Chapter 8, part 1
It had been a week, and Sebastian had quickly settled into a routine in the chantry. Some of the tasks had been asked of him by the high cleric, others he had simply taken on upon himself, and though they were mostly undemanding, they filled his day from sunrise to sunset.
He rose slowly, the barest gleam of sunlight marking the start of his day. After a brief wash in cold water, he set about putting on his armour. Habit, and an unfortunate encounter out in the streets whilst out on his own had kept him in his white and gold plate, rather than the more traditional robes of the chantry. The incident, where a low-life had taken it into his head to demand money from the archer, had seen a single loosed arrow, shot just a fraction over the offending ruffian's head and had promptly settled the matter. Still, it marked the mood of Kirkwall; on edge, and just a little too dangerous to be wandering around without protection.
Dressed, Sebastian set out for the main alter, and before anyone else came to pray, and used his dagger to remove the dribbled and pooled wax from the layered surfaces. It sometimes took an age to carefully chip away the thick layer that built up day after day without taking the gold leaf paintwork with it, but this time the wax came away easily. He did however, apply the tip of his blade to pick out any pieces of brunt wick or ash, and gather the chunks of wax in a basket. This, he deposited by sister Denra's quarters, who would melt it down to make fresh candles when she woke as part of her daily chores.
Alter refreshed and renewed, he began his morning prayers, lighting the first candle to focus his attentions. Sebastian found he quite liked to be the first one there, the great hall more peaceful when it was just himself and his thoughts and thanks to the Maker, his single flame burning bright.
By the time patrons of the chantry had started to filter through the great doors, Sebastian was usually nearing the end of his prayers. He had listened, once or twice as he walked past, and been surprised to hear Hawke feature in the occasional prayer of the city folk, both as part of the list of things they were thankful for, and the people they asked the Maker to watch and guide. That day was no exception, and he heard an elderly gent mention Hawke in tones of great reverence.
Sebastian and Hawke had conducted a conversation on the subject of the Maker, and it had been rather short. "The Maker," Hawke had declared, "can kiss my hairy ass. Damned deity never did a thing for me, and the chant of light bores me to tears." Hawke had then drank some of the hanged man's questionable as-yet unidentified spirit, raising the nearly clean glass to Sebastian in a mock toast, and fixing the prince with a hard glare that pronounced the discussion over.
Sebastian smiled to himself at the gent's words, decided that the irony might be lost on Hawke and so would not share this particular piece of information. His smile continued as he moved on into the kitchen, already started to come to life in a cacophony of clattering pots and pans.
The freed slaves had established their own routine, and were well settled inside the walls of the chantry, but Sebastian liked to go and check in on them. It pleased him to ensure that they were in good health and good spirits. He found two of the older ladies, who had been brought along by the slavers not for any skills they might possess, but to keep the others in check, making a thin stew and flat bread. Their hands were slow, and curled into tight fists, but they were cheerful, and chatted incessantly to the archer. After the usual greetings and well wishes had been given, one of the ladies beckoned Sebastian aside, making a show of washing some lentils to mask her words, her time in captivity making her overly nervous and fearful. She mentioned one of the younger girls, who had found work in the town, had been seeming a little down of late, and asked if Sebastian would not mind paying a call upon her employer. With a nod, Sebastian promised he'd look into it, catching the hint of something possibly sinister afoot, more than just an old woman's paranoia.
Then, after having to pry the hands of a different lady from his arm, where she seemed keen to keep it all day if permitted, Sebastian checked in on the preparations to get the small mass of ex-slaves to their rightful home. They'd pooled their money, spending only what they had to on food (which they shared with the chantry brothers and sisters as payment for the roof over their heads, and the safety of the chantry), and had managed to barter passage on a ship leaving for their homelands at the end of the week. They'd worked hard, and had the coin to pay for their travel and provisions, and Sebastian would be sorry to see them go, their foreign songs and tales, and good natures had been a source of joy, and he was glad to spend time with them.
It might have helped that they all knew him to be partly responsible for their rescue from the slavers, and so always had smiles and compliments ready for him, but all the same, they were good people, and Sebastian was pleased to see the excitement at the prospect of returning home built as the day of their departure drew near.
By then the stew was finished, and he took a small helping, as well as two extra bowls. Sebastian had taken it upon himself to save two portions of lunch for the tranquil stall holders who manned the magical wares just outside the gallows. Whether Meredith was working their Templar keepers so hard that they simply sometimes forgot to ensure that their charges received regular meals, or if there was something more malicious at work, Sebastian could not tell. And it was no longer his place to investigate, especially since the Templars were the warriors of the chantry, to question them would be akin to questioning the high cleric.
Anyway, there were people like Hawke to challenge and fight for the wrongs of the world. His place, was to trust in the Maker, and that all His servants were loyal and true. Sebastian might have alerted Hawke to the problem, but knew that should Hawke get involved, no doubt there would be accusations, and Anders whingeing about Templars, and Fenris huffing about mages, and Aveline demanding city guards be allowed jurisdiction inside the chantry and gallows, and a whole lot of commotion besides that would not serve to do anything but disrupt the delicate peace of the chantry. No, much simpler was to bring the tranquil their share of the meal, and say nothing of Templars. Elthina had more important things to worry about.
Sebastian placed the bowls down, and collected the empty one from yesterday, but left quickly, before the tranquil could speak to him in those eerie, dead voices.
After lunch he collected his bow and arrows and heading into the city, intend on checking in on the freed slave girl. It had been he had feared, and he came into the tailor's to a terrible amount of shouting. He had coughed politely in the doorway, and pointed out that language such as 'slaver-slut' was not entirely appropriate. It had been secretly gratifying to see the man turn round and blanch as he took in Sebastian in his full plate, with one hand curled around his bow, the other tapping an arrow thoughtfully against his thigh. The man mumbled an apology, and Sebastian had suggested that the girl had done some fine work, and wasn't she perhaps due a day off, with a full day's pay.
He escorted the girl back to the chantry, fending off her over-the-top advances with as much patience as he was able. Someone had let slip about his royal heritage, and it seemed the girl was willing to try and make a princess out of herself. She was attractive, Sebastian supposed, but young, and spoke in soft simpering tones, changing her opinion every second sentence to suit his.
Gently, he wished her good day, and made for the safety of his own chamber.
There, he removed his bracers, and greaves and breastplate, then took himself to the courtyard, where he used the water pump to refresh the greenery there. Every day he'd worked the garden, and the hard labour of fetching water felt good, his strength more than that of the regular chantry brothers and sisters, and the Templar much too busy to tend to mere plants. His armour though, he'd found too cumbersome, and the pail of water did not put up much of a fight to need the heavy protective metal.
It was nice, Sebastian reflected, to have the time and the space to be something than an armoured archer, and the plants did not care about his bloodlines. He liked the courtyard, it held a peace that seemed to be lacking throughout the rest of Kirkwall. He knew though, that he dared not linger, for there, as his eyes passed over the section where he'd first made a move to pursue Fenris, and there, where the two of them had knelt together, and there, where he'd held the elf as he reached climax, he felt his peace dissipate, only to be left with a stale, cold taste in his mouth. He got up hurriedly and moved onto his next job of the day.
Taking a scrubbing brush to the tiles of the washroom was perhaps not the most dignified task for a prince of Starkhaven, but the act of dipping rough brush into cold water, and scouring it across the surfaces and floor kept his mind from things Sebastian did not wish to think about. Cleansing, in more ways than one, Sebastian did more than his fair share of cleaning the kitchens, washrooms and mass of dirtied dishes left over from mealtimes.
It was Sister Dalphine, an older member who had been at the chantry for years, who reminded him to take his own evening meal, as she had done yesterday and the day before. She made a quiet compliment of how clean the place was, and wondered alone if Sebastian was not working himself too hard. He flashed his winning smile, the one that could disarm the most intense scrutiny, and said that he was pleased to help where he could.
The evening meal, again made by the freed slaves, the kitchens too cramped to have the usual chantry brothers and sisters working to prepare and cook the food as well, had some meat in it. Stringy, and lean, but meat all the same, and Sebastian relished the flavour. Wine, watered down so much it bordered on dangerous without the alcohol content to kill off the sicknesses that could lurk in the liquid, accompanied the meal. A jug was passed round, to fill the simple clay mugs, and Sebastian was glad it was not from a glass bottle, for that would only remind him of real wine… and Fenris.
He did not stay to chat with his brother and sisters, instead saying he would use the daylight before it dimmed.
Not everyone could read or write, and so Sebastian had started to frequent the chantry notice board. Sometimes he had to take a candle, to better see the scrawled pleas and messages, but today there was light enough to read.
Twice he'd taken down what he could only assume was a poor jest by Isabella, requesting services of an urgent and intimate nature, involving a pair of manacles, two training swords and a flask of ginger wine, signed 'Aveline'. The language used would make the guard captain furious, and Isabella likely end up in a cell, so Sebastian had quietly removed the notes, and said no more about the matter. He'd also had to remove a copy of Anders's manifesto, and after trying valiantly to read the disjoined arguments and goals of the mage, had been forced to crumple the pages and place them in one of the braziers to be lit and burned come nightfall.
Lastly, he looked for requests that seemed dangerous, or at the very least, risky. These he saved back for Hawke, being the only man he knew who could safely tackle such tasks, but so far Sebastian had not yet gathered the courage to go and visit the champion of Kirkwall to deliver the notes.
Being able to read and write had others uses, and at Elthina's request, he spent his evenings when not assisting with her sermons, distributing the chant of light. He made his way to the chambers where the chantry's copy of the chant was stored, and by candlelight, great sheets of parchment were meticulously filled with the chant, painstakingly copied word for word.
He'd been at the chantry a week, and every evening had been spend with quill in hand, still only managed to halfway finish a copy. The paper and words were too precious to mar by carelessness, so when he felt his eyes droop and attention wander he forced himself to put aside the ink and pen, and head towards his chambers and waiting cot.
By time the sun set, Sebastian was tired, a weariness to his bones. He accomplished much in his time in the chantry, and ought to have been filled with satisfaction at his good work. Despite this, and though he was loathe to admit it, he was bored out of his mind.
The next day, after dealing with candles and little excitable old ladies, Sebastian found Varric waiting for him, as he took the tranquil their lunches. He found it hard not to burst into a wide grin at the sight of the dwarf, who was nodding in approval as the prince set down the bowls by the stall. Sebastian left the tranquil to their meals, and walked over, fighting to keep his steps formal and unhurried.
"Varric, it is good to see you."
"I'll bet it is." The dwarf had a knowing curl to his lips, and he leant himself against the wall, not even trying to stand tall as Sebastian towered over him. "So, Choir Boy. How are you?"
"I am well." Sebastian took too long in answering, he knew, but he had to check himself before admitting that he was bored, and lonely. Varric could be like the finest Antivan brandy, something in his easy-going manner encouraging loose tongues and free speech. It was a fine gift for a storyteller, but dangerous for those who did not want their personal feelings known.
Varric tipped his chin, as if urging Sebastian for a more honest answer, and when Sebastian said no more, tsk'd to himself.
"Hawke says you've chickened out from the rough and tumble of following him to all ends. Now, I said that to be a piece of nonsense, that Choir Boy's no coward, but here you are, hiding away behind solid chantry walls and letting your bowstring grow loose. What gives?"
The tone, and the lack of small talk from the dwarf, alerted to Sebastian that Varric had a goal in mind in meeting with him. Though he doubted that the dwarf would mean him any harm, he was made wary of the intention behind the seemingly causal encounter, and made note to watch his own words carefully.
"I decided to take my pledge to the service of the Maker more seriously…." Sebastian was not sure what Hawke had told Varric, but could be certain that Varric knew more than he was letting on. That he knew Sebastian's habit at lunchtimes more than attested to that.
"So I see. Prayer and duty and such, all fine and well. Still, you could come round to the Hanged Man, or pepper the odd blood mage with your arrows from time to time surely?"
"I… no. My place is here." It was tempting, that he might venture out every now and again to break up the monotony of chantry existence, and that if he was honest, he'd face another high dragon just for a chance to get out beyond the painful quietness of the walls and tombs of the chantry. Then there was the chance that if he were to join Hawke on one of his missions, or even for just a simple chat at the hanged man, that Fenris might be there… and that was an altogether different temptation, and much harder to resist. No, much easier, to avoid all possible contact with the elf, for both their sakes.
Varric's eyes turned stern, and he crossed his arms. "Cowardice does not suit you."
Sebastian tried not to let the words sting him, but Varric was sharp, and too accurate in his observations. Instead he gave a weak shrug, as if the movement might dislodge the barded comment.
Sebastian coughed, and straightened his already level chest plate, the armour useless against Varric's cutting remark.
"I have some chantry board messages for Hawke. If you would be so kind as to wait while I fetch them…." He knew the change in topic was obvious, but was not prepared to try and defend himself against Varric's statement. Not when he knew he was taking the easy route, and that he might well had earned the title of 'coward'.
"I've better things to do, to be honest." Varric's tone was carefully flippant, " You ought to drop by the Hanged Man tonight, and deliver them yourself. Might be nice for you to catch up with everyone. I know a certain white-haired someone who has been missing your company for sure." Sebastian could particularly taste the bait Varric was dangling, and steeled himself against asking after Fenris, though in truth he desperately wanted to know how the elf fared.
When Sebastian made no reply, Varric turned and made a show of musing to himself. "Not that it's my place to say, but you should know that Rivaini's been sniffing about Broody, you know what she can be like…."
When that too, failed to get a rise from the archer, Varric let his hands fall to his sides, and he looked at Sebastian, eyes serious and just a little sad. Strange to see, on a face normally so jovial. It alarmed Sebastian, and he almost didn't ask. Curiosity, and concern, got the better of him;
"Varric, what is it…?"
"He… is not doing so well…" Varric confessed, seemingly genuinely worried about Fenris. Sebastian flinched from the words, and the jolt must have jarred his ribs, because he suddenly felt his chest tighten. He rubbed his side, willing the ache from his wounds, which still flared up from time to time, to subside. Most often the pains occurred in the courtyard, after he'd overexerted himself carrying pails of water to and fro, but lately they'd been troubling him more and more.
"Twice now, Hawke has gone round to call Fenris out to go kill some mages or slavers, and Broody hasn't even opened the door." Varric continued, after watching Sebastian's attempts to ease the pain. "Serah champion is not best impressed. Broody isn't explaining himself, and so tensions are high in our little mis-mash group.
"And don't you bother trying to claim innocence over the whole thing either, because it won't work on me. The timing is too much coincidence for it not to have something to do with your 'grand calling', and while I'd wish you all the best in your pious new life, you've left a bit of a mess behind. Whatever-it-is between you and the elf, things got a bit awkward, didn't they? But that's not to say you can't fix it. It'll be tricky, Broods is hiding in his mansion, and you're playing at being a good little Choir Boy, when what you two really want is to get yourselves a room and thrash out whatever is the problem. Tricky, but so is fighting a high dragon."
His face gave away nothing, and Sebastian kept his voice steady as he answered, "I believe Fenris and I can handle our own problems… without your 'advice'."
There was a pause, then Varric said: "You might be able to… but with him I'm not so sure…" The sadness in Varric's voice made Sebastian uncomfortable, and he swore he could feel the wound in his side flare up with a sudden pang of pain.
When the archer made no move to say any more on the subject, nor take himself with all haste to Fenris's mansion, Varric gave a firm shake of his head. "Listen, I can't make you do anything, but… just don't take too long in getting it sorted, all right? I was serious about Isabella. She's smelt the blood in the water, and the woman is more like a shark than pirate when it comes to catching people when they are vulnerable and alone. She's had her eye on the elf from the start."
The pain in Sebastian's side seemed to intensify, and he pressed a hand to it, the discomfort almost matching the unease that Varric's words conjured in him. Varric must have caught the wince, because his face softened and he stopped looking quite so… disappointed.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" Varric stated, and Sebastian almost scowled in response, his teeth tight against each other in an attempt to block out the pain.
"You know… when you get hit by an arrow, a proper hit, almost all the way through, you've got to push the shaft forwards before you can mend the wound." Varric's voice had taken on the lulling tones he used when telling a story, or recounting an adventure and Sebastian was puzzled as to the dwarf's point in speaking about arrows when his injured side was the result of daggers and dragons. "Hurts like hell, and takes fair guts to do it yourself, but there is no other way. Less painful in the long run to deal it soon as you are able, rather than let it fester and rot. Usually, if you act quick enough, the arm, or leg, or whatever-it-is can be saved."
While listening to Varric and rubbing his side, Sebastian realised his hand had strayed to just over his heart, and he removed it hastily. Varric's eyes gleamed with a knowing twinkle, and he pushed off against the wall, brushing himself off. He took in Sebastian's bunched eyebrows, and grinned.
"Anyway, I've surely taken enough of your time."
He turned to go, and Sebastian followed, resisting the urge to turn the dwarf round and demand he stop being cryptic and so sodding snide about it.
"Wait. What as this" The prince gestured to his side, "to do with Fenris? Or arrows. Or you, for matter of fact?"
"Not much to do with me, I'm just a casual observer. But you, you're an archer, Choir Boy, even if you are pretending to be a dull little disciple to the moment. Surely you can recognise cupid's handiwork?"
Sebastian froze, and had a brief notion to punch the dwarf in the face in an entirely un-princely or pious manner. That he might have such passing violent thoughts was alarming in itself, but to have Varric as the target, when he knew the dwarf to be a strong ally and better friend….
Sebastian had tolerate numerous japes and jest from Varric, along with Isabella, Hawke and even Anders pitching in, but never before had he come so close to losing his temper and temperament. There was something about the idea of himself being smitten that he did not want to hear, however ludicrous the concept. He was Sebastian, the rogue prince, too well practiced in the ways of courtship and desire to fall foul of love.
He would think the matter over, in the privacy of his own chambers, and meanwhile correct the dwarf's mistaken assumption.
"You've missed your mark Varric." His face hardened, voice pitched low, Sebastian strove to give every impression that the dwarf was in error.
Varric gave a good natured shrug in response, then, with a raised eyebrow that told Sebastian he had not managed to convince the dwarf against his observation, he lent in towards Sebastian.
"Maybe. But I tell you, it's been a long while since my aim was ever off." On seeing Sebastian remain impassive, Varric raised a single hand in a gesture of farewell, "See you Choir Boy, I'll tell Hawke to expect you at the Hanged Man sometime soon." Then with more than a slight swagger to his step, Varric turned on his heel and walked away.
As he watched the figure become distant, leaving his emotions in turmoil and a persistent nagging ache in his ribs, Sebastian reflected that perhaps there were worse things than being bored.
By the time it came for Sebastian to sleep, he had decided upon why Varric had caused so disruption to his day.
He wasn't in love, no, not him. Rather, he couldn't fall in love, his vows to the Maker and chantry preventing it. Though he had known and accepted this when he took his oaths, it was still a bitter pill to swallow. Some residual resentment at having to give his heart wholly to the Maker, and not to partake in any mortal affection, had surfaced, the dwarf inadvertently happening upon it while making his assumptions about Sebastian's relationship with Fenris, and it was this that had caused his fist to clench.
Varric could not have known, and so Sebastian had asked the Maker to forgive the dwarf, and pledged when next he saw the storyteller, he'd set him straight, rather than let him continue to believe that Sebastian was afflicted by love.
Love. He'd heard the word often enough, but Sebastian thought himself too wise and to crafty to let himself be lulled by the sentiment. To be in love was to allow someone too close, to open yourself up for attack. He'd vowed long ago, when his father had taken him and his brothers aside and explained the dangers, that he'd not allow himself such folly.
Love could unmake a king, dull his wits and muddle his thinking, and his father had been most adamant that while fraternising and flirting were tolerable, declaring love for another was completely unacceptable. Kings, like chantry brothers, could not love, such things disrupted arranged marriages, and gave your enemies too tempting a target. Better then, to let the peasants and bards have their love, and for the Starkhaven princes stay as strong as a king ought to be.
Hard lessons, but Sebastian had learnt them well, and had seen the truth of his father's words, in the tears of those who had professed to love him when he did not return their feelings. Each drop of saltwater had strengthened his resolve not to fall into the same trap himself. And he was rather good at spotting traps.
Which made it all more reasonable to brush off Varric's words as a storyteller's fancy, and that while the dwarf was usually sharp as an arrow point, in this he was mistaken.
Sebastian had not gone to Hanged Man, his self-reflection having taken up most of his day. Probably just as well, he reasoned. Having heard that Fenris 'wasn't doing too well', he'd have had to keep himself from staring at the elf, watching for signs of distress or unhappiness, and that would have only given the dwarf more cause to assume that the prince had more care for Fenris than he would for just a close friend.
Then, there was the worry of what he would see, should he look upon Fenris. Would he see the elf broken, his trust and faith in others shattered like a wine bottle thrown at a wall? Sebastian shook his head, even though there was no-one else to see save himself and the Maker. No, Fenris was too strong to let himself suffer so. He would return to his usual stoic and proud ways, and be out killing slavers with Hawke again in no time.
Mayhap he'd even find happiness with Isabella. By all accounts the woman was skilled at the pleasurable arts, and Fenris deserved at least to have a bedpartner who would, -who could- touch him.
As he tried to calm his mind with thoughts of how much happier Fenris would be with someone else, he was aware of a growing of unease. There was that ache again, burning cold under his skin, and Sebastian frowned. The salve Anders had supplied did little for the pain, and that the injury still caused him discomfort was just a little concerning. It had shifted from the usual sting of mending flesh, spreading to tightness in his chest, accompanied by feeling of nausea, and a sense of something hard and cold in his gut.
And it was getting worse.
More frequent attacks, and more distracting, it was starting to look like something serious, that he might have to take a trip down to Darktown and see Anders about. Sebastian touched his fingertips to the site of his injuries, only to find that though sensitive, the scar tissue was not tender, nor painful.
This time, he'd not moved his body so as to aggravate the wound, and he wondered at the cause.
No doubt Varric could call it lovesickness, or some other such romantic nonsense, and true, thinking of Fenris did seem to make the discomfort heighten. However, Sebastian had yet to hear a poem or story that described churning nausea or the feeling that one had just had a darkspawn jump out suddenly, in relation to thinking about the object of ones affections.
More likely to be unspent desire, manifesting into physical discomfort. Hardly fair, though Sebastian, as he strove to walk forwards into the Maker's light, that his own body and mind were contriving to hold him back.
For sake of trying to devote himself to the Maker, Sebastian decided he would have to suffer the pain, and hope that in time it eased. He'd pray more, and work harder, and distract himself from thoughts of Fenris and the sinful acts they'd committed together.
After all, before he and Fenris had come into their arrangement, he'd managed to curb his sexual lustings. With prayer and the maker's strength, he was sure he could achieve the same feat once more.
The next few days saw Sebastian applying himself as never before. He feverishly worked to finalise the arrangements for the freed slaves, and after long hours that left his eyes stinging from straining to see by candlelight, he had finished his copy of the chant of light. Elthina herself had praised his neat script, and had rolled the parchment into a roll of leather, ready for a passing missionary to take to spread the chant to small cities and villages. When Sebastian mentioned that the freed peoples were returning home, to a land distant, Elthina gave a nod, and she had asked the freed slaves if they would wish to take Sebastian's copy of the chant with them. They accepted readily, and promised that they would tell their homeland of the good work of the chantry and the Maker, and a man called Hawke.
When it came time for them to depart, Elthina and Sebastian went to the docks to wave them off. Sebastian had tried to get Elthina to remain behind, but the freed slaves had become too much a part of the chantry for her to not to want to bless their ship and wish them a safe and swift journey home. He brought his bow, but had found that when he went to string it, the bowstring had indeed become slack. Through disuse, and the careful stretch and release of regular bow practice, it was hardly surprising, and Sebastian cursed himself for letting his grandfather's prized bow be neglected so. It had only taken a moment to fix the problem, but as his fingers worked to shorten the length of string, Sebastian was reminded of Varric, and the various comments of the astute dwarf. He'd not missed his target in knowing Sebastian's bowstring would grow loose, and a small creeping doubt wondered if Sebastian had been too hasty to dismiss the rest of Varric's comments as mere unfounded speculation.
He would have stopped, and given proper contemplation to this notion, but the ship was loading, and there was not the time to pause for deliberation. Bow restrung and armoured, Sebastian left his chambers, and met with the high cleric to escort her down with the freed slaves to their waiting voyage home.
In the end, Sebastian was grateful that Elthina had come to the docks, as the ship's captain tried to at the last moment charge more coin from the freed slaves, but upon seeing the high cleric herself watching the proceedings, swallowed thickly and retracted his claims that the journey would be more expensive than previously quoted.
Once the ship had sailed, to cheers and waves and only a few puzzled dockhands at what all the commotion was about, Sebastian had guided Elthina back through the streets. He was distressed at her slow speed in traversing the more unsavoury parts of Kirkwall, and the amount of time she would spend talking with passing people, while out in the open and not aware of the danger.
As they walked at Elthina's maddening pace, Sebastian did not talk, too busy was he keeping his eyes out for the gangs of roving bandits that plagued the area. Only when they'd reached the steps of the chantry, did he allow himself to relax, and had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised that nothing had happened. When with Hawke, he remembered not being able to round a single corner or cross an alleyway without an ambush of blood mages, or carta, or other such rabble of thugs. As if the man attracted the trouble, same as he collected admirers and allies.
Elthina looked upon her armoured escort, and gave a soft smile, and patted him gently on the arm. "I am wearied, I believe I shall take a short nap. Thank you for your assistance." Elthina's voice did seem tired, and the number of steps between the docks and chantry not inconsiderable. Sebastian gave a polite nod, then went to water the gardens.
He checked the soil, and found it neither too dry, not too damp, and so only a single pail of water was needed. Even then, the air was growing colder as autumn swept over the city, and more than a couple of the plants had started to die off. Leaves wilted, and dried out, and there were no more flowers. A little unhappy that no matter how hard he'd worked to keep the garden alive, winter would eventually claim it, Sebastian started to pluck the dead leaves, and cut back any bare branches to keep the garden looking as fresh and green as possible. That finished, Sebastian found himself clenching and unclenching his hands, lost for something to do, and decided that he'd sooth his aggravated mind with some cleaning chores.
Now the freed slaves were on their way home, the washrooms and kitchens needed less scrubbing, now that the sheer volume of muddy boots traipsing over the stone tiles had reduced. It took half the time to wash away the dust and dirt, and even then, Sebastian had still scrubbed hard enough that his wrists ached afterwards, and even the corners and doorframes were spotless.
There was no room in the kitchens for him, the chantry sisters having already reclaimed the workload and a large pot of soup bubbling over the firepit.
After an unsuccessful attempt to clear the wax while the candles were still burning, which had resulted in hot wax spilling across his hand and making him clench his teeth against a particularly blasphemous curse, Sebastian walked back to his chambers.
The pile of chantry notices lay on the small table, that he used as a desk when the need arose. He flicked through the papers, thoughtfully wondering if he dared go to the Hanged Man to drop them off.
Certainly, he had time enough, and he had done the Maker's good work that day, and it did not seem unreasonable to allow himself a brief visit to his friends. He tapped a slender finger against his chin, and knew no matter what reasons and rationales he supplied, what he both wanted and feared, was to see Fenris. To have confirmation that the elf was as strong as he hoped, to see his face again, to see his smile.
Sebastian's hand stilled as he went to collect the papers, and he let it drop to his side. If he did see Fenris, and if the warrior did happen to let his humour touch his face, the elf's smile would not be for him. Not after what he had done.
The thought was deeply depressing, and Sebastian spent the next hour on his knees before the altar, in prayer, and when that did not ease the frown from his face, nor the twinge in his ribs, he moved on and scrubbed the courtyard stones, till they looked like they had been newly laid.
He paid particular attention to the section of wall which once upon a time, had glistened with Fenris's seed, even though the rain and wind had long since washed any evidence away. The memory though, lingered, and no matter what Sebastian tasked himself with, it seemed he could not scour the recollection nor the way it had made him feel so alive from his mind. Instead, after hours scrubbing and sweeping and rinsing, he went to bed, his steps heavy and feeling dead inside.
Days passed, and soon Sebastian found himself underfoot and in the way more than he was helping. There was less work to be done, and although the stairs had never been so clean, the constant dripping water was hazardous for those wishing to use the steps and gain entry to the higher levels.
Likewise, the kitchen staff had run out of things to send for, and had politely pointed out the lack of room in the kitchens, and that Sebastian proved more a hindrance if he stood in the doorways, waiting for grocery lists that he'd long since collected and delivered.
He'd tried to use his ample spare time to practice his bowmanship in the courtyard, till Elthina had mentioned that he was scaring off the more timid patrons to the chantry, given the fate that had befallen sister Petrice.
He did not spend time in his quarters, the pile of notes, growing with each message removed from the chantry board, mocking his trepidation to go and witness the mess he'd made with Fenris.
The notes should be delivered to Hawke, but he was too much fearful of the reception he would receive if he were to visit the Hanged Man, so instead he left them upon the table, and only returned to his chambers to sleep in increasingly restless bouts.
Finally, after pacing in front of his door for the better part of the morning, Sebastian went to the garden courtyard for solace. He found Elthina there, looking over one of the more fragile bushes that were suffering now that summer had passed.
"Ah Sebastian, how much quieter it is without our guests… I hope they hasten home, before winter starts to make itself known."
"Myself as well."
Elthina peered at the prince, then beckoned him over to sit with her. "Sebastian, I fear you find yourself at a loose end, now that the freemen have returned homewards. You could start a new copy of the chant, your script is so neat and the words might sooth whatever-it-is that is troubling you."
"I am not troubled." Sebastian's voice was weak, and he doubted Elthina would believe him. That the high cleric had noticed his restlessness was not surprising, he'd seen her watch him as he paced and cleaned and prayed, sometimes kneeling till his knees felt numb. He had been purposefully refraining from starting to copy the chant of light anew, as he felt his unease would not benefit the script, and he'd be likely to make errors.
Elthina crossed her arms, "If not troubled, then unhappy. I do not profess to know the cause, but I can tell you are not content. I will not hold you to your oaths if you wish to follow a different path."
"I said I would serve the Maker, and I mean to make good on that vow." Sebastian knew his voice was too sharp, and while he was trying to make it the truth, his words sounded false, hollow.
The elderly woman sighed, and laced her hands together, as if in prayer. "Do you know why I made you take such vows? It was because when you came to me, you were selfish, and did not care for others, especially those you… 'dallied' with. It comes of being born a prince I suppose, and you could not help such, but while you made a poor prince, you'd have become a terrible person if allowed to continue as you were. The vows imposed upon you forced you to try and live righteously, and you have done this. More than that, you have done well, and have changed for the better. You are considerate towards others, for their sake, not just because so they would be more likely to do as you wish."
Elthina took a breath, then pressed on; "The next step for you, is to be able to make your own choices, without the guidance of vows to restrict you. So, Sebastian, I hereby release you from the oaths that you have sworn, whether you want it or not. For your own good, you will learn to forge your own path, and not depend on me to show you the way."
Sebastian was stunned, and opened his mouth to protest when Elthina held up a hand to silence the prince.
"Do not try to tell me that you are happy here. These walls and altar may suit an old lady like me, but you are young, and skilled with your bow, and an heir besides. Same as the free men and woman had to leave for home, I do not think this is where you are meant to be. You are welcome to stay as long as you need, you have done marvellous work here, and I am pleased that you have put your past life behind you, but now it is time for you to find your future."
"You think I should go back to Starkhaven?"
"Were you not listening? I can not, and will not, tell you what to do with yourself."
Rather than feel free, and unrestrained by his lifted vows, Sebastian felt lost. His frown deepened, and he found himself feeling like a plant in the pathway of winter, unable to stop the change of season, and fearing it might be the end of him.
The high cleric must have seen his distress, and touched a hand upon his, her thin frail fingers calming him.
"This is not punishment, but a means to progress."
Sebastian was quiet, and strangely reassured that he was not being sent away through anything he'd done wrong.
He had older brothers, and it had always been assumed that the eldest would inherit the throne, and the second oldest take command of the armies. A third son was problematic, and though his parents had brought him up same as his brothers, it was always understood that when his father spoke of duty, it was a duty he was not expected to take on or understand. So, after a while, Sebastian found himself with no goal in life. Nothing, his father had taught, was more important than the duty to the crown and its peoples, but since Sebastian was told from his earliest days to not ever aspire to have such duty, he became an inconvenience, a loose end no-one quite knew what to do with.
His goal became himself, and his own happiness. He had no peoples to look up to him, and the neighbouring princesses were already betrothed to his older siblings, so his bed was conveniently empty. A shallow existence, but it had occupied his time, and it was only when his oldest brother had been fully groomed for the role of king, that his father had investigated his left-over son and found Sebastian to be lacking.
He was sent to the chantry in an effort to give him meaning beyond the next sexual conquest or tankard of ale, and at the time he had been furious and foolish. It had felt too much like being swept under the rug, sent away so the great awkwardness of himself would be out of sight, and mind.
It had taken time, and untold patience granted by the Maker to his teachers, especially Elthina, but slowly he came to learn the gratification of listening to an old woman's troubles, or helping a troubled man find peace in the words of the Chant. He'd come to know the strength of the Maker's chosen, and seen that the chantry was a place of joy and goodness.
Yet, lately he had been unfulfilled, and though he had tried to give his all to the service of the Maker, there was something missing.
As if she could see his thoughts, Elthina gave a warm smile, and held her hands out to the sunlight streaming down into the courtyard.
"The Maker would want you to be happy, Sebastian."
"I... I shall go and think on all you've said."
"You do that." Her voice was warm, gentle, but faintly patronising, as if Sebastian was a child and she the long suffering parent.
Sebastian rose to leave, and gave a stiff bow to the high cleric, before walking away. It would all be so much easier if he only knew what would make him happy.
He did not go to his chambers, the chantry notes left there would only sit and accuse him of his inaction, and his head felt too muddled to try and deal with them at the moment. And after scrubbing every available stone and tile, he felt like he'd seen enough of the chantry for the day, so he took to the streets.
These were not the streets of home; Starkhaven was built of granite, a darker stone, and more hard-wearing than the sandstone face of Kirkwall. Perhaps not the most pretty to behold, and it was true that the grey often matched the cloudy skies and near-constant rain, but there was strength to the cities and towns. The dull weather could not stop the music and laughter that came from the taverns and freehouses, and the peoples were honest and friendly, at least, they were to local princelings.
He missed his home, and the idea that he could return, not only as some surplus highblood, but as a rightful ruler was strange to consider.
He would need help, certainly, but there would be no shortage of lords and councillors only too eager to assist him in adjusting to the throne, and he liked to think he'd make an average king at least. He may not have had the training of his brothers, but he'd watched his father sign decrees and negotiate trade agreements, and knew how to watch himself for assassination attacks and see through lies.
Then, was that what he wanted, to be trapped within another set of stone walls? True, he might be able to do a lot of good sat upon a throne, but he had to admit, the idea of endless meetings and simpering councils and spending his days mediating disagreements about the price of fish seemed as appealing as scrubbing washrooms forevermore. No, let the distance cousin of who-ever-it-was have the Starkhaven crown, Sebastian would not be satisfied with the gold and jewelled circlet.
As he came to his conclusion, he felt lighter, as if there had been a weight he had not realised, like the heavy press of a crown upon his thoughts, constricting. He had not given proper time to the implications of the deaths of his father and brothers, and the duty they left behind. Instead, he had joined Hawke on any mission he was needed, and let the chantry fill the remainder of his time. He'd run from his responsibility, not realising that it bore down on him till the matter was resolved. He wished he had long ago dispelled the notion of taking the Starkhaven's throne.
By the time his walk and revelation was complete, he'd almost come to the chantry stairs again. He felt confident, and focused as he'd not been since his family had been murdered.
He was surprised to see Hawke, standing there, occasionally walking up the first few steps purposefully, only to back away at the last moment. The champion of Kirkwall was not religious, but he had the look of someone needing guidance all the same. Sebastian wondered if it was the Maker's hand that had led him to the champion, for Hawke was not the sort to seek platitudes from any scripture, no matter how wise, and the man could hardly sit still for a round of drinks, nevermind one of Elthina's inspiring sermons.
Sebastian coughed, and Hawke spun round, hand clenched around a dagger before recognising the prince. Truly, the man was an exceptional rogue not to have picked up on Sebastian's plated footsteps against stone, but the archer was pleased to see that Hawke had enough control to keep the blade in its sheaf, and not in his neck.
"Apologises. I did not mean to startle you."
Hawke gave an embarrassed grunt at being caught off guard, and looked up the stairs, then back to Sebastian.
"May I be of assistance?"
"No… well, maybe. I want to talk with Elthina."
An odd request, especially given that in past meetings, Hawke and Elthina had not exactly seen eye to eye. Sebastian shook his head.
"She'll be writing her sermon for tonight, and would not wish to be disturbed... Unless it was urgent…."
Hawke's dark hair became a blur as he rapidly shook his head. "No, no, just wanted a word is all…. I'll come back later…" his words were rushed, and he almost took a step to the side, as if to leave without further comment. Sebastian reached out, and laid a hand upon his elbow, holding him from making his getaway.
"She shouldn't be too long, she is normally done before the evening meal. Actually, I have something for you in my own chambers, perhaps you could come and collect it, and we will wait for Elthina to finish."
"Why Sebastian, inviting me into your bedroom? Rather forward of you, I think." He smirked, and something in Hawke settled.
Sebastian gave an exasperated sigh, playing along as it seemed to be the sort of light, teasing banter that Hawke sought to calm him. His jests were part of his manner, and though his timing could be poor, it had to be said that there his constant quips in the face of any danger only added to the sense that the man was fearless. Now though, despite the smile dancing on his lips, Hawke looked tense.
"Nothing as exciting as bedroom antics I'm afraid. I have some chantry board messages I deemed too dangerous for anyone other than your good self to attempt. Will you look them over?"
For a moment, Sebastian was unsure if Hawke would agree, but then Hawke gave a nod, eyes still darting nervously, but the shuffle gone from his feet. Hand lifted from his dagger hilt too, but hovering as if ready to be armed and it was clear something preyed upon the man.
Sebastian led him through the courtyard, and to his chambers where he opened the door and gestured him inside. The door had no lock, and needed a fair push to prise it from the wooden doorframe, but as it shut, Hawke seemed to relax. He made a show of looking around the room, small as it was, but clean, and bright from the large window.
"You know, I think Gamlen's shack might have actually been more spacious than this… then again, you had to share it with the rats. And those things were big enough to trip up over!"
Sebastian laughed politely, and passed the pile of papers finally into the right hands. Hawke flicked through them, plucking the ones that caught his interest out and scanning for the rewards offered. He snorted at one, and waved it at Sebastian.
"Reward: my ever-lasting gratitude…. I think not," he put that note to the bottom of the pile, scowling at its insubstantial reward. Once he'd looked through all the messages, he passed a now substantially smaller pile back, keeping his selection for himself, "but I'll see to these ones. Can't persuade you to come out with me and the gang can I?"
Sebastian thought a moment, and gave a nod to his bow, resting peacefully against the wall by his bed.
"I would like that I think, I have not had much chance to practice, and I would hate to lose the skills I have developed."
Hawke seemed surprised, and paused in folding the papers up in a thick wedge and stuffing them into his backpack. "That's… good. And a bit of a change of tune. You told Anders, and Varric…"
"I know." Sebastian hated to interrupt, but he did not particularly want to dwell on what the dwarf had said. "But if you still have need of me…?"
"Yes." Hawke realised he'd been a little too fast to reply, and laughed at himself. "I mean, if it will not get me smite'd out my shoes by the Maker for stealing you away, I would be more than happy to have your bow by my side."
Sebastian moved across the room, and sat himself on the bed, smiling and it feeling natural upon his face. He offered the chair to Hawke, who sat on it sideways, legs stretched out into what little space there was. Sebastian saw the way Hawke strove to seem relaxed and confident, and wondered what would have rattled the champion so. He'd seen Hawke charge a cluster of grenlock, and shout insults at a raging abomination (though in retrospect, claiming its mother had been a mutated nug had not gone down well with either the abomination or Anders).
"So…" Sebastian began, watching carefully for any hint as to Hawke's distress, "how are things?"
"Oh you know… Varric is penning some epic dribble about me, and Aveline is threatening to lock me up for not completing the right paperwork for slaying an entire cult of blood thralls. Merrill is cross I will not help her with that damnable mirror, and Meredith and Orsino seem to be having a grand old time sending me back and forth the city on their whim. At least Fenris and Isabella seem to have reached some sort of accord…"
Sebastian felt his throat close and heart start to pound painfully, and had to force himself to move on beyond the mention of the elf to analyse the rest of Hawke's reply. His eyebrows rose when he realised Hawke had not mentioned a certain healer.
"And Anders…?" he prompted.
Hawke sighed, and gave Sebastian a shrug. "He… I don't know anymore. He'd always writing his manifesto, or locking himself in the backrooms of his clinic. When he does come to the estate, he'd exhausted, and I can't make him take a day off for him… for us. It has been an age since he's been in the mood for… you know…" Hawke trailed off, and broke eye contact, fussing over the hem of his collar.
"It's… frustrating… I feel like I'm losing him to Justice, and there's not a blighted thing I can do about it. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him..."
Hawke took a deep breath, and squeezed his hands together. "I think... that's why I was so hard on Fenris… in the sewers… I saw him grab Anders, and I couldn't think straight. All I could do was do whatever it took to protect him. But it's just not enough anymore. I can protect him from demons and dragons, everything, but somehow I can't save him from himself."
No quips, or smirks, there was just Hawke, sitting there and looking rather lost. Sebastian bent his head and said, softly,
"You still love him though."
He saw the champion struggle with a smile, before it spread across his face, easing the tension that had gathered there. He gave a small nod, and looked to Sebastian, as if embarrassed to admit it.
"Then that is all that matters, for there is nothing more worthwhile." Sebastian could have quoted half a dozen lines from the chant that would have helped make his point, but Hawke rarely had anything but scorn for anything originating from the chantry, so he held his tongue and let his own words sink in.
Hawke snorted at the sentiment, but appeared to give thought to it. "I… I ought to remind him, perhaps I don't tell him enough. Thanks Sebastian."
Both of them raised their heads as they heard the dinner bell ring out from the kitchens, and Sebastian got to his feet. "If we are lucky, we might be able to catch Elthina before she takes her meal."
Hawke agreed, and went to seek out the high cleric once Sebastian had pointed him in the right direction. He had not wanted Sebastian's company, but as he walked away Sebastian was pleased to see, the champion visibly brighter.
Sebastian smiled to himself, then reflected back on his words. He had said; 'Nothing more worthwhile' than love, and that didn't sound like him… Rather, it did not sound like his father. It did not sound like a king at all… but then, he'd already decided he would not take the crown.
Which meant he was free to love.
His entire chest seemed to contract then, but rather than painful, he felt lightheaded, free. His heart hammered as he took in the revelation, and he did not recoil from it nor try to deny that he was in love.
With Fenris.
He knew he ought to go back to his chambers, and think this over, but he'd had weeks of prayer and over-analysing, and all it had accomplished was to muddle his thinking with too many words and thoughts. He'd done a fine job of weaving a mess of rationales and defences, so no wonder it had taken so long to uncover the truth of the matter, and Maker take him if he'd allow himself to make the same mistake again.
Before he could worry about the consequences, Sebastian Vael strode out across Kirkwall to Fenris's mansion.
So determined was he to keep his steps in the right direction and not look back upon the chantry, Sebastian did not see Anders in a set of tatty robes, sneaking into one of the side entrances, a dark look in the healer's eyes.
