Bird Songs: Farewell
-II-
"So long to all my friends."
"Brother,"
"Stop calling me that," Carver bit off with a permanent scowl, bottoming out on the cheapest swill he could receive in this broken city. "I've told you, I'm not your brother." He murmurs into his drink, deluded from actual alcohol and tasted of river water. He stared down his own pint for good measure, least he'd be swallowing something else foreign – or, whatever was used to make his fill.
"I wanted to talk to you. We are family, after all. I only thought I'd speak with you first before mentioning it to the rest of the group," Sebastian merely watched his brother-in-law, patiently awaiting for complete eye contact. "I'm not familiar to Ferelden customs which involves the wife's family, I only felt this was right."
The youngest Hawke, however, was not entirely enthusiastic about meeting up with his sister's husband. It still seemed weird enough to Carver that his sister was even capable of marriage – more surprisingly that she agreed upon this man's beliefs of chastity. Carver simply knew that their father was rolling in his grave with the knowledge that Marian married someone from the Chantry; the same girl that used to carve the male anatomy into the chantry's pews whenever their mother and their sister, Bethany, would attend for morning mass, and then proceed to blame him for her early, revolutionary artwork.
Perhaps, it was by a fray of instinct that a brother would be protective of his sister; but the concept, concerning Carver and his sister is a foreign feeling, it was always his older sister who worried after him whether he liked it or not. Still, Marian was the only family he had left; his last sister. Carver looked to Sebastian as a challenge, a secret competition between men. Though, Carver would never say that out loud.
"I only presume this concerns my sister. So, what is it," Carver finally averted his attention to Sebastian, his armor clattered with his lazy movement, a glove tapping the tin of his pint impatiently. His lips thinned and pressed tight together when he watched Sebastian unravel a piece of parchment, sliding the letter across the tabletop that the two men shared. "This ought to be good."
"Please, read it," It was more of a command on Sebastian's end, but Carver decided to bite his tongue on a reply. Instead, he took the time to read whatever that was so important for his brother-in-law to drag him out in the middle of the night.
Your Highness, Sebastian Vael,
Firstly, it is with a heavy heart that we write you this: The Fall of the Chantry, the jewel of Kirkwall, will be forever mourned by your people and throughout the Free Marches. The life of the Grand Cleric, Elthina, will be celebrated for years to come; she was a visionary, an inspiration that embarked the unknown and the abstract. May the Maker find use of her services in the afterlife just as she severed him in the living; there will never be a woman quite like her.
We have kept up with you since the day you've entered the Chantry, and see you've made well on your family's name; you have achieved much, and drew in quite a few favors that may be beneficial to your cause if you would feel so inclined to retake your father's land. Though, your acquaintanceship to the man that found folly upon the good city of Kirkwall may have corrupted your run. We know that you had nothing to do with it, but your people – and those of the court – are hesitant to reaccept you. But we digress, we are sure if you plead your case they will welcome you back with no hint of civil war.
There is, however, a meaning of discussion that involves your wife, the heir of the Amell fortune, Marian Hawke. Your wife is of mage birth, an apostate at that. While to a mistress it can be overlooked – but, to a wife and possible future Princess of Starkhaven, it is questionable. The Amells are, indeed, a very old and respectable name, but their genetic line consists of no boon outside their richly based magical trait. Your cousin has no heirs to follow throne succession, and is, indeed, too old and feeble to consider such; he's merely not in the right state of mind. If you are to recapture the crown, it would be expected of you to carry out your family's name. We mean no disrespect in your choice of a wife, nor to pry in your secret affairs, but we do ask for you to reconsider what you'll expect if she is to give birth to Starkhaven's future monarchy. Having mages in line of Starkhaven succession is a little too close to Tevinter customs, this could scare members of the court. Of course, we are only speaking technically. However, if you do carry out to bring about heirs, you would be the first Vael-born to cross magic within your linage.
Prince Sebastian, we desperately ask for you to return to Starkhaven effective imminently. The current Prince Goran Vael has fallen bedridden, his exact condition is unknown to even us and we have exactly nowhere to turn besides your distant cousin, Lord Corbinian Vael. Consider this a service to your people, to your family name. We will discuss whatever arrangements that holds concerns to your wife, and we'll finally be able to clear that man's name, Anders, from yours.
Sincerely, Starkhaven Advisors
"Aw, well, at least they acknowledged my family. You know, with being bastard mages and all, dancing under the moon, cutting our wrist to satisfy any demon that crawls out of any hole. A regular Tuesday for the Hawkes," Carver plainly states, folding the message and sliding it back over to Sebastian from across the table. "Boring read, really. Never cared too much for noble squabble considering who I'm related to and all, but I don't see why you're addressing your concerns firstly to me. You're the one who married my sister, shouldn't you be discussing this with her? I'm sure she needs a good laugh."
"You're her brother. And since your father is not alive for me to ask, it would be respectable to address the next standing male figure of the wife's family. I wouldn't want to move your sister away without your permission – and your blessings," Sebastian simply said, watching the nervous curve of Carver's fingers tighten around his own pint. "I care for your sister greatly. I'll do everything within my right to respect her. That is why I've come to you. I will not be responsible for taking your sister away from you. I know – you love her, even if you're too proud to say it."
"And how very noble. Though, Gamlen would be more than happy to give you Marian," Carver huffed, slightly impressed, but more so annoyed. "I do not care. At best, if I were you, I would be addressing Merril with this bit of information. Oh, she'll be very upset with you for moving Marian away from her. Besides, the real problem would be getting my sister to agree to move away with you, away from Kirkwall."
"I do have intentions with sitting Merril down and personally telling her," Sebastian mirthlessly chuckled, already tired talking about this and with his own brother-in-law, "But I see what you mean. She is my wife, I would very much like to have her by my side if I am to have the chance to serve my people again."
"The letter talked of children," Carver let on.
"Aye, that it did," Sebastian nervously verified, not all keen with the look Carver was giving.
"Wouldn't you be breaking your vows? Again? Last time I checked, babes come from a little act called sex. And, you know, with you Chantry types, sex is a big no-no amongst the members – not that I really want to know about my sister's personal life. I swear by the Maker if you tell me anything -," Carver started with a threat, mildly disgusted with the conversation he started with concerns about Sebastian's vows.
"- No, no! Nothing of that nature, I assure you. And, yes, I know the ethics of childrearing! Not the raising, but the consequence. I can still serve the Maker by my throne, I can bring about an age of belief that has long since been lost once my cousin took the throne after the death of my family," Sebastian put his hands up defensively, noticing the strain of Carver's muscles and the tight frown the young man pulled. "My vows died along with the Grand Cleric; she was the one who pressured me in taking back my throne, she postponed my oaths as long as she could; she believed me too rational. But your sister came along – and told me to do what was right. What I felt was right. In my own selfish means, I believed that if I stayed a brother of the chant in Kirkwall, I could be around your sister longer."
"That sounds pathetic, you know?" Carver added, but then nodded his head. "Whatever, fine. If it's a blessing you want – then take it. Please, remove my sister from my hair; it'll stop her from kissing me on the cheek in front of the other Templars while I'm on duty. It's embarrassing, and gross. No, while you're at it, take Varric with you; he usually talks Marian into those kisses, and enjoys fabricating my reports. He's short enough to be dubbed a child. Claim him as your ugly love child."
"I do not think I can do that. How would I be able to explain to my people just why my son has so much more chest hair than his father?" Sebastian nervously coughed. "But, thank you. Mark my words: I'll take care of your sister. She'll make a fine Princess of Starkhaven."
Carver crossed his arms and mumbled, watching Sebastian stand up from his place. "Not if she carves dicks into the throne."
A pregnant pause settles between the two men, keeping Sebastian rooted in his place.
"What?"
-x-
"Don't cry, sweet thing, you know I'd never forget you, I'll always be thinking about you – even in my most intimate of moments -,"
"-Okay, now," Sebastian interrupted Isabela's thought, clearing his throat on that note; he didn't mind Isabela touching Hawke, he knew Hawke meant nothing by it if she would respond to Isabela in a teasing tone, but talking? That seemed to always stir something in him. He was no blushing bride, but it always gave him the feeling to tap at his thigh impatiently with a loose finger to ease his nerves.
Perhaps it was just Isabela; she knew how to make anyone feel uncomfortable with the right innuendo.
The sun hung heavy in the sky, casting over the Whispering Sea like illuminating glass; the waters were calm and deep and brilliantly blue; salt was strong on the air, leaving behind a healthy gale. The time was right, the feeling was just the same. Isabela couldn't help herself from smiling hard, something about the way she carried herself was different, too; she leaned close into Hawke's personal space, the hounding feeling of sharing her delight with someone else just seemed second nature to her. Hawke merely smiled, it was bittersweet and somber, but proud all at the same.
"I'll do my best not to sob into my pillow at night," Hawke joked, then steadied her grin, "Admiral Isabela, eh? I like it. A rank as big as your new hat."
"Fetching, isn't it? I always said the best things in life have to be big."
"So you say."
"I'll miss you, you know that, right?" It was always off for Isabela to express some sort of emotion other than lust and gluttony and greed. "You damn well better not get yourself killed out here; the world is certainly not kind to women, let alone an apostate woman that can't keep out of trouble."
"Let's not forget that most of my trouble starts with you. And I'll miss you, too, Isabela. Safe sails," Hawke grounded herself on that, straighten her posture; she wasn't as strong as many claimed she was. She had tactic, and wit, and it has served her well enough for now. "You are, and always will, be a part of my family. A sea won't separate us."
Isabela pulled a hollow-point grin on that; her fist clenched at her side, and the feeling within her chest stung greatly.
-x-
"I told you not to follow me, Hawke." There's a clank of armor that follows an exasperated sigh; Aveline crosses her arms over her chest, her heels clicking together to assert her authority amongst her fellow guardsmen. An auditable, nervous gulp can be heard from the younger guardsmen in the crowd, helping civilians evacuate the slums of Darktown. There's been Red Templar activity held up in the bowels of Darktown; for good measure, and good sources, Aveline ordered an entire scan within the depths of Kirkwall.
"Aw. So you do care about me, Aveline. And here I was beginning to think you were embarrassed to be seen with me," Hawke approaches the taller, broader woman; Aveline is not fooled by the curve of Hawke's grin, nor the kind blue in her eyes. Seven years took a lot of practice with flirtatious banter by the drunk and Hawke alike. Honey words and a silver-tongue could be cut short with a silver blade between them. With Hawke – a decent fist to the jaw, or a fine would suffice. Still, it wouldn't stop one woman from hounding the next – even while their husbands quietly chatted adjacently from them. Even while Hawke circled Aveline's step like a dog pinning for its next meal; there's an unquenchable, silent hunger in Hawke's eyes, but no one could quite grasp what she truly wanted out of life.
"About as much as I care for moving the roster around Fenris' mansion, and Varric's and Isabela's blatant, smutty literature. Oh, and let's not forget about that one night I had to carry your drunken, trouser-less, ass back home to your mother. That. Is how much I care about your company right now," Aveline never truly meant it – that was just how her sense of humor rolled. Oh, and how Hawke would smile every time Aveline would take a jab at her; her teeth clenched, and her smile seemed almost permanent, irreplaceable underneath the dim light of Darktown.
"Always the positives with you, right? I see what you're trying to say, Aveline. And trust me – I am more than appreciative, but hear me out: I'm restless. Being holed away in that estate is not entirely as glamorous as it seems, now is it? And woe to me for being locked away with nothing but a book and a bottle of port, and a stack of missives and documents cluttering my writing desk. Besides," Hawke leaned in close. Or, about as close as she could reach the much taller woman, "Sebastian is driving me up the blooming wall. The bloody man has been keeping me out of public eye for the past two weeks, he keeps preaching about the dangers of being around Red Templars; a worried hen, he is. It's always: Maker this, and Maker that, Marian! And don't feed the dog scraps from the table. And then, when he rants, it's unintelligible with that accent of his."
"Well, I don't know, Hawke. Red Templars and an apostate that can't hold her tongue doesn't sound like a delightful mix; it would be no simple dinner party." Aveline huffed, averting her attention towards her guardsmen and watching their process of coaxing poorer elves out from the filth they considered home.
Hawke's shoulder bumped against Aveline's forearm, but the taller woman barely budged; she hardly wanted to acknowledge Hawke trying to pull a rise out of her. "Dinner party, you say," Hawke inquired knowingly; the Guard Captain barely flinched, letting her own gaze linger towards Donnic. "Isabela was right, you make such a darling, scary wife. Bringing up dinner parties, and such. I don't know if I should expect a tray of freshly baked cookies, or a sword in the gut."
"Why not both?"
Hawke would then hum, amused by the silence Aveline returned her with after that comment, the end of her staff tapped against the cobblestone from underneath them, "Speaking of our dear, delinquent pirate – Aveline, I didn't see you wish her well on her journey by the harbor; I even watched her smash a bottle of wine."
"She visited me the night before, groped my husband, and then told me I would be receiving letters via nightingale. She told me, depending upon her mood and how the sea is fairing, that I could be receiving a detailed letter over her health, her crew, or crude drawings. Called her a whore on the way out, wouldn't seem natural if I didn't. She knew that, too," Hawke didn't miss the fond, rare smile that kissed Aveline's lips; she bit her own bottom lip from commenting about it.
"I'll miss her, too, Aveline. Poor Merril cried for three days," Hawke noted, leaning into her staff.
"Sure," Aveline adds, letting a befitting silence follow between the two women; they both watched the interaction between guard and civilian, watching for any signs of activity that dared screamed Templar rouges.
However, silence is chased away with a patrol of, normal enough, Templars; Carver trailing behind his own kind in a rhythmic march. Hawke watches the way Sebastian would turn his attention from Donnic towards Carver, leaving Carver to only sneer in Sebastian's wake; still, the Chantry brother kept a level smile in return and nodded his respects to his brother-in-law. That smile, coming from Sebastian, Hawke could only wager that her husband meant to be spiteful towards Carver; it was always a secret power struggle between the two of them.
-x-
"What is that?" Hawke's words tumble off quivering lips, preaching to the deaf. Her posture falters, and she stumbles forward in disbelief; Sebastian and Carver remains rooted in their place, bewildered to the steady thump of a pair of armored boots click off cobblestone and a large, heavy limb dragging across the surface; it followed the chaos.
Civilians scatter and run adjacently from the Horror that emerged from behind a curved building; red blinds Hawke. The smell of blood and festering fear daunts her. The monster that levels her is slow to movements, but the rebel Templars that parade next to the glowing beast firstly charges Hawke and her companions.
Brandished with silver blade and veins that protruded red, they try to cut Hawke's defensives; Carver is the first to push against Hawke's side, knocking the clatter of blade to her side. Her brother's height towers over her, his teeth grit under the pressure of unnatural, inhuman strength that meets him and stresses against his blade; he knocks the foreign blade back, like steel meeting the grindstone, sparks illuminate across afternoon air.
"Maker damn you," Carver bites out, and it steers Hawke to find her own mind within the calamity.
"Carver!" Hawke's voice is raw, "Fall back! There's too many of them and not enough of us!" She can feel the open exposer of lyrium dampen her magic, the lost seemed almost painful. The tips of her fingers ached, and she staggers back to the Horror's counterpart; garnished in twin blades, the movements are brutal, unnerving, and vengeful; a mass of lumps erects from the man-made-creature's back, and with a flick of its wrist, lyrium spits from its palm.
The Horror with the protruding growth staggers by the force of an arrow; the monster barely has a moment to curl its fingers in agony when another arrow strikes its frontal lobe. The tip of the arrow pulls rotting brain fragments, twined around the threads of consuming red lyrium; when the Horror hits the stone, the growth on its back shatters on impact, scattering pieces of red lyrium across the ground.
"Hawke, now is not the time for statistics! Stop that thing from coming closer," Sebastian calls, fingers already quick to pull an arrow from his quiver and strum it against his bow; he falls back behind Carver's stance, playing defense.
An almighty sound of a harmonized gurgle startles Hawke, and it triggers her to run in front of Carver and Sebastian, boots skidding off broken stone and gravel, she holds her ready position. The giant horror moves slowly, prowling and pulling behind the burden of a heavy limb closer and closer; its sight is locked on Hawke; the sight of the creature quietly mortifies Hawke.
Staff in hand, Hawke's arms spread wide out, leaving a trail of ice that divides the two. Behind the barrier she can still see the creature hunting her. With all her might, both of her arms struggle to push heavenward, splitting her ice higher, formulating a stronger bond between her and the Fade to create her solid structure of wall. The sound is sharp like crackling and chipping glass; the ice glitters under the heavy sun. She can hear her father's voice ring in her ears, cheering, 'hold that wall, pup! And never let it fall! '
The Horror dawned closer, slowly heaving its massive appendage and slamming it against Hawke's ice barrier; her fingers curled, and she repeated the process again, pushing the ice to form closer, to emerge as one solid structure. Sweat drips from her brow; she feels her earth shake from under her boots with every hollow hit.
"We have to do something!" Carver yelled over the battle, pulling his longsword from the ribcage of one rebel Templar; he feels kinship amongst these men, but the betrayal is too deep and distant to clearly distract him. "That thing is going to break through!"
"Not much you can do with your back pressed against a wall! Marian, how are you holding?" Sebastian tries to level his voice, he tries to steady his own heartrate with even, shallow breaths; hurried, and sharp, he focuses on a straggler that made it across Hawke's wall; a lengthy, rouge-type.
"A little – busy?" Hawke chokes out, watching her wall slowly crumble with each gnawing slam; the damn thing wouldn't give her a break; she found the repetition was going to be the death of her – the death of her family. "Do bloody something!"
There's a crack in her wall, and a pregnant pause settles amongst the three; doe-eyed, they stare over the horizon of the ice wall, rolling frost coming off like tendrils. Hawke takes one step back from her wall, the rest of her muscles freeze.
The wall shatters, and the Horror charges in her crosshairs. She can only gasp in surprise when her back hits the ground hard, grunting out on impact, shards of ice puncturing skin; she's numb to the sensation, holding both of her arms up to blockade the ice shards from pelting her face.
"Move, move!" Hawke yells at both men, fumbling to turn around and find her own footing; she skids, but quickly jerks herself up to proper height, sprinting to give herself better range. Sebastian and Carver jolt from their ready positions, following Hawke's command; the Horror crashed through several stalls, its limb crushing anything that blocked it from Hawke.
Hawke's flesh burns, her fist clenches, and her magic dispels from her pours, licking up her arm like lapping waters. With a turn, she steadies her aim and throws her hand out, conjuring her fury into a smoldering, suffocating blaze. The Horror stumbles back with the strike, but absorbs the assault; Hawke's armor clacks and clanks, carrying her weight through narrow allies, disturbing stilled puddles of water and waste.
Aveline stands guard; wide, disbelieving eyes capture the disarray of broken establishment and the hurry of Hawke, Carver, and Sebastian drawing in her direction. Her boots click together, and she rallies whatever guards that can hear her hardened order over a demonic roar. This monster – is unnatural; its limbs held alight to the red lyrium. It picks up its pace, throwing a final blow down that had Carver in his range – only to have Hawke push her brother out of shot, taking the entire weight of a slammed limb.
"Hawke!" Aveline's voice echoes across the flat of cobblestone and it's almost frantic, hurrying her men and women along to take down the red lyrium beast.
To Hawke, everything went dark. Oddly, it seemed almost peaceful.
-x-
Sebastian's fingers curl over the rim of Marian's bath. With knees pressed against the floorboards, he rests his head against the edge of the tub, feeling water droplets drip against his temple as Marian's fingers brushed through his auburn hair. Softly, she would remind him that all was well, all was right; she wasn't going anywhere for the moment. It's moments like these, moments of being overwhelmed, does he remember that he could have lost everything again for the third time around.
"How are you holding, love," Sebastian softly inquires, lifting his gaze to catch hers; Marian only sunk deeper into the waters of her tub, an auditable sigh parts her lips.
"Honestly, it hurts to breathe. Nothing a little whiskey won't fix, mind you," there's a wince, but Hawke keeps her steady grin. The pain is dreadful, every movement Hawke made only made it sharp on her ribs. With her free hand, she moves her fingers across her breast and ribs in hopes of subsiding the ache. "And only so much magic can mend."
"Then, time, love. Time will mend all wounds. I've told you: Aveline's guard can hold their own, she's made them formidable enough," Hawke's fingers recoil with Sebastian's worry, and she frowns. "Marian, this is ridiculous. These Templars pour in without restraint, without warning. Their paranoia is getting to them."
"Carver says -,"
"Carver can't sway all; your brother's voice may hold little importance to men that run on lyrium. Red lyrium! They threaten tranquility! And I – can't risk that. I refuse to let them take a part of you like that," Sebastian's forehead presses to the cool rim of Hawke's tub, refusing to meet her level gaze. For a second, he wishes that she would argue back, but she waits for him to speak, to finish. "I received word from Starkhaven, and they wish for me to return in the name of my family."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"Just as I said: to return. I've spoken to Carver, I asked after his permission and he sent me with his blessings. I plan to take you with me. Away from Kirkwall. Away from Templar paranoia," With courage, Sebastian finally levels his gaze, and leans against the side of the tub, pushing back strands of Hawke's dark, heavy hair; his thumb evenly tracing the hollow of her face, brushing across the edge of her cheekbone. "You'll be so much safer."
"I can hold my own, Sebastian," Hawke would have budged from her tub, away from Sebastian if she could; the bruising of her ribs prevented her to jolt from the very waters she dwelled in. "I can't abandon Kirkwall, Kirkwall's people, or my mother's estate! I've worked too hard –"
"- I will not deny you the right to your mother's childhood home. I could never imagine doing so. Keep the estate, own it as long as you like, but come with me. Just for now."
Hawke's lips thinned, and she blankly stares up at Sebastian. 'It may be time to get up and move, Hawke. This Seeker, whatever she claims, may end up killing you one day,' Varric's words ring in her head. Spiteful, however, she wants to shake her head.
She's found lifted from the waters of her bathtub, pressed against a cloth shirt and chest and a troubled breath; Hawke's fingers twitch in surprise, digging against Sebastian's side. She finds fear in the way that he holds her as he presses his face against the curve of her neck.
She doesn't remember nodding her head in absent approval, or agreeing that this was for the best.
