents."
Before they disappear around the corner to the Bazaar, Bethany cannot help but steal another glance back towards the slums.
And in the distance, between the shadows of lamps, she sees a flash of silver metal, and the darkened insignia of a Templar.