Trigger warning: Depictions of grief/mourning, trauma, and mental illness, and references to violence and acts that could be construed as terrorism.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Sebastian says once he feels his business with the mysterious masked man named Hawke has concluded, "I must meet with the viscount and petition him for aid to a fellow city." He doubts the viscount will grant it, but he must try.

Sebastian turns to leave, but a moment later, Hawke's muffled voice calls out, "Wait."

He pauses mid-step, then turns and looks back at Hawke. He arches an eyebrow.

Hawke steps forward, one hand coming up to grip the Chantry amulet that gleams around his neck. His gaze is intent on Sebastian's. "O Maker," he intones, beginning a chant, "hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights…"

Sebastian recognises the prayer immediately: Transfigurations 12:1–12:6, Andraste's prayer before the siege of Minrathous. He feels himself smiling, and his smile widens as Hawke continues the chant. By the time the man pauses halfway through, he is almost beaming for the first time in weeks.

They finish the prayer together, and Sebastian feels the tension leaking out of him as they do, a bit of sun coming into his mind. Hawke, too, seems more at ease for it, though he has no evidence for that beyond the twinkle that has come into those grey eyes. Those eyes crinkle as the chant ends, the only hint of a smile that may or may not grace that hidden face.

"Transfigurations always was a favourite of mine," Hawke says.

"And mine," Sebastian tells him. "Thank you." They bow their heads to each other, then Sebastian turns to go. He suspects as he departs that this will not be the last he'll be seeing of Hawke.

From a ragged quiver, Hawke pulls out a longbow. He handles it with grace and care, gloved hands slipping over it and gripping it firmly. He holds it horizontally and offers it to Sebastian, and in that exact moment, Sebastian's eyes pop as he recognises the colours, the detailing, the material, the crest.

"My grandfather's bow!" He takes it from Hawke, just as gingerly, but the bow feels right in his hands. "But… where did you get it?"

"One of the Flint Company men did some looting. I figured I'd return the favour."

Sebastian smiles, as he often seems to in Hawke's presence. "Thank you. It's… hard to mourn the loss of a thing while my family lies dead. But I did think of it." From there, Hawke asks him questions, enquiring into his history with that bow and his relationship with his grandfather. Sebastian answers him, and in doing so, he feels some of the weight lift from his chest. It is good to talk about this, he realises. Better than what he did back in the Harimann estate.

"I'm sorry I never got a chance to meet them," Hawke says at the end. "To… save them." From anyone else, Sebastian would not believe such lofty words, but from Hawke? He believes them readily.

"I know. You're a true friend, Hawke," Sebastian says, and he sees that twinkle in the grey eyes, the way they crinkle. "You brought me this to remember and honour them. But if I could bring back our lowest servant by snapping it in half, I'd do it without regrets."

"I know." Hawke stands next to him before the railing. "What I wouldn't give to have my family reunited…" Those grey eyes become distant, and they look out over the chantry together. Hawke murmurs a prayer.

Soon, Sebastian joins in. "Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places…"

This is getting out of hand, Sebastian muses as he sits with the rest of the group in the sitting room of the Hawke estate. While Varric reads letters and traces maps, trying to find the source of the Carta attacks, the others talk among themselves. With Fenris and Anders, that means sniping at each other.

Still, said sniping has not been so bad so far, intermixed with their discussions with the others. If Varric can find something, maybe—

"I can't imagine what Hawke sees in you," Anders says, and the room goes silent.

Sebastian feels his body tense from head to toe. He eyes the library's open door, knowing Hawke is just beyond it. "Ah. Perhaps this is not the best time—"

"It is done," Fenris says, not looking at Anders or anything in particular. "Leave it be."

"Well, good." Anders shoots Fenris a scornful glare, and Sebastian sighs. "I always knew he had some sense." At that very moment, Artur walks back into the room, and Sebastian blanches as his gaze falls on the two bickering men.

"Do not make light of this," Fenris snaps. "Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever done." Then—and only then—do they realise that everyone else is looking away, and both turn almost in unison, in time to see Artur storming out with his head in his hands. He disappears into the foyer, and moments later, they hear the front door slam.

Fenris' face turns grey, and Anders winces. "Ah. Whoops."

Sebastian sighs again and gets to his feet. "If you gentlemen are quite finished. The next time you want to discuss such matters, perhaps you might do it anywhere other than right behind his back?" To his credit, Anders pinches his forehead and nods, and Fenris seems no less uncomfortable and contrite. But Sebastian does not acknowledge this; instead, he heads out after Hawke and finds him outside.

"Hawke, I'm sorry," he says without preamble, hoping to drag some life back into that listless stare. "They had no right to bring that up."

Hawke just sighs, shoulders slumping. "It's done. Leave it be." He looks up for a moment, sees Sebastian raising an eyebrow. "I've accepted I can't have him. Now I just want it to stop hurting so much."

"It would help if they didn't rub it in." Hawke nods, and Sebastian doesn't need to see his face to see the anguish on it. Pain, lingering humiliation renewed with every ill-timed comment, self-hatred—too much to look at. He deserves better.

After a moment's pause, Sebastian begins a prayer, the same one they've said to each other—with each other—before. Hawke straightens, and though he hesitates, he soon joins in. "O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me…" They soon fall into sync, as they have done before, and Sebastian watches as their chant continues. Slowly, the tension lifts from Artur's shoulders, and the pain leaves his eyes. By the end, he seems more relaxed.

"Better, Artur?" Sebastian asks.

Artur nods, looks up, and offers that twinkle and crinkle of the eye. "Much. I'm ready to go back inside." And so he does, and Sebastian follows him, realising moments later that he's just called him by his first name.

Sebastian keeps his arm wrapped tight around Artur's waist as he pulls him into the chantry. Artur's arm hangs loosely around his shoulders, and his head slumps into his shoulder. His exhaustion is catching up with him, though he still tries to keep himself awake. His gaze is hollow, his cheeks pale, his eyes reddened.

They come to a halt before the statue of Andraste, and Artur slumps into a pew. Sebastian sits next to him, knowing he will have to find a sleeping bag somewhere, and changes of clothes, and other things Artur will need if he is to stay here for a time. But that can come later. For now…

"I will give you no platitudes," Sebastian says. "There is little that can be said." The image of Leandra's mutilated corpse wafts through his mind, and he has to fight to suppress his grimace. Another life lost to a maleficar, another family member so unjustly taken away. The vision mingles with that of his own family, dead on the ground. "But I know what it is like."

"Do you see them in your dreams?" Artur asks. His voice is low and heavy.

"Often. Less so than in the earliest months, but often still," Sebastian admits. "It will pass, Artur. She is at peace with the Maker, with your sister and father. There will come a time the comfort of that knowledge outweighs the pain of her death." Part of him wonders if that is itself a platitude, but he hopes the fact that he speaks from experience will help, even if just a little.

Artur sighs and rests his head in his hands. "I know. But… I should have warned her about the lilies. I don't know why that slipped my mind. Or I should have been faster. I could have…"

"Don't start down that road," Sebastian says. He knows Artur well enough by now to be sure where that road will take him. "Needless guilt will make the pain worse. You can't be certain that your forgetting to tell her led to this. So why assume it did instead of the opposite? And you only got to the city from the Bone Pit some hours after she went missing. The truth is, Artur, she was likely already beyond saving. You cannot blame yourself for an accident of time."

Artur nods, but Sebastian can tell from the look in his eyes that he doesn't believe him. "She wouldn't want you to blame yourself, anyway," he adds.

"You don't know my mother." As he speaks, Artur clenches a fist, and Sebastian feels a shiver run down his spine. "'Don't speak to me of grief,' she said when Bethany died. 'This is your fault. How could you let her charge off like that?' I still hear it, sometimes."

Sebastian cringes and looks away for a moment. "You did not deserve such harshness. Not from her, not from yourself, not from anyone. You are too loyal, kind, and dedicated a man ever to fail your loved ones, Artur."

Artur looks up at him, and his grey eyes have gone soft and silvery, brimming with warmth and affection rather than tears. "Sebastian, I…" He trails off, perhaps biting his lip, and looks away again. His brow furrows as though he wants to say something more but can't.

Eventually, he looks up at the statue of Andraste. "No matter. As you say, she is with the Maker. The dead find peace at His side, and it is in His Light that the living may find comfort." Sebastian smiles, gives him an encouraging nod, and when Artur rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together, he does the same. This time, Artur begins the prayer, and Sebastian joins in after a few lines. "Stand only in places You have blessed," they murmur. "Sing only the words You place in my throat…"

They soon reach the end of the prayer. Artur breathes out a long breath, and though the pain is still etched in his body language, in his eyes, he is less pale than he was before. "It's a good prayer, isn't it? It says so much."

Sebastian nods, and Artur looks at him again. A second time, he hesitates, eyes flickering to the floor, then he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "But thank you, Sebastian. You've done so much for me. I think now's the time… there's something I need to show you—if you'll allow it."

"Anything, Artur."

Those eyes twinkle briefly, perhaps the first time Artur's smiled in weeks. Then one gloved hand comes up to his mask and pulls it down.

Sebastian enters the foyer to find Artur sitting in his chair before the fire. "Hawke." Artur looks at him. "You're out of bed."

Artur nods. "Anders said I could move around a little. I tired of staring at the ceiling, so I came down here." He shifts in his seat and winces as Sebastian sits in the other chair. "I'll be glad to be moving again, I think. I've done too much sitting around these past couple of months."

Sebastian leans forward, watching him, seeing how his hand brushes over his abdomen. He shudders, recalling the awful moment when Artur was impaled, the chill that had come over him. "How's your wound?" he asks.

"Healing well. The worst of it is gone. It'll likely scar, but what does that matter? One more to add to the collection." His words are bitter, but Sebastian chooses not to address them. The man is still in turmoil; it has only been a few weeks since Leandra's death, after all.

After a brief silence, Sebastian shifts the conversation to the topic that has been on his mind ever since the Qunari invasion. "What do you intend to do now? I know you had plans…"

Artur lets out a sharp laugh, and this time, there is no mistaking the anger. "Yes. I did. So much for that," he says, rubbing his forehead. With a weary sigh, he pulls down his mask, exposing his scowl and his face's scarring. "There's no going to the Circle now. No chance of it. Not as the bloody Champion of this wretched city."

Sebastian leans forward. "'Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him.' You are still serving man and the Maker by using your magic in defence of Kirkwall."

Artur's shoulders slumps. "It still feels… in violation of the laws," he says. "I know, I've been an apostate all my life. What difference will this make? But I was going to make it right, and now… now it seems I'll never get the chance." His eyes snap up to meet Sebastian's gaze, face paling. "I do not mean to question His purpose, of course. But this is not what I wanted. I hate this city. I don't want to stay here any longer."

"I understand, Artur." How often has that thought crossed his mind? How often has he said to himself he does not want to stay here and must return to Starkhaven? How often has he found himself held back—by his own conscience? It is not the same, but he can sympathise. "But things are always changing. It may not be forever. Have faith in what He has planned for you."

Artur blows out a long breath and rubs his forehead. "I should not need to be reminded of that, but thank you," he says. He smiles softly at Sebastian, and Sebastian smiles back, glad to see it and that he is allowed the privilege of seeing it. "Transfigurations?" Artur adds, and Sebastian grins.

They begin the prayer together, as they have been doing more frequently in the past weeks. Their voices echo and mingle with the sound of the fire crackling. "My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow…" they murmur, and Sebastian feels some of the tension bleeding away from him as they do.

Trust in the Maker. He cares for us all.

A week following the tumultuous events at the Hanged Man, Sebastian and Artur sit in the pews of the chantry, resting after Elthina's sermon. His injuries are healing nicely, and he is recovering blood, but he is still somewhat weak from the magister's spell, and he feels the echo of the pain. Artur, too, is doing better; most notably, the wound on his forehead is closing at last. He seems relaxed, contentment flickering in his eyes. It is a depressingly rare feeling these days.

Sebastian hears quiet footsteps on the floor below, and he looks over the railing to see Fenris. The man stares up at the statue of the Andraste, the uncertainty apparent on his face even from here. After a moment, he seems to decide, and Sebastian grins, nudges Artur, and inclines his head in Fenris' direction so he can watch too.

As ever, he can't see Artur's face, but he doesn't need to; joy and pride and perhaps something else replace the contentment in his eyes. "Will you look at that? We're rubbing off on him."

Sebastian chuckles, but it soon dies, and he smiles. "I'm glad. I think it will be good for him. He's had so little light in his life. Seeing the Light of the Maker after all that darkness can do nothing but enrich it."

"That is my hope, as well," Artur says. Sebastian chances another look at him, sees Artur leaning slightly, putting him closer. With that reduced distance, Sebastian can now examine more closely what is flickering in Artur's eyes. He identifies it soon enough, and he smiles.

"But I am sure the Light of the Maker is not the only light in his life now," he teases.

There again, the twinkle and the crinkle of the eyes. It is obvious the man is grinning, and a faint blush seeps over the edges of his mask. "Yes, that's true," he says. "Of course, we haven't told anyone else yet—you know how they'd gossip. But… yes, we're, um…" He trails off, chuckling, and Sebastian lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Congratulations, Artur," he says. "You both deserve it."

Artur looks down, putting his hands together. "A reward for our trials, I guess. Well deserved, I'd say."

"I couldn't agree more." They begin the usual prayer again, their old favourite, and their voices carry in the relative quiet of the chantry. Below, Sebastian could swear he could hear Fenris intoning the same lines, uncertain but genuine.

"Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride…"

"Sebastian?"

Sebastian looks blearily up from where he leans against the pillar. Artur approaches him, grey eyes expressionless, hand tight on his staff. If there is any concern there, Sebastian cannot see it.

He looks down again after a moment. "If Elthina had stood firm behind the knight-commander, this wouldn't have happened," he says. The image of the explosion plays again and again in his mind's eye: the terrible light, the blast, the debris scattering everywhere. Shivers run up and down his spine and limbs, and his mind works slowly. He cannot see beyond that moment, beyond the realisation that he has failed, beyond the ineffable horror, beyond the hate that is unquenched even by Anders' execution. "There are times when even the best intentions lead to the Void."

If only, if only, if only…

"That was a terrible way to die," Artur says, and Sebastian glances at him again. There is concern in his eyes now, sympathy and warmth, but it does nothing to dislodge the sick coldness in his heart. "The grand cleric deserved better."

"As did your mother, Hawke," Sebastian says, and the image of Leandra's mutilated corpse mingles with the debris, with Anders' insanity, with all the other maleficarum they've fought. "We've both lost those dear to us to these maleficarum. These mages will not stop until they overthrow the Chantry. There was never peace to be made with them."

Not all the mages, of course. There are innocents in the Gallows, and their loss will be terrible. But the maleficarum… Artur has the right of it here. They must stand firm, even if it results in the loss of innocent lives. It is not entirely right, but what else they can do now? Anders took all alternatives away.

"The Maker favours us in this fight." Artur nods, putting his hands together. "He must, for we defend against His enemies. If we fall here, may we meet again at His side." If Sebastian finds himself half-hoping that he'll fall… no, that is not acceptable. He still has his life. He cannot and will not throw it away in guilt. The Maker ordained a purpose for him—and now that purpose is clear. He will not turn away from it.

Artur grips his shoulder for a moment, squeezing. "I'll look for you if that is the case. Until then, remember…" And he begins the old prayer again. His gaze doesn't leave Sebastian's as he chants, and for half a moment, Sebastian is back in the chantry, back seven years ago, listening to Artur offer him that same prayer as comfort.

He smiles. It is weak, but it is there. On the second half of the prayer, he joins in the way he did that first time. Their voices mingle together before falling in sync, and even through the cold, the words help him feel just some of the Maker's Light. "My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace…" they intone, and Sebastian has never wished so earnestly for that to be so.

We can do this, he thinks, as the prayer ends and as Artur walks over to Merrill. We can. Elthina, we will bring order to the city in your name and in the Maker's. I only wish I could have done more before it was too late.

In the small room of the estate that Hawke has converted into a prayer space, Sebastian kneels before the shrine. Prayers rise thick and fast, some from the Chant, some of his own devising. Each banishes more of the cold in his veins and lifts more of the burden. But there is no fixing the pain; it is too raw. He prays, and his hands shake. His mind drifts back to earlier, happier times, but the image of the blast always intrudes. A new one now joins it: all the corpses piled together. He cannot shake it off.

Sebastian shudders and tries to focus. "Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval…" he says, almost insists. He has turned so much to Transfigurations and Trials for aid, and it bleeds off the worst of the grief, keeps him from falling to pieces. But just like seven years ago, it cannot do everything, though Maker knows he wishes it could.

The door opens as he finishes this prayer, and Sebastian looks up to see the new Viscount entering. With a weary sigh, he removes his circlet and places it to one side, then he joins Sebastian before the shrine, kneeling. His face is pinched; there is tension in his grey eyes. Sebastian knows the probable cause.

"This isn't so easily explained away," he admits without preamble, sitting up.

"How can it be? Maker have mercy. They're already calling me the Mage-Lord of Kirkwall," Artur says, and he shudders. "In complete violation of the laws of the Maker and the Chantry."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Artur. No one else could have taken the job. You are the right man for it."

Artur drops his head almost into his chest. "It just seems like salt in the wound. A mage ruling after a mage's crime. Oh, how Anders would have laughed." Sebastian scowls, but he tries to focus. Anders is dead. He is worth no more of his attention.

"You'll do good with it. I know you will," Sebastian says. He does not add that Kirkwall has no one else; Artur does not need that additional pressure.

But the thought of that raises an equally pertinent question. Who does Starkhaven have but him and simple-minded Goran? Who would be best to guide them through the coming crisis with the mages? And what can he do now but go back? He wanted a sign. He got one. He looks away from Artur, feeling a shiver of his own.

Just as he guessed the direction of Artur's thoughts, so Artur guesses his. "You're thinking about Starkhaven?" he says. Sebastian nods mutely. "You're going to go back."

"What else is there now?" he says, shoulders slumping. "I can no longer abandon that duty. It is the only one remaining… and I will not fail in it. Starkhaven needs a stronger leader than Goran, as it is." Even to him, his tone sounds uncertain, although he knows events have decided for him at last.

"I understand," Artur says. "For what it's worth, I think you'll be a good ruler, Sebastian. I said to you years ago that not wanting power gives you the strength to use it wisely. It's as true now as it was then. You feel obliged to your people. You'll do what you have to for them."

Sebastian manages a small smile. "Thank you."

"I do not know if I will be able to help you," Artur continues, "but I will try if you need it. And when you have your throne back, of course, we will be allies. As firm allies in politics as we are friends in our personal lives. I have a feeling we'll need it."

"Indeed. Maker knows what's coming. The Free Marches could do with a powerful alliance or ten." Sebastian rubs his forehead. "I wonder if all my prevaricating before was because I knew this was inevitable. Perhaps I should have saved us all the trouble and gone back years ago."

"Then you wouldn't have got to know me," Artur teases, nudging him. "But Sebastian, it's not wrong to want to do what your conscience demands, and it's not wrong to have doubts. Even if it took you a long time to get there, you'd do fine. I swear it."

He smiles, a little wider this time. "Your faith means everything, Artur. Thank you. I don't know where I would be without your support." In all this horror, Artur's continued presence has brought nothing but comfort, and if the warmth flickering in the man's tired eyes is any indication, the reverse is also true.

Artur hesitates a moment, then he rests a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "You have been as a brother to me, Sebastian. No, scratch that. You are a brother to me. Whatever I've done for you, you've more than repaid. I look forward to us working together as rulers." He says it with a smile that puckers the scars on his face, but Sebastian's own smile only drops as he speaks. He looks away, grimacing. He sees the pile of corpses again.

"Don't say that, Artur, please," he murmurs.

"Why shouldn't I? I speak nothing less than the truth."

Sebastian grimaces and looks down. "I know you do, and I—I feel much the same way," he admits. "But we all know what happens to people who I call my family."

Artur pauses for a moment, but rather than withdraw his hand, he only squeezes his shoulder again. "I understand why you're afraid, but… I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I swear I don't. No matter where life takes us, you can always count on me." He speaks the words with utmost seriousness, and Sebastian lets out a ragged sigh, mouth twisting.

He stares into those grey eyes, shudders again as he imagines what would happen if they closed forever. What would the world be like then? It would be so much the emptier without this man who he truly loves—indeed, loves like a brother. "I believe you. But after what has happened, it is…" He sighs. "It is hard to convince myself. It is hard not to fear."

"Of course, I understand," Artur murmurs. "I can't assuage that fear, though I wish I could. Just… trust me, Sebastian. And trust in the Maker, in the path He has laid out for us. He cares for us all."

Trust Him. He remembers saying something similar to Artur after he was named Champion three years ago. He smiles again, recognising the gesture returned, and nods.

"Trust Him I will. It is all we can do," he says. They bow their heads together in prayer, and Sebastian feels nearly as much warmth from Artur's presence as he does from seeing the Light of the Maker.

The light comes first—an explosion of green that fills his field of view and almost blinds him. Artur raises his arm, covering his eyes, though the Nightmare is still bearing down on him. Not a second later, however, he hears something snapping shut—and then a blast echoes through the Fade.

It throws him back with all the force of one of his more specialised spells. The breath is knocked out of his lungs, and his feet leave the ground; he feels himself being thrown through the 'air'. By some miracle, he keeps a grip on his staff. His eyes shut against the wave of green light, and his jaw clenches tight as he braces for impact.

Impact comes soon enough, and Artur blacks out for a moment as he slams into some great rock face at terrible speed. The next instant, he is on the ground, and his vision is swimming and swirling, and there is a screaming pain in the back of his head, and thinking is suddenly difficult, and—

The green light is gone, he realises. The Nightmare, too. The Inquisitor… she did it.

With a groan, Artur shuffles onto his back and lifts his arm, placing it to the back of his head, ignoring the blood pouring from the wound in his shoulder. With weakened fingers, he casts a basic healing spell, easing the worst of his concussion and its symptoms, letting him see straight and think more clearly once again. It is all he can do.

He sits up, breathing hard. Darkness encroaches at the edge of his vision. He drops his staff, opens his belt, pulls up his tunic, feels at the wound in his stomach. He is bleeding there, too, just as he was after the Arishok. There is no Anders to help him this time.

This is it. There is no greater devotion… There is no better death… It is all he can ask for now. Maker forgive him, for he has sinned… even to his death.

Methodically, with shaking hands that grow weaker by the moment as the blood leaves him, Artur strips off his armour. His boots, his gloves, his cowl, the ridiculous robes he never could throw away. He leaves them in a pile next to his staff. He tugs down his bloodied tunic, makes it as neat as he can. He stands up. Even this simple effort causes him to pant, quickens the already frantic pounding of his heart.

For the last time, he pulls off his mask. He tosses it away.

And he is free.

No more hatred, no more fear. No more of anything. I see now the truth: I destroyed myself as much as magic destroyed me. Perhaps more so. Maker forgive me.

Artur walks forward. Blood drips behind him, and he stares at nothing. His surroundings are swirling around him again, becoming indistinct. He begins the old prayer again.

Maker forgive me. All of you… no, I won't ask forgiveness of you. I went too far in atonement, ironic though it may be. Sebastian… it looks like we won't be completing our prayer together again. It looks like you'll lose me, too. It should provoke something, but—he feels calm. Detached. For the first time in months, he cannot hear Leandra's voice, accusing him over and over again.

Freedom came at a cost and when it was too late to enjoy. That is the way of things.

His knees sag and give out under him. He collapses onto his hands and knees. With difficulty, he pulls himself up into a position of prayer one last time. His breath comes fast and shallow, his heart races towards its last beats. He acted sinfully in his pursuit of atonement, used his faith to be a bedrock for fear and not for healing. He has done much wrong with it. He can only hope the Maker recognises that his guilt is sincere.

He can only hope his friends see his mistake and learn from it. He can only hope they live. When the time comes for your regrets, remember me.

His vision is getting darker. The feeling is leaving his limbs. There is blood everywhere. He can barely stay upright. He struggles to speak.

But speak, he does—one last time.

"O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death…"

Sebastian walks down the battlements with a serene, almost methodical step.

He stares ahead, gaze blank and seeing nothing, taking in nothing. One hand is loose, the other grips a letter like it's his buoy. His mind is just as empty, being only dimly aware of the approaching steps that will take him to the chapel of the palace of Starkhaven—the same chapel he is due to marry in three days from now.

There never was, he realises, an unhappier groom. Not because of the bride, but because of circumstances far beyond their control.

The world around him seems dead and cold. He can scarcely hear the wind blowing or feel the ground beneath his feet. All have lost their colour and texture and scent. Even the people seem lifeless as they go about their days. Or perhaps it is him—his own mind projecting onto his surroundings, so he doesn't feel quite so… so…

How can he possibly describe it?

Sebastian hurries down the steps and breezes into the chapel, feet falling lightly. The revered mother is absent, as are her underlings. The place is as silent as he imagines it to be, lit by carefully arranged, flickering candles. One wall is all stained glass, depictions of Andraste's life. The sun breaks through the glass and casts coloured patterns on the floor. He barely notices it.

He walks to the front of the room and sinks down to his knees. He opens the letter again. He reads it, though he does not need to; the words have imprinted themselves in his mind already.

Slowly, Sebastian lowers the letter. He stares through the stained glass to his right, sees Andraste on the pyre at the moment Hessarian impales Her with his flaming sword of mercy. An execution, a sacrifice, a mercy, a… a…

A loss. Another loss.

It replays behind his lids. Knives in the night, infants dead at their mothers' breasts, his brothers cold on the floor within arm's reach of each other. The blast, the fire, the red light filling the sky, the terrible noise, the debris falling, so many corpses. Corpses piled upon corpses. Now, this. The Fade, a demon, a sacrifice, and a complete load of nothing even more terrible for being nothing. Too little known possibly to depict.

The chantry, seven years after his blood family. Artur, five years after the chantry. A loss, a loss… someone taken from him…

Again.

Not family now, not directly, but… like family. Artur had called him a brother. Sebastian had felt the same. Artur does… had… sometimes felt more like a brother to him than his actual brothers.

And he…

Broke his promise. Died. Broke his promise. Died. Taken away. Taken away. Broke his promise—died—taken—lost to a curse, lost to it, lost to it, just as they all were lost to it, just as they all will ever be lost to it, Maker, but it was madness to think the chantry was the end of it, it'll never be the end, Artur is lost as well, lost in the Fade, the man he loved as a brother, the man who was there when no one else was, his brother in faith and all else—lost, lost, lost—

Sebastian screams.

It rips his way out of his throat. Not a piteous wail this time, not as with the chantry and Elthina. Nor even a harsh cry of vengeance, as with his blood family. It is a howl, something primal, something raw. It claws its way through, claws at his ears, echoes in the small space. Another soon follows it, and another, and another—all following in rapid succession—and sight and sound and texture and sensation explode back into feeling as they go. He feels part on fire, part being crushed, part being swamped by a tsunami—Maker, how is he breathing? How has this not killed him yet, this hideous agony he is so familiar with and must live through again? Why has it not taken him… or is that is part of the curse?

He screams until he has no more room to, until his throat is hoarse from it. Then he collapses, forehead almost hitting the ground, and wishes he could give himself over to the numbness again as the sobbing begins. He wants to pound the floor, to kick, perhaps to do worse—but he cannot even find the strength to stand. Lost, lost, lost, as they all are lost—lost forever to something he cannot understand—lost…

Maker, but will he always be doomed to outlive those he loves? Will he never see the end of senseless death?

This is, he realises, where Artur would normally appear. He can just picture him appearing at the door of the chapel and coming to kneel next to him. Sebastian can hear the words he would say, clear as the bells ringing out in the city. He can almost feel his presence: the smell of ozone from all his lightning magic, the sense of discipline he exuded, the warmth, the loyalty, the silver grey eyes that sparkled and gleamed so…

For a moment, he turns, half-expecting Artur there in the doorway. But there is only air and silence.

Sebastian turns away again. His sobs jerk to a halt, but his hands are still shaking, and his vision remains blurry. He stares up at the statue of Andraste, wishing he could see an answer in those eyes of stone. He will find none. And what answer could satisfy him? What could satisfy him at all—but an end to this curse he cannot control?

What can he do now—for himself and his friend, his brother—but pray for it?

Slowly, Sebastian rights his posture, getting back onto his knees and putting his hands together. It steadies him a little, helps calm his breathing and slow his pounding heart rate, but that is all it does. For a moment, he hesitates, struggles to get the words out through his throat. But then he forces himself on, as he has always done before.

At once, he shudders. It is… so terrible to hear it on its own, now. This prayer belonged to them both, and of course he had said it while he was alone, too, in the past, but now the absence of Artur's voice is an awful thing. He should be there, murmuring in time with him. He is not. He never will be again.

On he goes, however. The words sometimes come out strangled and choked, and fresh tears slip down his face, but come out, they do. The first of many prayers for his friend, the first without him; Sebastian can only hope to do his best. There will be no funeral; he can do nothing else.

"Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favour…" Make Artur one within His glory, he thinks, but he will not change the lines of the prayer even now. The Maker will understand his meaning, anyway.

Trust in the Maker. He cares for us all. Sebastian had told Artur that… and Artur had told him that. He has always found it a touchstone, but now…

How does this keep happening? Maker, please, tell me why. I know You have a plan, and it is good… but I cannot see it now. Please give me… some sort of sign… Not that asking for a sign went well last time, but it'd be better than this doubt and fear suddenly raging in his gut. If the Maker turned away from Artur, or never cared to begin with…

No, no. Don't start down that path. The days ahead will be long and arduous; the last thing he needs is to give up the one thing he has never lost. The Maker will always be here, even if Sebastian cannot see Him or know what He plans. And Artur, Elthina, his family are all safe at His side. That should be a comfort. Shouldn't it?

It will pass, he had said to Artur. There will come a time when that knowledge brings more comfort than pain that she is gone. It was true, then… so it is here.

Perhaps he will feel it one day. But for now…

Sebastian lets out a ragged sigh and gets to his feet, and he goes to light a candle for the friend whose body he must now add to the growing collection.

Sebastian pushes the door open and steps inside with his heart pounding away in his chest and his head swimming.

He turns and looks, and—there is Elestren. Sitting upright in bed, nightgown pushed down, a bundle of blankets rested against her chest, attended by the midwife. The midwife looks up and offers Sebastian a smile and a thumbs-up. Elestren notices, and she looks up as well and grins tiredly.

"A boy," she says. "He's just finished feeding. Come have a look."

Sebastian blows out a breath, and the weight of the past too many hours lifts off him at last. He feels a grin of his own break out and spread across his face, and he crosses the room in a few quick strides, sitting down in a chair next to the bed. He peers over Elestren's shoulder.

A boy. A reddish, plump thing covered in downy hair and a waxy substance, bald on top, limbs curled up tight, fingers twitching, head almost pointed. Every inch the newborn, hard to distinguish from another at a glance, but—theirs. Their son, their blood. His blood, his family.

He has been many things before: a son, a brother, a cousin, a priest, a friend, a husband. Now he can call himself a father.

Sebastian lets out a little laugh that sounds as nervous as it does elated, and he buries his face in his hands for half a moment before shuffling closer. "Well, look at him," he says, his smile spreading until it hurts. "Look at you, boy. Aren't you beautiful? You are."

Elestren laughs. "Baby-talking him already?" she says with a wry smirk, and Sebastian chuckles and holds out his arms. Elestren hands the boy over, and the midwife helps Sebastian adjust his grip, helps him rest the boy properly in the crook of his elbow. The wee thing stares up at him with grey eyes like silver, and his breath catches.

If his vision is suddenly wet and he has to blink to clear it, who needs to know about that? Even so, those eyes…

"Welcome. Hello," Sebastian says, slipping back into his Starkhaven brogue while Elestren watches. "It's—it's so good to meet you." He wants to say something a bit more inventive, but his mind has frozen, and talking itself seems to be an effort. "We've waited so long for you, you know."

The boy stares up at him. His fingers open and close, and he gurgles slightly. How long we've waited… I wish I could explain…

Elestren draws him out of his thoughts. "We still agreed on the name? Or are you having doubts?"

Sebastian looks up at her. "Not for a second," he says. "No one deserves the honour more than he." The idea had occurred to him shortly after they were assured she was past the most dangerous period of the pregnancy. Now it is time to see it through. There was never another option, truth be told—and seeing those silvery eyes only confirms that thought.

"Arthur, Arthur," Sebastian says, and the boy curls and uncurls his tiny fingers. "Do you like that?" No response, of course, but there doesn't need to be. A name as the highest honour he can grant to the lost—but there will be no shadow cast, no legacy to live up to, nothing of that sort. Artur is gone, but for Arthur, there are still endless possibilities.

It will be his highest privilege and the best thing he has ever done to help him realise those possibilities.

A bit later, when Elestren has laid down to rest, and the room is empty at last, Sebastian takes the boy in his arms and heads to the window. He stares out over Starkhaven, sees again what fell to him in such dreadful circumstances. He sees once again the holes in his life where his family should be, and looking down at Arthur, the beginnings of icy fear grip his heart. Seven years… five years… three next time?

But then the baby grips his finger, gurgling again, and Sebastian shakes the fear off. Whatever he has lost, the Maker led him here for a reason, and the Maker gave him all that he has now. There is a plan, and they all are accounted for within that plan. He must trust in it.

He begins the old prayer again, chants the words in a low and soothing tone. For the first time in years, his voice does not become choked up as he goes through it. Old memories haunt his head, but something brighter joins them now: a future, another chance, a hope. He has a family again, and with this little boy… anything could happen.

Sebastian smiles broadly and holds that grey gaze with eyes wet and gleaming. "For You are the fire at the heart of the world," he says, and Arthur stares up at him, "And comfort is only Yours to give."