The floor was dirty.

No, worse than that. Far worse. Sebastian had never seen the chantry so neglected; he had no idea how things had come to such a sorry state. Something pulled at him, asked him to remember, but when he chased the thought he couldn't find its root. He didn't know why the chantry was dirty. He didn't know why he was here, or where he'd been to let it come to this. Fire, he thought. But no. He smelled no smoke. When he tried to puzzle out why things looked so derelict, he could not.

The sight gave him pain, though. That much he knew for certain.

Looking around, he found the nave empty. No sisters, no Revered Mothers; even the Grand Cleric was absent. He frowned, straining his ears as he listened for some echo of the Chant, only to be met by a silence so resounding and so complete it made his head ache at the sheer absence of sound.

"Hello?" he said into the quiet, if only to prove his hearing still worked as it ought. His voice echoed in the empty chamber. No one answered. Scuffing his foot through the dirt left a line visible in the filth.

Even more shockingly, when he glanced down he saw he was as dirty as the room around him. Blinking, he reached up to rub his eyes, only to find his hands grimy, too. "This won't do," he said. Again his voice spun out into the silence. This time, however, someone answered.

"I'm lost."

Sebastian spun, nearly falling in his haste to see who'd spoken. The sudden movement made his breath catch, and he reached up to rub absently at his chest. Of course his fingers met only the cool, hard enamel of his breastplate, and after a moment the persistent ache eased. A little boy stood behind him, as filthy as everything else, his blue gaze wide and fearful and tinged with sorrow. "I'm lost," he repeated. "I can't find my way."

Sebastian took a step forward, but the boy jumped backward, like a startled rabbit about to dash for its warren. Sinking to the ground, Sebastian rested his empty hands on his knees and said softly, "I won't hurt you, lad."

"Everybody leaves me," the boy replied. When he blinked, fresh tears scoured tracks in the dirt on his face. "That hurts. You'll leave, too."

Sebastian tilted his head, his brows lowering in confusion. Something of Starkhaven clung to the lad's vowels, but otherwise he wasn't familiar. "This is my home," Sebastian said. "I'm not going anywhere. Where's your family, lad? Shall I walk with you?"

"No family," the boy whispered. "No home. Only this."

"Are you one of the Chantry orphans?"

The child did not acknowledge Sebastian's question; he only stared with his huge, wounded eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. After a moment, Sebastian extended his hand, as tentatively as he might have approached a skittish horse or a rabid dog. "You can stay with me, if you like," Sebastian offered.

"You'll leave," the boy said. "Everyone leaves."

"I'm not going anywhere," Sebastian repeated. "Look around. I have so much work to do. I don't suppose you'd help me? I'm going to wash the floors."

"It'll take a long time."

"It will," Sebastian agreed. "A very long time."

"And you're not going anywhere."

"Certainly not before the floors are done."

The child looked up, thoughtful. Sebastian didn't think the boy even realized he was still weeping. "The windows are dirty."

"So they are."

"You'll need to clean them, too."

"So I will."

"There's a lot to clean."

Sebastian almost smiled, but something in the child's face, and something about the lingering ache in his own chest stopped him. Instead he nodded gravely. The child said, "It will take a long time."

"A very long time."

"Good," said the boy with no small amount of satisfaction, finally drawing his filthy sleeve over his cheeks to dry the tears. "Good. And you'll stay with me. You'll stay with me the whole time."

The child took Sebastian by the hand, his little fingers so strangely cold it took all Sebastian's resolve not to immediately draw away from him. Instead, he forced himself to close his warm fingers over the cold ones. He forced himself to ignore the shudder than ran the length of his spine as he did so.

"How did you come to be here?" Sebastian asked the child.

The boy looked up at him and tilted his head. In an eerily calm voice somehow at odds with the tears still running down his face, the child replied, "I don't know. How did you come to be here?"

"This is my home," Sebastian repeated, even as memories—nightmares—red light and the scent of ashes in the air and voices raised in anger—pulled at him. He pushed them away, burying them as deeply in the recesses of his mind as he could. He didn't know where they came from, but he knew he didn't want—couldn't—look at them too closely. He almost thought he heard the echo of words—do not interfere—but before he could wonder about them, before he could question who'd spoken them, or why, the child gripped Sebastian's hand harder.

"Then this is my home, too."

It was too late to say no, Sebastian knew. Too late to argue. And yet, in that instant, he wanted nothing more. The boy's eyes were too bright, and his tone far too fervent. But instead of pushing the child away, Sebastian said, "Then you'll have to come with me, lad. We'll draw some water from the well and start on these floors."

The little boy's answering smile chilled him in a way that had very little at all to do with cold fingers.

#

Even with the little boy's help, it took a very long time to wash the floors. Still, the activity became a kind of meditation. Sebastian drew countless buckets of water, and spent countless hours on his hands and knees, scrub-brush in hand. He began to feel as though he'd always been here, had always done this. Water and floor and brush. He needed nothing else.

Every time he cleaned a new swathe of floor, his own mind felt emptier, cleaner.

"No," said the child abruptly, skidding to a halt in front of Sebastian, his bare feet leaving footprints on the damp floor. Sebastian sat back on his heels, raising his eyebrows. "No," repeated the boy. "This isn't right. This is all wrong."

One corner of Sebastian's mouth turned up in a smile. "It's almost clean."

The boy's eyes welled with tears. "No," he said a third time, stamping his foot against the marble. "Don't you remember? Don't you remember how it's supposed to be?"

"Clean," Sebastian replied. "Look around, lad. It's almost as good as new."

And it was. Bright sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floors in dancing color. The great statue of Andraste at the end of the nave was polished to a gleaming hue. Every red candle was whole, unburnt wicks waiting for darkness and evensong.

The emptiness still troubled him. He found himself lifting his own voice in the Chant more and more as he worked, if only to chase away the unnerving silence. Every time he turned a corner, he somehow expected to see someone. He couldn't have said who, exactly. Names and faces swam through his thoughts, only to flee if he tried too hard to pursue them. He wasn't certain he wanted to remember those who'd left him here alone.

"Stop it!" cried the boy. "Stop pretending!"

Sebastian chuckled briefly, and the boy looked aghast. "I'm not pretending anything, lad. I'm only happy to see things returned to the way they ought to be. Aren't you?"

Reaching out, the child laid cold fingers against Sebastian's cheek. His stomach dropped at the touch, and the laugh died in his throat. The light behind his eyes when he blinked was red. He almost thought he heard screams. He almost thought he heard a familiar voice speaking horrible words, in as unfamiliar a tone as he'd ever heard from her.

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you, Sebastian."

It wasn't the voice he was expecting, somehow, and yet it was nearly as familiar to him as his own. Troubling as it was, he'd grown almost accustomed to the silence. To have it broken now bordered on the profane. A strange spasm of anger and frustration and sorrow twisted the little boy's face, and then the child rose to his feet and darted away before Sebastian could explain or reach out to stop him.

The child was all but forgotten (forgotten like the red light, the voice snapping do not interfere, the pain) as the newcomer repeated, "Sebastian, child, whatever are you doing on the floor?"

By the time he pushed himself to his feet, the Grand Cleric stood before him. Unaccountably, his throat grew tight and tears filled his eyes. Elthina raised her eyebrows and smiled, somehow fond and dubious all at once. "What's this about?" she asked, raising her chin slightly to acknowledge his sudden grief.

"I thought—" But even as he spoke, Sebastian wasn't certain what he'd thought. For some reason, as he'd dragged his scrub-brush across the floors, he'd felt certain he would never see the Grand Cleric again. Certain. When he wasn't cleaning, he'd felt the weight of it, heavy as a stone around his neck, around his heart. He'd shed tears for her. He felt certain he'd shed tears for her. He shook his head, but she remained where she was, hands neatly folded, lips pulled into their easy smile. He almost reached out to touch her arm, her shoulder, to make sure she was real, but he stopped himself at the last moment, not knowing how he might explain such a breach in decorum. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've been… I've been cleaning."

"So I see," she remarked mildly. Then her brow furrowed at her dove-pale eyes glittered. "But who did it, Sebastian? Who left our home in such a state? Who scoffed at the Maker's glory and condemned us all to wallow in this filth? Who?"

The words were strong ones, and Elthina's tone sharper and harder than he was accustomed to. He had heard her disappointed, of course, and angry, but this was something else entirely. The skin of her cheeks was flushed, throwing the careworn lines of age into harsh relief. Sebastian winced, flayed by her words, as though he were the one she blamed, as though he were the one she sought to punish.

He couldn't think why. He'd done nothing but clean.

"Tell me, child. Tell me who did this."

"I… I don't know—"

"You do," she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "There's no sense protecting her now. Look what she's done. Look what she condoned."

He couldn't catch his breath. Every word prodded at him, sliding between his ribs with the unerring accuracy of a—

Of a blade.

Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to His right hand.

Sebastian felt it. He felt the steel between his ribs. Heavy and hard and foreign. Wrong. He remembered the eyes of the man who'd wielded the sword. He'd seen the moment the templar realized he was killing another man—not a villain, not an enemy, not a demon: a man. Just a man. Gasping, Sebastian clawed at his chest, his nails scraping fruitlessly against the enameled plate. He sank to his knees. Every breath was a sob, torn from him, stealing from him. Ending him.

"No," the Grand Cleric whispered. She didn't touch him, but her voice was soft in his ear. Soft and soothing and almost sweet. Like a prayer. A benediction. Listening to it, it found he could almost breathe again. "No, child. He was only doing his duty. You must go further back. You must find the root. You must find the root and you must pull it out. It is the only way. We must have our revenge for the wrongs done to us."

"Death is never justice," he whispered. He blinked up at her and hot tears spilled over his cheeks.

"No, it is not," she agreed, eyes narrowing. He ducked his head. "And yet here we are."

"I thought you—"

She shook her head, silencing him. "You're thinking the wrong thoughts, child. You're walking the wrong path. Letting yourself be blown about, as always."

"Like a weathervane," he said weakly. "Blown about like a weathervane. But you—you wouldn't let me—I asked. I begged. I pleaded with you. All I wanted was to take my place as Brother again—"

The Grand Cleric's smile did not touch her eyes. "That was all you wanted, child? Nothing else? Surely you cannot believe I was blind as that."

Sebastian shook his head, pressing his palm flat against his chest. The plate was so cool. Almost but not quite like the fingers of the orphaned child. Beneath it, the pain went on, though not quite so sharply as before. Though he could breathe again, he was aware of every inhale, and he still feared each exhale would be his last. "No. I swore to take no bride but Andraste. I… swore."

"Yes," Elthina said coolly. "And I witnessed the value you placed on those vows. Would you have stopped, Sebastian? Would you have said no to her, if I'd asked it of you? If I'd made it a stipulation of your reinstatement? Would you have turned away from her? Never seen her again? Would you?"

"I was helping. I—she—" Sebastian stopped, once again shaking his head. "I pleaded with you, Elthina. I did. And you… you made me your errand boy, but you wouldn't—"

"Let you forswear yourself again? Invite you back to the fold, knowing you harbored impure feelings? You blame me, Sebastian? You dare blame me?" The Grand Cleric's hands closed into fists at her sides. "You made your choice. And your choice—her choice—your interference—spat on the glory of the Chantry."

Do not interfere, Sebastian.

The rush of memory caught him off-guard, and he doubled over with the force of it, bracing himself with one hand pressed to the cool, clean floor.

"There can be no half measures. There can be no turning back," Anders said, turning away from Meredith and Orsino, bowing his head. And then the sky burned red. The sky burned red, and the air filled with smoke, and as flames and ash began to fall, Sebastian realized the import—the terrible import—of what the mage had done. "There can be no peace."

"And what did she say?" The Grand Cleric urged. "How did she respond, this paragon of yours? The woman you esteemed higher than Andraste? What did she say?"

He pushed his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the words she spoke, the truth he knew.

The abomination, sitting on his overturned crate, murderous hands dangling between his knees.

"Just go," she said.

"After everything he'd done," Elthina whispered.

"'Just go,'" Sebastian repeated. "As if what he'd done meant nothing."

"As if she condoned it." The Grand Cleric sighed. "As if she agreed with everything the abomination stood for. As if she, too, were complicit in the murders he'd committed."

"As if I meant nothing." Sebastian lowered his hands slowly, but did not raise his eyes from the floor. The marble, so clean after all his work, shone, reflecting back the colors of the stained glass. "I thought I knew her. I thought I—"

"She betrayed you. After everything you sacrificed for her."

"She betrayed me," he echoed, even as a verse from the Chant swam muddily through his mind. Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven.

Forgiveness.

Death is never justice.

But oh, the turn of her countenance, and the dismissiveness of her tone as she'd said do not interfere. It burned. Even now, it burned.

"And now?" the Grand Cleric prodded. "Now, Brother Sebastian? What will you do now?"

And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!

"I must speak with her," he said, glancing up in time to see a frown cross the Grand Cleric's face. "I owe her that much."

"You owe her nothing," Elthina snapped, and for one moment he thought she meant to reach out and hit him. She didn't, but her eyes burned with fury and he could see the trembling of her limbs. "What do you owe me, Sebastian Vael? What would you have been without me?"

"Your Grace—"

"You are just like her. Tossing the old aside as soon as something newer, shinier, easier comes along. Very well, child. Very well. I see how much I mean to you. I see how highly you value me." The Grand Cleric swept her arm wide, the gesture encompassing the whole of the room he'd spent so many countless hours on his hands and knees cleaning. "I see how highly you value this. I ought never have let you back through the chantry doors, you ungrateful, stubborn, willful child."

"Your Grace, please, if you'll only permit—"

Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she glared down at him. "Permit what? Another endless parade of excuses? A litany of praise for the woman who can evidently do no wrong even as she brings our world crashing down around our ears?"

"No," he whispered. "No, that's not it. Not it at all. I only meant—"

"She did this. She did. No one else. You would let her go free? You would absolve her? You were not so kind to the Flint Company, as I recall. I understand. We rate lower even than the family that cast you off, sent you away, banished you. I see. You have made yourself very clear."

Death is never justice.

A fine mist of ash began to sift from above. He blinked to be certain he wasn't seeing things. "Look what you've done," the Grand Cleric admonished as he began to pull himself to his feet. His arms trembled and he feared his legs would not bear his weight. Elthina tugged the skirt of her robes away from him, as though even the air near him was tainted.

"I'll get… I'll get more water," he whispered. "From the well. I'll clean this. I'll clean it all. I promise."

"There isn't water enough in the world to purify this sin. You know that. You know that, Sebastian Vael. You know what was done here. Whether you choose to admit it or not, you do know."

These words, too, were like blades, but Sebastian only rose unsteadily and began to stumble toward the door. He could feel the Grand Cleric's eyes on him and he almost fell again under their scrutiny.

"You disappoint me, child," she said. "I have no words to adequately explain how greatly you disappoint me."

"I know," he whispered under his breath, too quietly for her to hear.

Water. He could make everything new again—better even than it was—if only he had water enough. Water and floor and brush.

#

No matter how hard he tugged on the rope, the bucket would not rise.

"It's broken," said the little boy, so mournfully Sebastian once again felt the damnable prickle of tears burn his eyes.

He pulled again, so firmly the rope scraped at his palms, but to no avail.

"Everything's broken."

Sebastian shook his head, unwilling to release the rope. Every muscle in his arms burned, and the ache in his chest magnified. Still he pulled. Still he struggled.

"You have to come with me."

"No," Sebastian said. "I have to… it's… I have to make it right. I have to make it good. I can't leave things like this."

The child repeated, "You have to come with me."

Bowing his head, Sebastian tried once more to raise the bucket, and once again failed. Then, with a heavy sigh almost—almost but not quite—like a cry, he opened his hands. His palms were abraded and raw, and the rope fell to the ground with a heavy thump. The sound echoed in his skull.

It sounded like disappointment.

It sounded like failure.

A third time, the little boy insisted, "You have to come with me."

Sebastian turned, harsh words—cruel words—on his lips, only to feel them wither and die under the weight of that sorrowful blue gaze. The child extended his little hand, and before he could stop himself, Sebastian took it. The clammy, cold fingers stung his lacerated palms, and his stomach turned.

When the boy tugged his hand, he followed. He hardly even felt the pain.

"What did she say to you?"

Sebastian frowned. "She told me not to interfere."

"Not her. The other one. In there." The child squeezed his hand, and Sebastian winced at the pain. "I don't like her."

"Her Grace is—"

"I don't like her."

Before Sebastian could speak again, the little boy jerked on his hand, pulling him sharply down one of the garden paths. Sebastian tried to follow the route, but nothing made sense. He'd thought these ways familiar. He'd walked every path in the chantry gardens dozens of times. And yet this was new. The trees bent at strange angles, and the flowers were ones he'd never seen, never named. He could not bring himself to look upon the purple sky, with all its shadows.

And then everything was wrong, because the boy stopped, and Sebastian was forced to stop with him.

In front of them, a body lay on a pyre.

Red hair spilled over still shoulders. Long lashes lay motionless against pale cheeks, but he knew the eyes beneath were grey. He knew the curve of shoulder and arm and waist. He recognized the shape of those folded hands, though he was more accustomed to seeing them wrapped around the grip of a bow.

No, Sebastian thought, too stunned to speak the words aloud. Pleaded. No, I must speak with her. I must make my peace. No.

The boy released his hand, walking over to the funeral pyre. He did not glance back at Sebastian as he bent, retrieving a branch. He didn't turn until he'd set the torch alight. The fire cast long shadows, sending strange, flickering light dancing across the—

"No," Sebastian whispered, backing slowly away. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the bier, from the body laid upon it, from the stacks of kindling waiting to be lit. The little boy stood his ground, lips curved in a cruel little smile as he waved his torch in a broad arc. "This isn't—this can't be—I… I must pray. I have to pray. The Maker—the Maker will—"

"He'll ignore you, just as He's always done," said the little boy, his tone belying his years. "Just as she did, in the end. No one listens, Sebastian. Haven't you learned that yet? No one listens when you speak. No one ever has."

Sebastian turned, already whispering the words of the Chant beneath his breath, already pleading for the Maker to intercede.

Blessed be the souls.

But not her.

Not yet.

Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to His right hand.

Leaving the boy behind, the Grand Cleric's disappointment already forgotten, tormented by the scene he'd left behind him (he thought—had he dreamed it?—he thought he remembered hearing someone say she'd come through the battle—battle?—safely), Sebastian retraced his steps through the twisted garden, already lost in prayer, already imagining himself kneeling before that great golden statue in the nave. He heard the child cry out, but he did not stop.

He could not. Not until, through prayer, through pleading, his world began once again to make sense.

He only hoped such a thing wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.