For three days, Sebastian did nothing, just as Amelle had asked of him. He turned the pages of books without comprehending any of the words within; he cooked simple meals and shared them with Fenris in companionable silence; he allowed Amelle to fret and fuss and pour healing magic into his wound. The wound itself was all but healed—it was hard to put into words, but though he could still feel the ache of it, and though it still protested if he moved his left arm too quickly or too forcefully, he could tell it was not waiting to split wide again. Amelle, at least, seemed pleased.
"You see," she said, applying yet another poultice. "Rest. It only needs rest. Please, Sebastian."
He didn't meet her eyes, fearing she would see his intentions and report them to her sister. Hawke he had not seen since she'd marched him back to Fenris' from the market and delivered the blow of her news from Starkhaven. He wasn't certain if he felt more saddened or relieved by her absence. There was a time—
No. It was clear enough to him now that whatever friendship they'd once shared was ended. Perhaps she wished him no specific ill will, perhaps she was even willing to risk letting him go out into the world, but he'd lost her companionship. He knew it. And that knowledge ached far more deeply than the wound in his breast.
"Are you in pain?" Amelle asked, her fingertips glowing faintly blue-silver as they hovered above the bandage.
Sebastian shook his head, cursing his expression for betraying him. "No pain that can be healed, I'm afraid. Only dark thoughts I've brought on myself."
Amelle pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You can—I would—do you want to talk about it?"
"No," he said without hesitation. "Thank you, but no. This is… this is a pain I deserve to feel, Amelle."
Amelle frowned, and he felt a last trickle of the now-familiar hotcold thrum of her healing magic. It swept through him from head to toe, chasing away the minor aches and pains along with the major ones. The headache he'd felt brewing disappeared so abruptly he couldn't help releasing a sigh of relief.
Changing the subject, she said, "You still look tired. Are you taking the sleeping draughts?"
He didn't want to lie to her, so he said nothing at all.
"Sebastian, it'll help. Sleep is the great healer, you know. Maker, between you and Kiara…" Amelle's expression darkened. "You're only making things harder for yourself. I don't tell you these things or give you these potions to annoy you."
"I know, Amelle," he said dutifully. "And I do appreciate what you've done. I do not—"
She held up a silencing hand. "I will break your nose if you so much as think the word deserve at me. Are we understood?"
"Perfectly," he said, with a faint smile.
"Good," she replied, gathering her supplies. "I've had enough of that. Take the bloody sleeping draught tonight, will you? And I'll see you in the morning."
"Amelle," he called out, just as she reached the door. "Thank you. For… thank you."
She waved off his thanks, rolling her eyes slightly and offering him a crooked smile. "Sleep," she commanded. "That's how you can thank me."
He sat at the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the patch of faded carpet between his feet, thinking about Connall. Three days. Three days he'd bided his time, waiting, when he could have been three days closer to embracing his brother once again, or to wringing the neck of the man pretending to be him.
When he raised his head, the first thing he saw was the glittering bottle of potion Amelle had left behind. He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding the vial into the top drawer of his desk along with all the other unopened bottles. Doubtless Amelle would find them there later and send a curse his way, but by then he would be too far away to hear it.
After another silent meal, Sebastian bid Fenris a good night. He wanted to thank his friend too, but so obvious a deviation from their habits would, he feared, be noted and remarked upon. So Sebastian only clapped a congenial hand to Fenris' shoulder before climbing the stairs to his own chamber.
He hoped Hawke would not hold Fenris responsible when she discovered Sebastian gone.
Sebastian went through the motions of preparing for sleep, knowing Fenris often checked on him before retiring himself. His left side hardly ached at all when he pulled his shirt over his head, and he knew, week or none, he was well enough to travel. It mightn't be easy, but it was possible. He didn't allow himself to think too hard on the difficulty of the mountain passes even at full health, to say nothing of spending so long in the saddle after convalescence—and so little practice. He was certain. Starkhaven called. His brother called. The Maker would guide him through any trials.
He tried to write to Hawke, but after six or seven failed attempts—Amelle would find these, too, he realized, if she cared to look in the basket beneath his desk—he gave up.
He waited until full dark, until even the sounds of late-night revelers faded to silence. Fenris came and went, silent as ever, betrayed only by the streak of light the open door sent across the dark room. Even then, Sebastian waited. At last, when he'd heard nothing for at least an hour, Sebastian rose from his bed and dressed in his borrowed clothes. Sliding his arms into his shirt, he missed the comfort of his armor, just for a moment. He shook his head. He would be traveling incognito, and he wore the proof scarred into his skin of just how conspicuous a target his fine white armor had made him.
He felt naked with neither weapon nor armor, but the Starkhaven bow was lost once again. From what he'd gathered from Fenris and Amelle's veiled comments, recovering a bow with a broken string had not been first and foremost on their minds when they'd stumbled across him. He could hardly blame them. If the scar was anything to go by, he supposed he'd made a pretty distracting sight.
No matter. He would find another, once he was safely out of Kirkwall.
Over the past three days, he had carefully mapped out the creaks and groans in the floor of the mansion, and following this internal map, he was able to slip down the stairs and across the foyer silently. The half-patched hole in the wall taunted him, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Earlier, when Fenris was out, he had greased the hinges of the front door in preparation for his escape, so it made no sound as he slid outside and into the waiting dark—
—And saw Hawke, lounging against a pillar, looking for all the world as though she always spent her nights leaning on obliging Hightown masonry.
They stared at each other. Swallowing hard, he wondered if she could hear how loudly his heart was beating. There was certainly no other sound to distract from it.
At last, Hawke asked, "Did you honestly think I'd let you go alone?"
His mouth opened. And closed. Then he hung his head. "I…"
She sighed heavily. "I suppose I should be glad you waited this long. I've actually been ready since the day after I told you about the letter. Come on. We've a boat to catch. Ship. Whatever."
Still baffled, he raised his eyes, but her expression was inscrutable. He could not tell if she was amused or angry or disappointed or some incomprehensible blend of all three. "What are you—?"
Hawke crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow accusingly. "Please tell me you weren't considering braving the mountain passes in your condition."
"You know Starkhaven is on the other side of a… mountain range."
She snorted skeptically. "And you know Starkhaven is reachable by sea. And then river. In a good enough boat. Ship. With a good enough captain."
"I would need to find a ship. And such a captain."
"We," she challenged. "And luckily I've taken care of both."
Baffled, he echoed, "You've taken care of both."
She grimaced at him and scrubbed one hand through her long hair. "Honestly, Sebastian. The mountains? What? On a horse?"
After another very long pause, he said, "I… think you may be right, Hawke."
Her lips twitched, but she didn't quite smile. "I often am, but about what in particular?"
"The Maker has a sense of humor."
One corner of her mouth did turn up at this. Then she reached up and pulled a bow from her back. Only then did he notice she was carrying two. And of course he recognized the one she held out to him instantly, its lines and curves as familiar to him as the backs of his own hands.
"Hawke…"
"I had it restrung," she said, tone carefully matter-of-fact.
"Hawke."
She continued as though he had not spoken. "Right now it's for looks. Don't even think about using it. Amelle would have my bloody head. To say nothing of—"
"Kiara."
None of them—save Amelle, of course—used her given name often, and his invocation of it now made her pause mid-sentence, eyes widening. Even in the moonlight, he saw the faint blush marking her cheeks.
"Thank you," he said, stepping close to take the bow from her. She released it, but didn't quite meet his eyes.
"Yes. Well. Hate to see my companions poorly outfitted. Just try not to… lose it again. Deal?"
He bowed as deeply as his wound would allow. She took a step backward and glanced around, as though expecting to see someone else—someone he might bow to—standing just behind her.
"Come on then," she said, wiggling her fingers in his direction. "The others are waiting."
"Others?"
This brought a grin to her face, and banished the last of her perturbation. "You didn't think we were going alone, did you?"
"I… had rather intended to go alone all along, if you recall."
She scowled. "Honestly, Sebastian. Who do you think is going to drive the boat?"
#
The trouble with boats, Sebastian realized in short order, was that they were small. And the trouble with small was that it made staying out of the way exponentially more difficult. After Isabela laughed off his offer of help—"Oh, Princess, even if I wanted to let you climb the rigging you can't for a second think Hawke would permit it. I have sailors. You're not one of them. We're taking a ship to give you time to heal. Go… do that."—he discovered just how little space a ship had to spare. Especially one made to be light and fast, like Castillon's. Every inch was accounted for, and even having only necessary crew, he still found himself constantly in the way.
Even when he finally retreated to the cabin he shared with Varric, the poor dwarf was so miserable and so sick, and gazed at him with such pleading eyes, that Sebastian could only do as he bade and leave the poor man to his privacy and his retching. Trying to make himself small, he found a place at the port railing and he watched the coastline speed by.
Even with all the activity, even with the sailors in the rigging and the ship carving its way through the waters of the Waking Sea, even with Isabela shouting orders and the wind in his hair, Sebastian couldn't help feeling the weight of time pressing on him. Everything seemed too slow, too unsteady, too unusual. From the moment Hawke had looked at him and revealed the change of rulership—again—in Starkhaven, he'd felt a pressing compulsion to go, go faster, and even though he was doing all he could, it never quite seemed enough.
Hawke. He did not know what to think of her at all. One one hand, she'd been such a strange mixture of curt and concerned ever since he woke from the strange place between worlds to find himself very much alive, and very much ashamed of the things he'd said and done just before his brush with the afterlife. On the other, he couldn't help wondering at her presence. He'd have thought she'd be glad to rid herself of him. He'd half-expected her to wash her hands of him entirely as soon as the opportunity to do so made itself available.
Then again, perhaps she feared… the things he'd promised in the heat of his anger about the chantry's destruction. Try as he might, he couldn't find the words to explain. Instead he stayed silent, and she stayed silent, and they danced around each other. Perhaps this, then, was the reason she seemed loath to let him from her sight; she no longer trusted him.
He wondered if he trusted himself, sometimes. The reaction to hearing about his… this man claiming to be his brother had been sudden and visceral and so overwhelming. When he thought now how nearly he'd just run from the house, broken body and all, it galled him.
Hawke was right about that much: a mountain crossing in his condition would certainly have ended in death. It was only that it hadn't seemed so dire at the time. The longer he remained on deck, the more the fresh salt air cleared his mind, the more he looked back on his recent behavior with dismay and no small amount of abhorrence.
As if called by his thoughts, he heard a soft sigh beside him and looked down to see Hawke herself approaching. She did not look at him at first, choosing instead to lean against the railing and gaze out over the green coastline, as he had been doing.
"The last time I was on a boat," she said, just quietly enough that he had to strain to hear over the roar of sea and sailors, "we were fleeing Ferelden. I had… no idea we wouldn't be going back. Mother was inconsolable and I made myself indispensable so the captain would let me help. Turns out I had a knack for scaling masts and taking insane risks." She sent a sad, slantwise smile his way and shook her head slightly, "I know, I know; it's shocking to imagine me a risk-taker. It was just… I thought if they'd let me do things, I wouldn't have to sit below thinking about how I hadn't saved my baby brother from that ogre. After everything." Even now her hands gripped the railing tightly enough to whiten the knuckles.
"And… Amelle?" he asked. "Was she climbing the rigging with you?"
Hawke smiled slightly, but not enough to erase the expression of worry and distress that had plagued her since… well, that had persisted as long as he'd been awake. He feared this troubled Hawke was permanent. He did not have words adequate to explain how this saddened him.
"Let's just say Varric and Amelle seem to have reaction to sea travel in common. You'd think she could do something to heal herself, but… I don't know if it was the constant movement of the boat or what, but she couldn't stabilize herself. So mostly she was sick. And then sick again. But… she gave Mother something to worry about." Hawke sighed again. "Perhaps it was better that way. Seven years ago now. It hardly seems possible. It feels a lifetime. I hardly recognize myself, looking back."
"I understand all too well."
Again the pained, anxious shadow fell over her countenance. "I… imagine you do."
He settled himself next to her, leaning on the railing. Their elbows brushed. "I confess I… am surprised Amelle did not wish to join you. I had rather expected to see her already aboard."
Hawke turned away sharply, but not before he saw her face burn red. "I didn't give her the option."
"What?" Sebastian hadn't meant the word to emerge so accusatory, but he could tell from the set of Hawke's shoulders it had struck home.
Hunching forward, she said, "Kirkwall is safe, for now. I… wanted her to be safe, too. There's… no telling how long it will last. What happened… we all know what happened will have repercussions, and likely of the kind to shake the whole world to its foundations. She… deserves to rest. Before we must run again, hide again. She… she deserves the rest."
Before he could check himself, he said, "And it has nothing to do with the argument you had?"
Hawke went carefully still. "Nothing whatsoever."
He wanted to tell her he didn't believe her. He'd been there, after all, witness to the anger, the accusations made on both sides, the weapons drawn and words spoken. He wanted to tell her he didn't believe her, but instead he stood straight and laid a hand on her shoulder and said nothing at all. He felt her take a deep breath, and when she raised her face to the spray, he thought some of the droplets on her cheeks were tears.
"Besides," Hawke said, and he had to hand it to her, he only heard the tears in her voice because he was listening for them, "she did accuse me of smothering her. It'll… it'll do us some good to spend some time apart."
Sebastian frowned. "And you're… you know it will be at least a month, even if you simply turn around in the harbor."
She snorted. "It'll be longer than that, I imagine. I'm not planning on pitching you over the side in Starkhaven and running off again."
Because part of him had been imagining just that, he said nothing to this, either. She turned thoughtful again, and scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "When we were children, Mother used to tell us to walk away from arguments before things were said or done that could never be unsaid or undone. She told us to go away and think about why we were angry, and not to confront each other until we were ready to speak without shouting. It… didn't always work. I… wish I'd walked away from that argument when it was happening, but everything seemed so wrong and we… so many people died. So many people died. My emotions—our emotions—were running so high and… we should have walked away. Mother would have told us to go stand in opposite corners."
Hawke stood straight and gave her entire body a little shake, as though in attempt to cast off some of the heaviness. Whatever it was appeared to meet with some success, when she turned her head, her eyes shone with something entirely different from tears. "Besides, Amelle's… well looked after."
Sebastian felt his own lips quiver. "Hawke. You didn't."
"I did have to plead my case with Fenris somewhat, otherwise you know he'd be here. Aveline was happy to look in. Cullen, I grant you, was a hard sell, but…"
"You asked the acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall to… look out for your apostate sister?" he asked, incredulous.
"I like Cullen. I think he even likes me, as much as his devotion to duty allows him to like anyone. I trust him to keep her out of trouble. And I'm pretty sure he'll do it without asking her to become the founding member of a brand new Circle."
"You know Amelle's going to be murderous when she finds out you've hired a bevy of babysitters for her."
Her smile very nearly crossed the line into smirk. "I know. Smothering indeed, right? I suppose change comes with baby steps."
"Remind me never to cross you, Hawke," he replied. His tone was amused, but the words—the words themselves were spoken carelessly. He heard them fall from his lips, and their weightier meaning made his stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the roll of the ship beneath him. Her eyes widened just slightly, and the smile faded.
"Don't cross me, Sebastian," she said, immediately enough for it to merely be a jest, but her own voice was so sad any ghost of mirth was stolen from it.
"Hawke, I—"
Again she gave herself a little shake. "Especially when I tell you I came out here to force you you let me look at that wound. Don't think I don't see how gingerly you're carrying yourself. Or that because Amelle's not here you'll be allowed to let it fester and kill you. She worked too hard to have you undo all her efforts out of sheer stubbornness."
He didn't cross her. Instead, he followed her belowdecks and into her little cabin. Evidently she was not forced to share, and though the room was by necessity small, the distinct lack of vomiting dwarf made it infinitely more comfortable than his own. Waving him toward the bunk, she began rifling through her pack until she removed a store of potion bottles and bandages.
In her most businesslike tone she ordered him to remove his shirt. He hesitated. "Come on, Sebastian," she said with mock sweetness. "Can't have you going all shy every time the healer needs to do her work."
With a sigh, he complied. He could tell by her expression she meant to make some kind of deflective joke, but he saw it die on her lips before she spoke it aloud. Somehow this seemed immeasurably sad to him—if Hawke could no longer jest around him, her discomfort must be great indeed. Lowering her eyes, she stepped toward him… and the sudden list of the ship sent her sprawling. His hands went up instinctually to catch her, but her weight and the awkwardness was too much for his weakened left side and he gasped at the sudden pain.
Hawke righted herself almost instantly, her face concerned as she brushed his hands away from her waist. "Damn it," she said, a little breathless, a little panicky. "Damn it. Boats. Are you—no, hold still. Just… hold still."
Her fingers were gentle as they began to unwind the bandage, but still he winced as she skated over the tender skin. She was murmuring to herself under her breath; if she'd been Amelle, he'd have thought she was whispering an incantation, but Hawke's words were more liberally peppered with equal measures of curses and prayers. "Hawke," he said, and she stopped, meeting his gaze with wide, terrified eyes. "It was only the suddenness; I'm fine. It's healing."
She shook her head, clearly disbelieving, and pulled the last poultice away. The wound looked a thousand times better than it had, certainly, though it was still a little inflamed and the scar was angry. Scar it was, though; the torn edges mended, the flesh whole. She stared at the scar for a long moment before pressing her fingertips to the flesh. He shuddered under her touch, and, embarrassingly, Maker help him, felt his heart begin to race.
She frowned, and her hand darted up to test the pulse at his throat. "Are you sure you're all right?"
He considered it the greatest feat of his life that he managed to reply without sounding strangled. "I'm fine."
Her brow furrowed. "You'd tell me if you weren't." It wasn't a question, and the way she spoke revealed how little she believed the truth of it.
As if to prove himself, he forced himself to speak honestly, "It hurts. I—you have just proven to me how much rehabilitation I must do, but it hurts the way a healing thing hurts, not the way a broken thing hurts." He tried to smile for her, though he wasn't sure how successfully he managed it. "Once you have your sea legs, I won't do anything more to aggravate it, I promise."
"And you'll… can I apply another poultice? Just to be sure?"
He nodded. "And I'll even submit to those wretched healing potions."
And he did. After she'd finished her ministrations and he'd choked down one of the potions and replaced his shirt, she scuffed her toes along the floorboards—careful now to have hold of something sturdy to prevent tumbling—and she said, "Thank you. For… not arguing about that. It's just…" she trailed into silence and nibbled anxiously at her bottom lip. She looked about to speak, but said nothing.
"What is it, Hawke?" he urged.
She blinked, startled, and said, "When you worry for so long about… things. It's hard. To stop. Even when you know you… you should be able to stop." She inhaled deeply and blew out an exhale heavy with relief. He free hand reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and he was of half a mind to force her to take one of the healing potions, too, for her headache. Before he could speak, however, she continued, "I need to see it to believe it. Because… I worried. For so long. About… things."
"Hawke…"
"So thank you. That's all. Now I… I promised Isabela I would help in the galley. I… should do that."
"May I—would you permit me to help you?"
She froze and blinked at him again before replying, "You want to… help cook?"
"Unless, in your expert healer's opinion, you believe peeling potatoes is beyond me."
Finally she smiled a proper, genuine smile. This time he was glad her fingertips were nowhere near his skin to feel the way his pulse stuttered at the sight; he would not so easily have been able to explain it away.
"No," she said, "I daresay you can manage that much. Don't start getting any funny ideas about progressing to cracking eggs or plucking chickens, though. Start small."
She offered him a hand up, and it felt better than the healing potion had when he took it and she didn't immediately cringe away again.
"Potatoes," he intoned with mock seriousness. "No more. For now."
