KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON

It was beyond late when Sebastian returned from the Wounded Coast, but he wasn't tired. Oh, he was weary, and his muscles ached in the way muscles could only ache after fierce combat, but he was too exhilarated to be tired. He could stand before a practice butt, shooting quiver after quiver after quiver, and he'd never be able to recapture the thrill of actual battle, the heat in the blood, the roar in the ears, the fierce joy of living and fighting and surviving.

The Chantry stood atop its mountain of stone steps, silent and oddly forbidding. It was long past the hour when the great front doors would be open, so Sebastian hesitated only a moment before deciding to forgo the knocking that would see the doors opened—and half the chantry roused from rest. Instead, he went around the side, slipping silent as a shadow through the gardens. The moon was full and bright overhead, and the path familiar enough he needed no other light.

Night-blooming jasmine mingled with astringent elfroot and the sweeter perfume of Andraste's Grace, and Sebastian paused to inhale deeply. Hunkering down, he plucked a sprig of the moon-pale flower, raising it to his nose. It was a Fereldan bloom, he knew, rare in the Marches. Its scent was subtler than the overwhelming jasmine, but all the lovelier for it.

I wonder if Hawke would like…

Stung by the thought, the flower dropped from Sebastian's cold fingers. No, he told himself firmly, glancing up at the moon as though it could help. Or perhaps for fear it might judge. You're helping her. You're repaying the debt you owe for her aid, nothing more. You are doing good work. But thoughts of flowers are thoughts for a different man. Enough.

Sebastian left his shame and his fancy in the garden and retreated to his cell. The hallways were empty, though he was well aware the chantry—especially a chantry as large as Kirkwall's—never slept, not entirely. In the kitchens, initiates would already be baking the morning's bread. In the chapel, one of the Mothers would be leading a few stalwarts in the Chant; the nave was never permitted to fall entirely silent. A few templars would be patrolling, cursing the luck that had given them night duty. Down in the archives, many elders read all day and night, oblivious to the rise and set of sun and moon, lost in their histories and scrolls and tomes.

And he was awake, of course, taking the lesser-used paths to his room, suddenly all too conscious of the blood on his armor and the bow on his back. Part of the world around him, yet separate from it, too. There were no others in the chantry quite like him. The thought made him both uncomfortable and somehow sad.

His cell was small and sparsely decorated, but the familiarity of the single bed, the candle on the bedside table, and the weathered wardrobe that had likely started its long life in a noble's household soothed him. Where the smallness had once felt constricting, now he felt comforted; this room was far too small to contain fanciful thoughts or extraneous belongings. Much as he'd resented it in the beginning, it was home to him now, and there was always succor to be found in returning home.

After unstringing his bow and checking it for any weaknesses, Sebastian divested himself of his nearly-empty quiver and began stripping himself of his bloodied armor. It was part of the cleverness of the design—and likely the cost—that he required no squire to aid him. A prince in a palace might have any number of squires or pages to help with such things, but a brother of the Chantry had only himself. You are still a Vael, his father had said the day he presented the armor. You will at least look the part. You can do that much for us, after everything else you've done. And so the clasps and buckles were easily enough handled by one. He removed the breastplate first, checking it for scratches and nicks, but the white enamel was unsullied under the smears of blood. Not his own, thankfully, and not that of his companions. One slaver had come too close, and Sebastian had been forced to end the man with a blade instead of an arrow.

If you're going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye, his father—a swordsman—had told him after he'd proven, yet again, how pitifully useless he was with a blade. If it hadn't been a blunted practice sword, Sebastian would have found himself thirteen years old and minus his left foot. A shaft at a hundred paces is the next best thing to craven. A real prince, nay, a real man should—

That's enough, Sebastian's grandfather had said, his voice cold and measured and impossible to argue with. You would not say those words to me, Lachlan, and I will not hear them said to the lad. Don't listen to him, Sebastian. The bow is the wise man's weapon. You can defend your city without opening its gates. Your father would do well to remember such things.

But Lachlan Vael had never truly forgiven his youngest son for having no talent for the blade. Even now, years later, with his father dead by treachery and mercenary hands—and how that pain still ached—the wound left by those words still stung. Admonishing himself for hanging on to the trappings of his past, even in the form of sore old memories, Sebastian recited verses about forgiveness and compassion and the Maker's love for all His children while he removed bracers and greaves and polished them all to their white-glow shine.

The belt came next. He frowned at the blood-stained face of Andraste. She seemed mournful, and he remembered the mage's japes about having the bride of the Maker's face between his legs. He'd dismissed the words at first. The mage's humor was often cruel, Sebastian noted. He hardly knew the man, but already he suspected no love would be lost between them. He supposed Hawke had a soft spot for mages, considering her sister, but Anders was nothing like Amelle, and he often wondered just why Hawke allowed him to stay, to be part of her strange little group of misfits. Sebastian could see the hate seething behind the blond mage's eyes, and whatever the spirit was that inhabited his body, it was too angry to be called Justice.

Now, however, he wondered if the mage hadn't had a point. Father's japes were often amusing only to himself. Perhaps this, too, was one of those unpleasant jests. After embarrassing himself and the Vael name with every barmaid this side of the Minanter—also Lachlan Vael's words—perhaps it had seemed a jest too great to pass up.

My father had this commissioned when I took my vows as a brother, he'd told the mage proudly. And he had been proud. Always, always his wretched pride came back to haunt him. But even as he gently washed the sticky blood from Andraste's face, he imagined his father saying to the armorer this is the last lady my wastrel son will have between his legs, Maker be praised. At least there'll be no bastards fathered on this one, to make Angus' life a trial.

"Begone, dark thoughts," Sebastian said aloud into his tiny room. His voice echoed oddly in the small space. "He said nothing of the kind."

As he shrugged out of the heavy mail coat, Sebastian realized all the elation of the battle had gone from him entirely, leaving only weariness and a touch of horror that he'd let himself get so caught up. And sorrow. Always sorrow. It held hands with regret and whispered melancholy things, just beyond his hearing.

He supposed he ought to have been surprised when, just as he was preparing to crawl into his bed and douse the candle, a soft knock interrupted him. He thought about not answering. He thought about pretending to be asleep.

Then he realized he was no longer a sullen adolescent boy, and he rose to answer.

Grand Cleric Elthina stood in the hallway, still in her full regalia, but with her grey hair loose about her shoulders. Her smile was fond and sad at the same time, and he knew she'd thought the door would not open. "Your Grace," he said, bowing his head. "How can I be of service? Is there trouble?"

"You tell me, child," she replied. "Walk with me?"

It was not a command. The Grand Cleric rarely commanded anyone, though she would have been well within her rights to do so. Had he said, no I am too weary she would have inclined her head and left him to his rest. Sebastian toyed with saying just such a thing, but almost as quickly discarded the idea. "A moment, Your Grace," he said at last, retreating within to retrieve one of his seldom-worn robes from the wardrobe. He shivered slightly as he drew the folds of fabric down over his head. The clothing smelled stale, and for a moment he wished he'd not dropped the sprig of Andraste's Grace back in the garden.

In a way, his wish was granted. Once he was decently attired, he followed Elthina as she retraced the steps he'd walked earlier. When they reached the garden entrance, he darted ahead and held the door open for her. Again she smiled her fond, sad smile, and again he shivered, oddly uneasy.

Still silent, Elthina ghosted through the garden, her grey hair silvering in the moonlight. She chose the bench nearest the large patch of Andraste's Grace and sat. After a moment, she patted the seat next to her. Even with her face in darkness, he knew she was imploring him to follow. He did so, but with trepidation. The scent of Andraste's Grace was near to overpowering, and he shamefully remembered the thoughts he'd entertained earlier. Let all repeat the Chant of Light. Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us.

"You were missed at evensong," Elthina said lightly. Already itching with anxious thoughts about why the Grand Cleric might be seeking him out so late, Sebastian's gut twisted with sudden guilt.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. We were—I was—"

"You mistake me, Sebastian. My intention was neither to chide nor condemn. Only to inform. You were with Kiara Hawke?"

Her tone held no accusation, but still he felt himself bristle. When he spoke, his voice was tight with barely-controlled anger, "You know I was, Your Grace. If you've something to say—"

"Again, you mistake me, child. I cannot deny this conversation has been a long time in coming, but it does not have to be one filled with recriminations. You imagine I am angry with you, or disappointed, or upset."

"Are you not? You disapprove, Your Grace."

"Do I?" she asked. "It seems you would have this conversation without my input at all, Sebastian, but I am not sure the words you would put in my mouth are the right ones."

All kinds of words bubbled up at this, tumbling over each other in their desire to be spoken, but none of them were altogether suitable, so Sebastian held his tongue. Not without difficulty.

"I believe you expect disappointment from me because you are disappointed in yourself. Be wary of such judgements, child."

He closed his eyes and searched for something to bolster him, to lift his flagging spirits. Instead, he remembered the light going out of the dying slaver's eyes. Our cause is righteous! he'd cried. Maker give us strength!

If you're going to kill a man, you should look him in the eye.

He didn't know if he was disappointed with himself for enjoying the fight, or for taking the life, or for wishing he might be asked along on another of Hawke's missions soon, but he knew the Grand Cleric was right: he was disappointed in himself. This is not the work of a brother of the faith. It is not even the work of a templar. The Maker's work is in the Chantry, not following a red-haired rogue into madness.

And yet, he could not remember the last time he'd felt so blessedly alive.

He heard the Grand Cleric's back creak as she bent to pluck a stem of the Andraste's Grace growing all around the legs of the bench. Elthina raised the flower to her nose and smiled as she sniffed it. "Andraste's Grace," she said quietly. "A big name for such a little flower. They say it grows like a weed in Ferelden."

"I have heard the same, Your Grace."

"You always were one for courtesy, child. Even when you were creeping out of the Chantry in the dark of night to go on one of your… adventures, you were always polite about it."

"Those days are over."

"Are they?" she asked in the same level, infuriating tone. "Tell me, Sebastian, when does it end?"

"Your Grace?"

"First it was the mercenaries who killed your family. Then it was the Harrimans, who hired the mercenaries who killed your family. You have had your revenge. The book on your family's untimely end has been closed. Yet still you were missed at evensong, and you return to the Maker's house in the dead of night, covered in blood."

"I… I owe her a debt. I promised…"

Even in the darkness, there was no mistaking the sharpness in Elthina's gaze. "You have promised any number of people any number of things these past years, Sebastian."

"She helped me when no one else would."

"And the Maker? Has He not helped you? Did you not trust He would see justice done?" On Sebastian's sullen silence, she continued, "You were impatient, child. I know it. I cannot say I approved of that, certainly, though I have since been reminded it is not my place to either judge or condemn. Sometimes I forget you are so young."

"I am hardly—"

"To a woman so old she can no longer remember what color her hair wore before it took to grey entirely, you are very young, Prince Sebastian Vael."

Brother Sebastian, he wanted to correct her. But then he remembered the feeling of fighting the slavers on the Coast, every nerve singing with the pure joy of being alive, the arrow pulled to his cheek and its song as it arced away from him to hit its target squarely, the way Hawke smiled at him afterward and laughed and told him he was welcome at The Hanged Man, drinks were on her, but he—

—He could not correct Elthina, and he knew she noticed.

"My windows overlook the gardens," she said, and he frowned at the strange non-sequitur. A moment later her meaning became clear. "Doubtless you wonder why I chose to have this conversation with you tonight, as well you might. I saw you come through the garden. You were humming. You stopped beneath the jasmine and I saw you smile in the moonlight. You looked happier in that moment than I have seen you look in years, Sebastian, and it broke my heart a little, because I know now you no longer belong here."

His breath caught in his chest, and he felt cold—suddenly, wretchedly, impossibly cold—from his head to his heels. Then his heart began racing and he caught at the edge of the seat, clenching the wood so tightly between his palms that he was certain splinters would be left behind. "Grand Cleric—Elthina—Your Grace, no. This is my home. I… regret, you know I regret—"

She settled one small, thin hand over his. Her skin was papery fine and smooth and soft, and the feel of it against his made him want to cry. For some reason he was reminded of his grandfather, smiling his sad smile and saying the Maker ordained a place for each of us. We have only to serve.

"But you do not regret, Sebastian. In your heart of hearts, you are glad you set aside your vows in order to avenge your family."

"I… Andraste forgive me, Grand Cleric, I cannot deny it."

"I know, child. I know. You have pleaded with me, begged me to allow you to return to the ranks of the initiates, but… Sebastian, it pains me to say so, but I will not allow it. Not now. Likely not ever."

He felt tears well in his eyes, but before he could raise his voice in protest, she continued gently, "You will always have a home here. You will always be welcome. Your room will be yours as long as you care to use it. It will always warm my heart to hear your voice lifted in the Chant."

"But you will not call me Brother."

Elthina nodded, squeezing his hand. "Those days are gone. That boy left and a new one returned."

Sebastian hunched forward, feeling somehow as though the Grand Cleric's words had wormed their way within him. His stomach ached with them, and he wanted nothing more than to put his fingers in his ears and scream, as if screaming might drown them out.

"What… what can I do to prove my sincerity, Your Grace? What do you want from me?"

"Oh, Sebastian," she sighed. "I want nothing from you but your honesty."

"But I am honest with you, Your Grace. You have heard all my sorrows and all my joys and all my torment. I have hidden nothing from you, I swear it."

"Ahh, but it is not for me I desire honesty, Sebastian. I want you to be honest with yourself."

Sebastian swallowed past the knot of emotion in his throat, and once again did not trust himself to speak. Elthina patted his hand gently and rose, settling the tiny white flower in her place upon the bench. "What I said so long ago still holds true, Sebastian. People serve the Maker in many ways. You don't need to take vows to do his work. And you don't need to live in misery because you foreswore the ones you took and broke; the Maker works mysteriously. As we see evidence daily."

"Forgive me, Grand Cleric. I—please. Forgive me."

"It is not my forgiveness you require. Just as it is not honesty for my sake I wish to see. Let the Maker guide you."

"I swear I will be—I will do as I—I will make you proud, Grand Cleric."

Elthina bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "My dear boy. My dear, brave, bold, weathervane boy. Listen to yourself."

Then she turned, and began her walk back to the chantry. Sebastian watched her go. Reaching over, he retrieved the sprig of Andraste's Grace, but he did not raise it to his nose to admire the scent. "Grant me a little of your grace, blessed Andraste," he whispered. "Grant me a little of your strength. This is but a test, I know. Blessed Andraste, help me weather it."

But it was not Andraste's smooth, serene face he saw when he closed his eyes. It was Hawke's, impish and laughing.

#

Several days later, Sebastian was wandering about the chapel replacing burnt out candle ends with fresh tapers when Hawke found him. She was dressed in leathers, her bright hair pulled back and gleaming in the firelight. She grinned when she saw him, and he felt his stomach twist uncomfortably at the sight. This is but a test. Oh, sweet Andraste, give me strength.

"Just the man I was looking for," she said lightly. "Tall, dark and devilish with a bow. Fancy some target practice? On slavers?"

"Not this time," he replied, a little too cool, a little too sharp.

Her eyes widened, and he couldn't miss the sting. She even tilted her face a little, as though his words had reached out and slapped her. "Oh," she replied, her cheeks too pink and her bluster gone.

He swallowed hard, ignoring her discomfiture though it pained him to know he was the source of it. "I have shirked my duties here too often of late. I cannot always be coming and going on little errands. There is the Maker's work to be done."

"Oh," she repeated again, trying and failing to hide her disappointment. "I—I'm sorry. I understand. I won't—sorry, Sebastian."

As Hawke walked away, Sebastian glanced up and saw Elthina's eyes on him. What he saw on her face wounded him, but not half so much as he knew he'd just wounded Kiara Hawke. In spite of all her pleas, the Grand Cleric knew as well as he did that what she'd just witnessed was the farthest thing in the world from honest.

Again his stomach twisted, but he ignored it, turning back to light the candles.

There is the Maker's work to be done.

#

Though he was loath to admit it, Sebastian was bored.

He had given up petitioning the Grand Cleric for a return to his former duties—leading the Chant, hearing confession, guiding the novices toward initiation—because every time he asked, the pain on her face as she said no grew stronger and sadder. When he realized words were insufficient to the task of proving his sincerity, he began to focus on deeds. He volunteered for the lowliest tasks, cooking and cleaning and scrubbing mud-stained floors—things he'd secretly always considered beneath him—and he performed them ably, without complaint. He spent more hours working with the poor and the needy than he ever had before, walking the streets of Darktown, offering food and prayer and aid where he could. He even put aside his white armor, draping the armor stand with a sheet. His bow and quiver he pushed to the back of his wardrobe, behind freshly-procured robes. They were robes of the affirmed but not the initiated; given Elthina's intractability, he'd felt to wear the robes of Brother Sebastian would have been an insult. The initiated took vows and did not break them. He no longer deserved to be seen as one of them. He did not need Elthina's sad eyes to tell him that much.

It had been weeks—almost months—fifty-eight days—since the last time he'd spoken to Hawke. I—I'm sorry. I understand. I won't—sorry, Sebastian. He'd thought he'd seen her bright hair at services once or twice, but he'd left before he could recognize her—or before she could recognize him. It's better this way. After a time, he no longer saw that familiar hair, and he wasn't entirely certain if it was disappointment or relief he felt more strongly.

He heard tales of her exploits from time to time; even those sworn to do the Maker's work still found time for idle gossip. The templars talked of more unrest at the Gallows. More and more people—chantry-folk and congregants alike—spoke of the Arishok in hushed voices, and too often Hawke was mentioned there, too. On one of his visits, Knight-Captain Cullen lit a candle for one of his brethren, a man named Emeric, and asked Sebastian to add his name to the memorial wall. When Sebastian asked how the man perished, Cullen went strange and silent. "You mustn't have been with Hawke that day. You should count your blessings," was Cullen's only response, before bending his head in prayer and marked dismissal.

Sebastian sometimes wondered if anyone would bother telling him if something happened to Hawke, or if he would have to find out from gossips and strangers. The thought raised all kinds of doubts, all kinds of conflicting, maddening emotions, and Sebastian spent the better part of a week afterward in silent meditation, pleading for Andraste to intercede and remove such distractions.

You are here to do the Maker's work. Not Kiara Hawke's.

It was his voice in his head, however. Not Andraste's.

Occasionally Sebastian saw Fenris in the chapel proper, kneeling in one of the back pews, but he couldn't bring himself to approach the elf; he always made himself scarce as soon as he saw the shock of white hair bent in prayer. It was craven of him, he knew, but he knew he could not open the door. The desire to return to Hawke's side, to her band of adventurers, was too strong, and he'd worked too hard to prove his worth to Elthina.

You can't have both. You always were greedy. Greedy, and proud, and selfish; all the reasons your parents couldn't abide to keep you at court. No wonder the Grand Cleric won't have you back. Words and deeds mean nothing when she knows the secrets of your heart.

And in his heart, Sebastian was bored.

Late one rainy evening—he knew it was raining because everyone who'd entered the chantry for hours had dragged mud and filth in on their boots, and the floors were wretchedly dirty because of it—as Sebastian was scrubbing floors in the nave, he felt the peculiar sensation of being watched. All the hairs on his arms stood, and a prickle at the nape of his neck had him suddenly wishing for his white armor and his bow. At first when he looked up to see whose eyes were doing the watching, he saw nothing. The nave was as empty as it had been before he started working. The prickle, however, did not disappear, and when he looked closer, he saw a cloaked figure standing in the long shadow cast by one of the pillars. He almost thought he recognized the cloak, though it had no particular distinguishing features.

Hawke.

Whomever it was startled when he looked up, and shifted behind the pillar. Not Hawke. She would never have jumped like that. Rising, Sebastian's hands itched for a bow—even a knife—but instead he held the scrub-brush like a cudgel. "Who are you?" he said, his voice echoing in the empty nave. Beyond, in the chapel, he could hear the faint strains of the Chant, but it was late, and the Mother was singing only to Andraste and the Maker—there were no congregants present.

"I have only to shout and this room will be flooded with templars," Sebastian lied. "Who are you, and why do you come in secrecy?"

The figure stepped out from behind the pillar. It was still cloaked, hood pulled up to hide the features beneath, but Sebastian was certain from the narrow shoulders it was either a woman or an elf. Fenris? He discarded the thought; Fenris would never hide his face here, and his swordcraft had given him broader shoulders than many of his less warlike fellows.

The hood looked all about before pale hands emerged to push back the heavy, rain-soaked fabric.

Sebastian blinked, and lowered his scrub-brush. "Amelle?"

Hawke's sister put a finger to her lips. She looked… she looked horrible, Sebastian had to admit. Her face was blotchy from what could only be tears—a great many tears—and her hands trembled as she lowered them again. The circles under her eyes were so dark he had to look twice to make certain they were not bruises, but the rest of her face was deathly pale.

"Oh, Maker," he breathed, going suddenly cold. His stomach twisted so painfully he nearly bent over. Only willpower kept him firmly upright. "It's your sister."

The girl's green eyes widened. "No, no, it's not Kiara. Well, it is. But it's not what you think. I'm sorry—I didn't think how it might look to you. No, Sebastian, Kiara is… she's alive."

"Is she ill? Is she wounded? Amelle—"

She hushed him gently. "Please, Sebastian. I—shouldn't be found here. Not alone. It's too dangerous. But I…" she drifted off, gazing past him, toward the glowing chapel and the great golden statue of Andraste at the far end. Her lips quavered and, very suddenly, she began to cry.

They were not gentle tears, or quiet ones. They were great, heavy, wracking sobs, and—everything else forgotten—Sebastian dropped his scrub-brush in a clatter and crossed to the weeping mage in three long strides, tucking her into an embrace and muffling her tears against his shoulder. When the sobs began to subside, he said, "Amelle, please. Tell me."

He felt her swallow hard, her breath still hitching on every inhale. He waited patiently as she struggled to calm herself. No one had appeared to ask about the noise, though, and he thanked the Maker for small mercies. Finally she gave a little shudder in his arms and pushed back against his hands, so she could stand before him. She didn't look up to meet his eyes, but she reached out and touched the damp spot she'd left on his robe. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice gone oddly hollow. "Did you… I don't suppose you heard about our mother?"

He'd met Lady Amell only a handful of times, and then briefly, but he knew her to be kind and loving and fiercely proud of her daughters. "I'm sorry," Sebastian said, "I… haven't. Has something happened? Do you need help?"

Amelle took a shuddering breath before saying, "She was murdered. S-several days ago."

"Maker. Amelle, I—"

Amelle's eyes flashed up to meet his, and there was something sharp and icy and so very wounded in their depths. "I don't think the Maker had much to do with it." Then her face fell again, taking the moment of anger and defiance with it. "I don't… I don't… I've tried everything. I don't know what else to do."

He wanted to speak, but he knew no platitudes or condolences would console the kind of raw grief he saw on her pretty, tear-stained face. "I am so sorry, Amelle," he said at last, feeling the insufficiency of his words even as he spoke them. "I know… I know how meager it sounds, but I will pray for her."

Scrubbing the sleeve of her dress over her cheeks, Amelle sniffled again and shook her head. "It's not… it's not Mother, Sebastian. Wherever she… she's gone, now. I know that. It hurts, Maker, it hurts, but it's not… it's Kiara."

In a flash, he remembered the first mad days after he'd heard about his own family. Even now, great swathes of time were gone from his memory, lost to seething rage and grief so deep he'd half-thought he'd die of it himself. Shaking his head to rid himself of the persistent images, he said gently, "Grief doesn't look the same on every face. She's grieving. As you are. "

But Amelle was already shaking her head, her mussed up hair glinting in the candlelight. "No. Not as I am. It's… different. It's bad. I've never seen her like this before, not ever. Not even close. Not when Papa died. Not even with Carver. She won't eat, she doesn't sleep, she won't bathe. She sits in her room and stares at a fire she builds so high and so hot I'm half-afraid she'll burn the house down. She doesn't cry. Why doesn't she cry? I… she lets me sit with her, and sometimes she'll speak, but… it's not enough. Everyone… I thought she might talk to Aveline, but Aveline said Kiara only nodded and turned away. Half the time… it's like she's not even there. Her eyes are empty. She let Fenris sit with her for an evening, but once he'd gone she locked her bedroom door and didn't come out for almost a day. I… I know grief, I do. But this…"

Amelle wrapped her arms tight around herself, but even then he could see her shivering. "I don't know what to do," she repeated. "But I feel like I'm losing her, too, and I can't… I can't bear it, Sebastian."

Why me? he nearly asked. Hawke hasn't spoken to me—I haven't spoken to Hawke—in fifty-eight days.

But then, looking at her face, he knew: she had tried everyone else. He was the last resort, turned to because she was already near-hopeless. She thought he would fail as all the others had failed, but she couldn't give up without trying.

He knew how that felt. It had once led to broken vows and a notice on a Chanter's Board.

Sebastian reached out and touched Amelle's shoulder lightly. She still jumped, uneasy and on edge. "I don't know if I can help in any way, Amelle, but I will come. Let me grab my cloak."

In his room, his quiet little room with its quiet little life, he shucked the robe and dressed in simple tunic and trousers. He glanced at the draped armor-stand, but ignored it; there was no time, and he was not going facing that kind of battle with Hawke this time. He did pull his bow and quiver from the wardrobe, however, before sweeping a cloak over the lot. It felt good, almost right, to have his weapon to hand once more. He didn't linger on the thought.

Amelle was once again standing in the shadow of the pillar when he returned. "No one came," she said. "It's… it's so quiet here at night. But there's still singing. It's so… it's peaceful, isn't it?"

Peaceful, aye, he thought, but still the secrets of his heart betrayed him. And too quiet. Dull. It's not enough.

Elthina had said I know you no longer belong here and he'd fought it, kicking and screaming and unwilling to fail yet one more time to meet the expectations set out for him by his dead family. I failed at being a prince. If I fail at being a priest, what's left?

Be a friend, whispered a voice in his head. It was soft but insistent, and he found himself glancing backward at the statue of Andraste. He couldn't see her face, but he thought she was smiling.

"It is peaceful," he agreed.

"It almost makes me wish…" she trailed off, shaking her head and pulling up her hood once more. "Never mind. We should go."

He followed at her heels, with the words be a friend echoing in his head.

#

The rain was torrential. The walk from the chantry to the Hawke estate was not an overly long one, but by the time Amelle pushed the heavy door open, they were both sodden. The discomfort of dampness, however, was nothing to the all-pervasive feeling of despair hanging over the house. It was palpable, tainting every breath, like smoke or poison in the air. Everything felt somehow muffled, as though even the crackle of the fire or the whine of the mabari was being heard through water.

"She's in her room," Amelle said, after Bodahn had taken their cloaks and fetched them towels to dry their hair. "It's… it's the one at the top of the stairs. Not… not the one to the left."

When he asked if she was coming with him, she shook her head firmly. "Better if she doesn't feel like we're ganging up on her. I-I'll be downstairs, though. I'll hear you if you call."

He didn't want to contemplate what reason he might have to call, but instead of bringing attention to it, he simply nodded.

The feeling of despair only grew heavier as he took the steps upstairs. He found himself blinking more rapidly as if to clear blurry eyes, though of course the feeling was not physical. He blinked all the same, and found himself oddly uneasy when the miasma of grief did not abate.

When he reached the upper level the door to his left was shut tight, but the one straight ahead was open a crack and he could see firelight blazing from within. Hawke. Still, he knocked, and waited for the weary, "Oh, come in," before entering.

Whatever Amelle's description had prepared him for, it was not as bad as the truth he witnessed with his own eyes. Hawke sat before a fire indeed stoked too high and too hot. Fresh from the cool rain outdoors, he found sweat beading on his brow and his upper lip almost instantly. From the doorway, he could see her profile, and he was alarmed to see her pale skin was still freckled with dark spots that could only be blood. The leather armor she wore was also blood-soaked, though of course the stains were hard and dry and dark. A tray of uneaten food sat on a little table to her right, and even the wine appeared untouched. Only her eyes moved when she looked up to see him lingering at the boundary between her room and the hall.

"Last but not least, the proselytizing prince," Hawke jibed, her words all the more cruel because he knew at once she wasn't drunk, as he'd almost expected her to be. Not drunk, but drained. After a moment, she bent her head again, as though it took too much effort to keep it lifted.

Sebastian winced at her words, but didn't retreat. He was haunted by the memory of Amelle's wide, tear-filled eyes, and the hopelessness in them. "May I enter?"

"Not this time," Hawke said, repeating his own words so coldly he couldn't help the shiver that ran the length of his spine, though the room was far, far too hot, and the sweat had grown from beads to trickles. But before he could step back into the hallway, she flicked her fingertips at the chair opposite her. "Forgive my rudeness. Sit. Stay. You've come all this way, after all. It wouldn't do to turn you away out of hand."

Her meaning was clear, but he did not remark on it. Indeed, he knew he deserved some reprisal for the way he'd dismissed her at their last meeting. Trying not to show his hesitation, Sebastian crossed the room and sat. The chairs were pulled closely enough together that if he moved too quickly his knees would brush hers. This near, he could plainly see the blood on her face and matting her hair—Maker, it must have been a horrific battle. And where was I? Where was I when she was fighting for her life? She leaned heavily on her elbows, but her hands hung limp at the wrists; they, too, were still blood-stained.

After several minutes of silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the sound of their breathing—Hawke's a little ragged, his near-silent—he said, "I am sorry about your mother."

Nothing changed. Hawke's expression remained fixed and blank, staring at the ground two feet away from her. Her hands still hung loose; her eyes hardly blinked. He knew then what Amelle had meant when she said it's like she's not even there. But after another agony of silence, Hawke repeated hollowly, "You are sorry about my mother," and then she raised her eyes to his. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw fire in their depths; he would rather have her raging than numb. Numb was too close to dead. "You are sorry about my mother? What in the bloody Void was she to you?"

The mother of my friend, he almost said. But then he remembered the cool way he'd turned away from her, and the way he'd done his best to avoid her and hers in the time since, and he knew friend was the wrong word. She wouldn't believe it.

When he made no immediate reply, the heat in her voice grew. "You are sorry about my mother. But what do you know, Sebastian? Nothing. Less than nothing. You know she died? Maybe you know she was murdered? You didn't see the monster that fucking necromancer made of her. You don't know anything. 'I will offer my service to you here before I move on' you promised me, oh, but you left out all the caveats. How was I to know? Where were you when this was happening? Lighting bloody candles? Singing songs to the kind of god who'd allow… who… oh, Maker, Sebastian, you don't know. I close my eyes and I see her. The thick black stitches holding her together, her head a little crooked, her limbs all askew, with someone else's hands and—and he wanted her for her face. If we're all the Maker's children, how could He have let something like that happen to one of His daughters? She lost her husband and her home and her son and that bastard wanted her for her face."

Heedless of their filth, Hawke raised her bloody hands and hid her own face. She didn't weep. She sat before him, breathing heavily, looking small and brittle and ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. If he'd never seen her impish and grinning, with a hand on one hip and her bow in the other, he'd never have believed it possible, looking at this woman breathing into her bloody hands. My brave Hawke. What have they done to you?

He rose silently, leaving her to her hands. A full ewer of water stood untouched on the sideboard, next to an empty basin, fresh soap, and clean towels. Sebastian brought the lot to the hearth. The room was so warm the tepid water almost felt cool as he poured it into the basin.

When he turned to face her, he found Hawke once again watching him, but the fire had gone, replaced by wariness. I can work with that, too.

Sebastian soaped his hands. It smelled of cedar and roses and Hawke. Then he turned, and, kneeling at her feet, took one of Hawke's hands in his. She twitched, almost pulling away, and then her shoulders slumped even more and she bent her head until her chin rested on her chest. He didn't speak. He scrubbed at every inch of bared skin, rinsed her hand, and scrubbed it again. When he put the first hand back on the arm of the chair, Hawke shuddered and her neck snapped up again. She glared at the clean hand as if it had somehow betrayed her, and curled the still-filthy one close to her heart.

"I do not require coddling," she snapped at him. "Don't you understand? It's my fault."

"It isn't," he said, running the soap between his hands once again. When he reached out, she hesitated. Soapy water dripped from his fingers to the floor drip drip drip, oddly loud. Then, almost angrily, she thrust her bloody hand at him and let him begin the process all over again. This time, however, she spoke as he worked, and her words came rushed and stumbling, as though she couldn't believe what she was saying.

"Mother and I weren't seeing eye to eye," she admitted. "We hardly spoke for arguing, these past weeks. She wanted me to give up my 'adventuring' in order to step into the role of lady, complete with husband and fat grandbabies and servants and silks. I wasn't ready to hang up my bow in favor of dance steps and dinner parties, and I told her so. She tried to push me toward this nobleman's son or that noblewoman's nephew, always pushing, pushing, pushing and so I made a point of being away as much as possible. I… expecting more drivel about growing up or… finding a nice boy or… I just stopped listening. I stopped paying attention. Poor Mely, Mother can't—couldn't push her the same way, you know, because of the bloody magic, but she was still caught in between. I was going out more and more so of course Amelle came with me more and more and Mother was here alone and some bastard took her, Sebastian, he stole her and he, and he—it's my fault. I got… I got a tiny taste of glory and I… I didn't want to stop. And she paid the price, Sebastian, not me. She did."

As he finished toweling dry the second hand, Hawke stopped abruptly, staring at them. Then her hands began to shake. He folded them between his larger hands, surprised, in truth, at how small they seemed.

"You can have regrets, Hawke, but you cannot blame yourself."

She jerked her hands away from him and shot forward in her seat to push hard against his chest. He fell backward, tailbone aching, but didn't move, didn't even blink.

"It's my fault!"

"It isn't," he repeated. On her knees beside him now, she pushed at him again, but it was weaker, and she left her palms flat against his chest, her head bowed between her outstretched arms. When he reached for her hands, she didn't pull away or protest, and he squeezed them once before settling them back at her sides. She sat heavily on the floor next to him, pulling her knees close to her chest and wrapping her arms tight around them.

He dipped one corner of a towel in the water and lathered it with soap before turning to face her once again, this time cross-legged. When he put one hand under her chin and raised her face, they were almost eye to eye. Slowly, gently, he began to clean the blood from her face, and as he did so, she began to cry.

She won't eat, she doesn't sleep, she won't bathe. She sits in her room and stares at a fire she builds so high and so hot I'm half-afraid she'll burn the house down. She doesn't cry. Why doesn't she cry?

Unlike Amelle's sobs in the chantry, Hawke's were silent tears. She didn't heave or shake or shudder, but the tears ran freely, without stopping, dripping from her chin to her bloody jerkin. Sebastian didn't remark on them, but he caught some with his cloth before they fell, and Hawke leaned into his hand.

"It doesn't get easier," he said softly, sweeping the cloth from temple to cheekbone to chin. "People say that, but it's not quite true. It's not easier. It's different. We learn to bear it. We adapt. We grow around the pain, but the pain is still there. Some days you hate the Maker with every fiber of your being. Other days you don't. Some mornings you'll wake and you'll forget, and when you remember, when you see the empty chair or unused teacup or go to speak to someone who cannot be found, it will hurt all over again. It will be a fist in your gut every time, but again, you learn to bear it, you adapt, you grow around the pain that's still always going to be there. It takes less effort each time, but it's never easier, and you never forget."

The blood was gone from her face now, but he wrung the cloth out and dabbed at her still-flowing tears.

"But most of all," Sebastian continued carefully, "you remember. You remember the things you loved, you remember the things that brought you joy. You remember that your mother would never blame you the way you're blaming yourself, and that it would sadden her to see you this way. Because I may have only met her a few times, but she glowed with love for you, and she wouldn't want this."

"I know," Hawke murmured brokenly. "I know that, but I can't… I can't stop. The what ifs and if onlys. They're tangled and tangled and tangled. I get lost in them."

"It's like a maze," he agreed, "and every path sings a sweet song, promising redemption, promising hope, promising things that cannot be delivered. It is tempting to get lost there."

She blinked at him once, twice, and he saw the ghost of the girl he knew fighting to break free, fighting to return. He set the cloth aside, and as he turned his face away, she said so quietly he almost didn't hear, "You understand."

He nodded. Mother and Father and Angus and Connall. Their wives and children and the babies I never met. The guards outside their chambers, the servants within. Where was I? Where was I when the palace of Starkhaven's halls ran red?

"It's like a maze," he repeated.

He rose, returning the ewer and basin and soap and now-dirtied towels to the sideboard. When he finished, he looked back and saw Hawke still sitting on the floor, but there was a brightness to her face—not happiness, not even close; life, maybe—that hadn't been there when he entered. She glanced again at her hands, flipping them over to examine the clean nails and scrubbed skin. Then she glanced down at her sullied clothing.

"I need a bath," she said, grimacing. "Maker's breath, do I need a bath."

"I'll not argue with you there."

Her eyebrows lifted in a pale imitation of an expression he knew too well, even seen through the vestiges of her weeping. "A gentleman isn't supposed to say things like that."

His lips quirked in a brief smile. "Show me a gentleman who wouldn't, when faced with a lady covered head to heel in days-old blood."

"I… see your point and forgive you your discourtesy, messere," she said lightly. Then her brow furrowed again, and the moment of almost-levity was lost. "Thank you, Sebastian. For… I know you must have duties. I—"

"Hawke," he interrupted. "I must ask your forgiveness for that day. I was unpleasant to you, and it was none of your doing. You didn't deserve it. I have been… I have been sorry not to see you since. I am—my bow is yours, if you need it. I will not be so dismissive again."

"Oh," she replied. "I'm—I thought, since you weren't wearing your armor and… I suppose I thought you'd—"

"Taken up my brotherhood again? No. Elthina fears, rightly I think, that I am not prepared."

"So you won't… mind? If I ask? For your help? Just sometimes?"

If he'd seen another man bring such a lost, sad look to Hawke's face, he would have punched him. He'd have punched himself if he could do it. Instead he only inclined his head. "I will be honored."

She didn't smile—she was still too wounded for smiling—but she reached out and squeezed his hand. "Then the least I can do is offer you something to eat, if you'll wait until I bathe." Hesitation colored her expression, and faint color stained her cheeks. "And if you… don't have somewhere else to be. Duties."

"No duties," he replied. "And I'm happy to wait. If you don't mind my saying, you need food near as much as you need a bath. It will do me some good to see you eating."

"Thank you," she said. "Will you send Amelle up? I… I think I've frightened her. I didn't mean to, but I… I…"

"You were lost in the maze. She will understand. She knows the maze, too, Hawke; she only came out of it a different way."

"Thank you," she repeated. Then she stood on her toes and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. It was a friend's kiss, chaste and grateful, but Sebastian felt his heart—his heart full of the secrets Elthina always knew—twist painfully.

Be a friend, whispered the voice again.

"I'm glad I could help, Hawke, truly," he replied, knowing then that no matter what else happened, even if he stayed on in the chantry as an affirmed lay-person for the rest of his days, he would never be a brother again. He could never renew those vows in good conscience. Not with Kiara Hawke in the world.