Where Duty Lies: Chapter 12 - A Job Undone
Title: A Job Undone
Rating: M - mild language, adult themes, violence
Author: basbaker
Word Count: 4863
In the days following Sebastian's departure from Kirkwall, Hawke resisted every effort of her companions to cheer her up. The girls' night that Isabela had persuaded her into was not repeated. Varric's attempts to get her to smile with his jokes and stories occasionally earned success, but it was fleeting. Eventually they stopped trying and, for the most part, left her alone. Alone was just what Hawke wanted to be. It was the way she felt inside, and no amount of time spent with friends made her feel any less so.
Instead, she spent a great deal of her time shut up inside the Amell-Hawke estate, reading, writing in her journal, and often going outside to tend the garden. She had always loved having flowers back in Ferelden whenever her family stayed in one place long enough to plant a garden. Since coming to live in Hightown, she had rediscovered her gift for growing them. For the first time in recent memory, the Amell manor was decorated with flowers in widow boxes and vases of fresh-cut blossoms in many of its rooms.
Whenever she wasn't occupied with one of her more calming pursuits, Hawke went into the cellars below the estate. At one time, the Amells had boasted the most extensive wine cellar in all of Kirkwall and perhaps in the Free Marches as well. The cellars went deep into the cliff beneath Hightown. While the slavers had possessed the manor, the cellars had been used as a place to hide the slaves and as extra housing for the slavers themselves. But as with the rest of the manor, the cellars had been restored to their original state after Hawke had taken possession. She was no connoisseur, but was gradually learning which wines were best to restock, with a lot of help from her mother Leandra.
The deepest part of the cellar had seen little use over the years. Its distance from the house proper made it inconvenient enough to have been abandoned long since. But for Hawke, it was perfect. The moment she discovered it, she had set herself the task of removing the years of filth and debris that had accumulated there. Then she had turned the broad, cool area into a practice room. Deep into the cliff, it insulated the sounds and effects of her spellcasting. Of course, she wouldn't have guaranteed its structural soundness if she were to cast some of the more powerful force magic that she had been learning, but for the rest of her offensive repertoire, it served very well indeed.
With the turmoil she felt inside, being able to go somewhere and unleash chained lightning or a searing ball of fire was immensely satisfying. Tapping into all of her angst and hurt, letting it become elemental aggression, helped Hawke to slowly overcome it. Her strength increased daily. Judiciously placed bribes, courtesy of Varric, had acquired books of magic for Hawke to study. For the first time since her father's death, she was able to significantly further her studies down the paths that her talents dictated. She even began to learn some of the simpler magics from the schools whose disciplines had always eluded her.
But though her studies and her hobbies helped her to think clearly and find some perspective on Sebastian and his sudden departure, they didn't make her happy. She still missed his brilliant blue eyes, the way his dark auburn hair curled over the collar of his shirt, his elegant, long-fingered hands turning the pages of a book, the voice that poured over her like warm, honeyed wine. The more days that passed with no word from him, the more her spirits sank.
After two weeks of watching her daughter isolate herself inside the manor, Leandra finally decided to intervene. Things between the two of them had been tense since the day they were forced to flee Lothering - the day she lost Bethany. But even before then, Jillian was never the child she had been closest to. She had come into her gifts early and from that day forward it was as though she and her father Malcolm inhabited another world. But not always understanding her firstborn didn't mean that she loved her any less, or cared less about her happiness.
The rather embarrassing (to put it mildly) scene she had interrupted between Jillian and Sebastian had been a shock perhaps right then, but it was not wholly a surprise. She had seen the feelings between the two of them growing little by little, never mind how they both struggled against it. As a daughter of the once-prominent Amell family, she was thrilled to see her own daughter becoming close to one of the Vaels of Starkhaven. How happy it would have made Jillian's grandparents.
But it had not escaped her notice that since that day, Sebastian Vael had not been over to see her daughter. Not a day had passed for weeks that he did not stop by at least briefly, and so his continued absence made guessing the source of Jillian's unhappiness simplicity itself. She naturally assumed that they had quarreled, but as more time passed, she began to realize that it was more serious than just a lovers' spat.
So one morning she finally tapped on the parlor door when she knew Jillian would be studying, and peeked ever-so-slowly around.
“Really, Mother,” Jillian greeted her, the hoped-for smile bringing some light to pensive gray eyes. “I think it's perfectly safe.”
“Yes, so I thought the last time I came in without knocking,” Leandra gently teased her, taking a seat in one of the wing chairs.
Hawke felt herself blushing and lowered her gaze to the book she held, speaking quietly, “I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean for that to happen.”
“I know, dear. I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable. You're a grown woman. You're beautiful and confident, and very capable of making your own choices. I was never upset with what you were doing - only that the entire situation was so embarrassing. For both of us.”
When her daughter darted her a speaking look of gratitude, Leandra smiled and dove into the deeper reason she had sought her out. “But I do think that maybe I caused you far more trouble than you caused me. I haven't seen Sebastian back here since that day.”
“That's not your fault, Mother. Sebastian and I had... a disagreement. When I went to him to patch things up, I found out that he had left Kirkwall. I don't know when he'll back. The Grand Cleric said at least weeks.”
Though she listened for it, Leandra could detect no anger or sadness in Jillian's tone. She just sounded resigned. She would have been happier if her daughter had shown more emotion. This calm acceptance was something she had seen before, most recently when Carver had to be handed over to the Grey Wardens. At the time, she had been too heartbroken herself to realize that her daughter felt just as deeply, but handled it differently. She had only added to the burden on Jillian's shoulders, and it still made her cringe when she remembered it. But this way the girl had of internalizing pain, denying it, was unhealthy.
“I'm sure there must have been a perfectly good reason why he had to leave.”
“Oh yes, there was. It had nothing at all to do with me.” Sebastian refused to let her matter enough to drive any of his actions, Hawke added silently.
“Then why have you shut yourself up inside the house?” Leandra demanded gently. “Every day one or another of your friends comes by, but you refuse to see them. That young man Anders has been here every morning.”
“You always did have a soft spot for apostates,” Hawke smiled when her mother blushed like a girl. Interesting. But her mother didn't give her the chance to ask any questions.
“Never mind that. I'm not suggesting that you should forget about Sebastian. After all, it's only been two weeks. Even if he left without telling you, I'm sure that he won't stay away. He cares for you, Jillian.”
“Maybe, but he doesn't care enough. I wanted it to be enough, but I was wrong.” That was the heart of it all. It was the simple truth that she had refused to let herself see until things went too far. It turned hurt to humiliation.
“I don't believe that, dear. And even if you are right, what purpose does sitting at home and shunning your other friends serve?” She smiled reasonably. “I'm not suggesting that you should go out and find a replacement for your handsome prince, but if you truly believe that you and Sebastian are finished, maybe you should at least keep your options open.”
She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Think about it.”
Jillian smiled up at her, looking rueful. “Anyone would think that you know a little about going on with life after you've lost someone you care for.”
“I think we both do. But sometimes a reminder is nice.”
When her mother closed the door behind her, Hawke sat for a long while gazing out the window, her book forgotten in her lap. Sometime later, when the sound of Bodhan greeting a visitor penetrated the parlor door, she put the book aside and went out to greet her guest.
~*~
Sebastian, unwanted third son of a ruling family, had never had much opportunity to travel in his life. His entire childhood had been spent in the city of Starkhaven. The last time he had undertaken a journey like this, he had been sixteen. That was the year that his parents finally tired of his drinking and debauching and paid the Chantry to take him off of their hands. The trip from Starkhaven to Kirkwall had taken several days, and each step of it had seemed a fresh insult to the exiled prince. He would have given anything then to simply disappear into the countryside, but his parents had sent along a company of soldiers led by Captain Leland, an “escort” to ensure that he made it safely to his destination.
This was the first time he could remember having the chance to venture out on his own and actually explore the Free Marches. He had been too sunk in resentment and self-pity to appreciate the surrounding countryside then, and so it was not without a certain sense of anticipation that he had packed for the journey to Tantervale.
Unfortunately, the encounter with Hawke had dampened that enthusiasm. For the first day, as he walked through the pass of the Vimmark Mountains, high Sundermount to the east, all Sebastian could think of was how badly he had handled himself from the first moment he had seen her. When it occurred to him that he had never told her that he was leaving, hadn't even left a note when he returned to the Chantry to collect his belongings, it was all he could do to keep his feet moving northward.
He consoled himself with the certainty that she would understand. After all, he had told her that he'd had news concerning his family. She of all people must know how important avenging their deaths was to him. And then, of course, there was the fact that she was angry with him. Giving her time to cool her temper before writing to her was not necessarily unwise.
He had been shocked when she told him that she cared deeply for him, in a way that implied even more than it said. Always since they met, he had been focused on his own feelings. He spent most of his time trying not to think about her, unless it was as a friend, or a student. But he usually failed. Instead he saw her as an almost irresistible temptation. He tried for months to suppress anything warmer than friendship, throwing himself almost desperately into his duties at the Chantry and his devotions to the Maker and His Bride. But Hawke always crept back in.
Those rare occasions when he did let himself wonder how she felt, he had supposed that she considered him a good friend, maybe even a substitute for the absent Carver. Apparently that hadn't been the case. Discovering something he would have known if he hadn't been so selfish, especially in light of what Leandra had interrupted, set off such a confusion of emotions inside him that he couldn't even pick one to focus on. He had stood gaping like a moron while fury leaped into those wide gray eyes. Knowing he had earned both her fury and her contempt seemed just. He had certainly earned his own.
These thoughts among others occupied his mind as he trekked alone through the unsettled lands of the Free Marches known as the Wildervale. Rolling, forested foothills gave way to flatter land the further north Sebastian went. The road was kept in good condition thanks to trade between the free cities, and though he traveled by himself, he saw several merchant carts and caravans pass by. Since merchants were always a good source of news, the prince often took advantage of an opportunity to speak with them. But he learned little that he didn't already know from the north.
Inns by the roadside became rarer the further into unsettled country he moved. Occasionally he saw a farmstead in the distance, but these also became less frequent. Sebastian didn't consider it any serious hardship. He had packed provisions for a week, planning to reach Tantervale in a little more than half that time. And thankfully, bandits were less prevalent in the Wildervale. Attacks were of course not unheard of, but they were more frequent nearer to the cities. Sebastian was reasonably confident in his ability to fight off any would-be thieves. By day, he walked as far as he could while the light lasted, then at night made his camp a bit off from the road, choosing a sheltered spot for his fire.
It was at night that he found himself missing Hawke the most. During the day, there were endless sights and sounds to keep his mind busy even when no other travelers shared the road. But when he sat alone with only the crackling campfire for company, his thoughts went unerringly to her. He recited line after line of the Chant and prayed with every ounce of devotion he had, trying to keep himself focused on heavenly things. It would have been much easier if he had never touched her that last day, had never tasted her. When he closed his eyes to sleep, the image of her lying naked before him, hips arching up, tormented him. He heard again the sounds she made, smelled her scent, and writhed anew in desire and shame. When he finally slept, he dreamed of her.
If this was his punishment, it was a good one. Sebastian had never felt so conflicted, or so much of a failure. In one moment of weakness he had hurt Hawke, possibly destroying their friendship in the process, and he had failed the Maker. Despite years of study and commitment, he remained unworthy. His faith seemed ever harder to hold onto.
As if the weather commiserated, midway through Sebastian's third day on the road dark clouds swept in from the east, heavy with rain that began to fall almost immediately. The sudden, swiftly blowing wind sent the water across the road in sheets, soaking everything - including him - instantly. When the edge of the storm had passed, the rain continued to fall in a steady torrent. There was little shelter to be had on this stretch of road, so Sebastian just put his head down and continued walking. The novelty of being out on his own on the open road was quickly waning. With Tantervale no more than a day's journey away, he was ready for a hot bath and a warm meal.
The rain continued to fall, turning the road to mud that sucked at his boots with every step. He plodded onward, not wanting to waste time as daylight waned. Tonight of all nights he wanted a sheltered place to sleep, and so far the land to either side of the road stubbornly refused to offer him any decent prospects. But finally he thought he saw a likely looking spot through the curtain of rain that masked the arrival of night in gradually darkening shades of gray. On the leeward side of a nearby hill was a thick stand of trees. They wouldn't block out all of the rain, but the weather had calmed enough that he had hopes of being able to make a fire. Silently thanking Andraste for Her mercy, he made straight for the copse.
An hour later, with the rain pattering softly on the leaves overhead, Sebastian felt a little better. The copse was even thicker than he had first thought. He managed to find some deadfall that was damp, but still dry enough to burn. After some concerted effort with flint and tinder, he coaxed a flame to life and kept it that way long enough to feed it. Now it was a respectable, if smoky, fire. He had eaten some of his provisions and washed the cold meal down with a small skin of ale. If it wasn't for the fact that his clothes beneath his armor were soaked, he would have actually gone so far as to call himself content.
But before he could see to setting out his clothes by the fire to dry, he had to tend to his bow. He had managed to get it covered with the oiled cloth he had packed for just that purpose, but not before the string was already soaked. He tested the draw and grimaced at the weaker tension. It would have to be replaced. He sat down next to the fire, taking a string wrapped in oiled paper from his pack. He deftly removed the ruined string from the nocks, tossing it unceremoniously into the fire before restringing the powerful weapon. Again testing the draw, Sebastian nodded to himself. Much better.
It was as he was re-wrapping the bow in the oilcloth that he heard the sound. He went completely still as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. The noise came again, but clearer. Someone, perhaps more than one, was approaching his camp. And they were trying to do so quietly. The wet ground muffled their approach, and he figured that they were close enough to have already seen him by the fire's light. With a fervent prayer to the Maker for protection, he made a sudden lunge for his quiver and sprinted into the darkness beneath the trees. Surprised cries immediately went up, and he knew for certain that more than one hunted him.
But Sebastian was a hunter, too. He had spent more nights sneaking through the darkness than he could count when he was a boy. And even later, he had kept his skills sharp. It was a point of pride with him that he could take the best of what he had been before the Chantry and continue to improve it. Now he put those abilities to good use. By turns he was stillness and calculated motion, but always he was silence. His senses heightened, he watched and listened for the unknown, unseen others that stalked beneath the trees.
He circled around, eyes straining in the darkness to pick out a shadow that moved when the shadows around it did not. When he saw one, he went completely still except for the hand that pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to the bowstring. He grimaced at the wet fletching of the arrow, but at this range it wouldn't matter. The bow would creak as he drew it - there was no help for that. So he drew swiftly, and by the time the shadow was aware of the sound, it was already pierced by an arrow through the chest. And just that quickly, another arrow found a home next to the first, and the shadow fell to the earth with a dull thud.
Sebastian heard footfalls quickly moving toward the fallen assailant. Rather than melting back into the darkness, he put another arrow to his bowstring and waited. Another movement in the dark had him jerking the bow to the ready and firing off a shot that found its mark in the target's eye. The second shadow fell.
After that, the copse was silent. Sebastian waited, forcing himself to stay calm and listen. The minutes ticked by, and just when he was about to move forward to inspect his fallen foes, he became aware of a presence to his left. Apparently one of the shadows had a bit of skill, because he was already far too close for Sebastian to get his bow up in time. The shadowy figure rushed at him, and Sebastian parried an almost unseen swipe of a dagger with his bow. He drove one end of the bow into the figure's midsection, giving himself time to draw his own blade as his attacker grunted, doubling over for just a moment.
Then they closed with one another, blades at the ready. There was no room for the prince to get away from his opponent. The trees and underbrush ringed them on all sides, and footing was treacherous. Sebastian's foot slipped on a patch of wet leaves as he swiped at the other man, and he felt the edge of the enemy's dagger as it sliced through the leather of his armor, scoring along his forearm. He gritted his teeth against the instant, searing pain and lunged again. This time it was his own blade that bit, leaving a shallow gash along the other man's ribs.
In the tense, unrevealing dark, Sebastian's heart pounded with adrenaline. Anticipating his enemy's attacks was quite nearly an exercise in futility. He knew for the first time that he was fighting for his life, and that there was no one else around to save him. This battle would come down to luck, nothing more. And if he died, the Vael family line died with him - a dynasty brought to a sudden and complete end. He couldn't let that happen.
Attacks were traded again, and Sebastian took another wound, this time to his thigh, slowing him. He knew the man was better at this than he was, and panic began to claw at his insides. But he forced it down, circling the other man warily, heavily favoring his left leg. He prayed with all his might for deliverance, for a miracle.
As if in mockery of the effort, his attacker darted in swiftly, aiming a kick directly at the gash on Sebastian's thigh. He wasn't quick enough to avoid it. Breath-stopping agony exploded in his leg. He cried out and went down to one knee. The other man didn't hesitate. He stepped closer, the dagger's point aimed straight at Sebastian's throat as he grabbed his hair, jerking his head back painfully.
Sebastian knew that he was dead. Words of the Chant whispered through his mind. The Veil holds no uncertainty for him, and he will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be his beacon and his shield, his foundation and his sword. He was not afraid. He steadily met the eyes of the other man, glinting in the dark. If he was going to die, by the Maker, he was going to die a prince.
With the edge of his blade resting against Sebastian's jugular, the man spoke, his words holding quiet satisfaction. “You thought you finished us off, my buck. But Flint Company never leaves a job undone. First you, and then that bitch in Kirkwall they call Hawke. I'll enjoy that the most.”
It was a mistake. When Sebastian heard Hawke's name, fury overtook him in an instant. A wordless scream of rage burst from him, and the mercenary took a half-step back in surprise. He recovered at once, but not before Sebastian sprang up from the ground and barreled into him. They both fell to the wet, mulch-covered ground, rolling over and over as each of their blades rose and fell. Sebastian had the heavier armor. The mercenary's thrusts were wild, and most were turned away by the scale mail. Sebastian's dagger bit into the other man again and again, until he was motionless beneath him.
When it finally penetrated his fogged senses that the mercenary was dead, Sebastian tried to get up only to discover that the man had found a weak spot after all. A lucky thrust had gone beneath the skirt of the armor, finding a home deep in Sebastian's flesh above the hip. He hadn't even felt it. But he felt it now. His first attempt to stand landed him right back in the wet leaves and mud. His second was more successful, and he stood for a moment braced against a tree trunk, feeling a wave of nausea overwhelm him. He tried to control his labored breathing, willing the colorful spots that swam in his vision to subside.
Though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering from ailments both great and small, his heart was strong, and he moved on.
He was alive, and sent up a prayer of thanks to Andraste that it was so. But alive would only be a temporary condition if he allowed himself to pass out. He needed to get back to the road, but there was no way he would make it with the mercenary's knife sticking out of his side. Each step back toward the campsite was its own individual agony, each one a test of his resolve, but eventually he stood before the glowing red embers of the dying fire. He knew what he had to do.
He carefully knelt and laid the blade of his own dagger against the hot coals. When it too glowed red, he held the skirt of the armor out of his way and, gritting his teeth, swiftly pulled the mercenary's dagger free. He closed his eyes, swaying as a fresh wave of agony tore through him. He felt the hot rush of blood flowing steadily down his side and forced his eyes open. His hand shook as he gripped the hilt of his own dagger to pull it from the fire. He took a deep, steadying breath.
Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.
Before he could let himself think about it further, he pressed the glowing metal to the wound in his side. A hoarse scream ripped from him as the skin around the wound seared. The night around him tilted crazily, then went still as he slid mercifully into unconsciousness.
~*~
The merchant's wagon, drawn by two sturdy oxen, trundled slowly down the muddy road toward Tantervale. Two men sat up behind the team, one stocky and graying, the other not much past his eighteenth year. A rust-colored mabari walked alongside the wagon, but occasionally darted off to chase after a bird or to investigate an interesting smell. He had found the younger of the two men when he was just a pup, and chosen him. Since the dogs were not as common here in the Marches as they were down south in Ferelden, he was all the more treasured by the family.
The younger man watched his hound with a fond smile.
“Maybe one of his side-trips will find us a brace of rabbits,” the older man said hopefully.
“Not sure we'd want 'em after he finished,” his son grinned.
“I'll have t'give you that.”
They rode in silence for a while, the boy driving the team while his father whittled at a piece of wood with deft, thick fingers. As they neared a rise, the mabari disappeared into a thick copse of trees not far from the road. He returned almost immediately to begin excitedly barking. He looked at the two men for a moment, barked once more, and trotted back into the trees.
Stopping the team, the younger man gave his father a perplexed look and climbed down.
“Sergeant! Come back here!”
But Sergeant only gave a muffled bark from somewhere ahead.
The man made it about halfway to the copse before his mabari reemerged, backing toward him and dragging at... Maker's breath!
“Dad!”
The merchants managed to get the injured man into the back of the wagon with its load of woolens bound for the north, but a look exchanged between them was grim. The man had half a dozen wounds, crusted with blood and dirt. He was pale as death, except where two spots of color rode his cheeks.
“Will he make it to the healers in Tantervale, Dad?”
"It's in the Maker's hands."
Rating: M - mild language, adult themes, violence
Author: basbaker
Word Count: 4863
In the days following Sebastian's departure from Kirkwall, Hawke resisted every effort of her companions to cheer her up. The girls' night that Isabela had persuaded her into was not repeated. Varric's attempts to get her to smile with his jokes and stories occasionally earned success, but it was fleeting. Eventually they stopped trying and, for the most part, left her alone. Alone was just what Hawke wanted to be. It was the way she felt inside, and no amount of time spent with friends made her feel any less so.
Instead, she spent a great deal of her time shut up inside the Amell-Hawke estate, reading, writing in her journal, and often going outside to tend the garden. She had always loved having flowers back in Ferelden whenever her family stayed in one place long enough to plant a garden. Since coming to live in Hightown, she had rediscovered her gift for growing them. For the first time in recent memory, the Amell manor was decorated with flowers in widow boxes and vases of fresh-cut blossoms in many of its rooms.
Whenever she wasn't occupied with one of her more calming pursuits, Hawke went into the cellars below the estate. At one time, the Amells had boasted the most extensive wine cellar in all of Kirkwall and perhaps in the Free Marches as well. The cellars went deep into the cliff beneath Hightown. While the slavers had possessed the manor, the cellars had been used as a place to hide the slaves and as extra housing for the slavers themselves. But as with the rest of the manor, the cellars had been restored to their original state after Hawke had taken possession. She was no connoisseur, but was gradually learning which wines were best to restock, with a lot of help from her mother Leandra.
The deepest part of the cellar had seen little use over the years. Its distance from the house proper made it inconvenient enough to have been abandoned long since. But for Hawke, it was perfect. The moment she discovered it, she had set herself the task of removing the years of filth and debris that had accumulated there. Then she had turned the broad, cool area into a practice room. Deep into the cliff, it insulated the sounds and effects of her spellcasting. Of course, she wouldn't have guaranteed its structural soundness if she were to cast some of the more powerful force magic that she had been learning, but for the rest of her offensive repertoire, it served very well indeed.
With the turmoil she felt inside, being able to go somewhere and unleash chained lightning or a searing ball of fire was immensely satisfying. Tapping into all of her angst and hurt, letting it become elemental aggression, helped Hawke to slowly overcome it. Her strength increased daily. Judiciously placed bribes, courtesy of Varric, had acquired books of magic for Hawke to study. For the first time since her father's death, she was able to significantly further her studies down the paths that her talents dictated. She even began to learn some of the simpler magics from the schools whose disciplines had always eluded her.
But though her studies and her hobbies helped her to think clearly and find some perspective on Sebastian and his sudden departure, they didn't make her happy. She still missed his brilliant blue eyes, the way his dark auburn hair curled over the collar of his shirt, his elegant, long-fingered hands turning the pages of a book, the voice that poured over her like warm, honeyed wine. The more days that passed with no word from him, the more her spirits sank.
After two weeks of watching her daughter isolate herself inside the manor, Leandra finally decided to intervene. Things between the two of them had been tense since the day they were forced to flee Lothering - the day she lost Bethany. But even before then, Jillian was never the child she had been closest to. She had come into her gifts early and from that day forward it was as though she and her father Malcolm inhabited another world. But not always understanding her firstborn didn't mean that she loved her any less, or cared less about her happiness.
The rather embarrassing (to put it mildly) scene she had interrupted between Jillian and Sebastian had been a shock perhaps right then, but it was not wholly a surprise. She had seen the feelings between the two of them growing little by little, never mind how they both struggled against it. As a daughter of the once-prominent Amell family, she was thrilled to see her own daughter becoming close to one of the Vaels of Starkhaven. How happy it would have made Jillian's grandparents.
But it had not escaped her notice that since that day, Sebastian Vael had not been over to see her daughter. Not a day had passed for weeks that he did not stop by at least briefly, and so his continued absence made guessing the source of Jillian's unhappiness simplicity itself. She naturally assumed that they had quarreled, but as more time passed, she began to realize that it was more serious than just a lovers' spat.
So one morning she finally tapped on the parlor door when she knew Jillian would be studying, and peeked ever-so-slowly around.
“Really, Mother,” Jillian greeted her, the hoped-for smile bringing some light to pensive gray eyes. “I think it's perfectly safe.”
“Yes, so I thought the last time I came in without knocking,” Leandra gently teased her, taking a seat in one of the wing chairs.
Hawke felt herself blushing and lowered her gaze to the book she held, speaking quietly, “I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean for that to happen.”
“I know, dear. I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable. You're a grown woman. You're beautiful and confident, and very capable of making your own choices. I was never upset with what you were doing - only that the entire situation was so embarrassing. For both of us.”
When her daughter darted her a speaking look of gratitude, Leandra smiled and dove into the deeper reason she had sought her out. “But I do think that maybe I caused you far more trouble than you caused me. I haven't seen Sebastian back here since that day.”
“That's not your fault, Mother. Sebastian and I had... a disagreement. When I went to him to patch things up, I found out that he had left Kirkwall. I don't know when he'll back. The Grand Cleric said at least weeks.”
Though she listened for it, Leandra could detect no anger or sadness in Jillian's tone. She just sounded resigned. She would have been happier if her daughter had shown more emotion. This calm acceptance was something she had seen before, most recently when Carver had to be handed over to the Grey Wardens. At the time, she had been too heartbroken herself to realize that her daughter felt just as deeply, but handled it differently. She had only added to the burden on Jillian's shoulders, and it still made her cringe when she remembered it. But this way the girl had of internalizing pain, denying it, was unhealthy.
“I'm sure there must have been a perfectly good reason why he had to leave.”
“Oh yes, there was. It had nothing at all to do with me.” Sebastian refused to let her matter enough to drive any of his actions, Hawke added silently.
“Then why have you shut yourself up inside the house?” Leandra demanded gently. “Every day one or another of your friends comes by, but you refuse to see them. That young man Anders has been here every morning.”
“You always did have a soft spot for apostates,” Hawke smiled when her mother blushed like a girl. Interesting. But her mother didn't give her the chance to ask any questions.
“Never mind that. I'm not suggesting that you should forget about Sebastian. After all, it's only been two weeks. Even if he left without telling you, I'm sure that he won't stay away. He cares for you, Jillian.”
“Maybe, but he doesn't care enough. I wanted it to be enough, but I was wrong.” That was the heart of it all. It was the simple truth that she had refused to let herself see until things went too far. It turned hurt to humiliation.
“I don't believe that, dear. And even if you are right, what purpose does sitting at home and shunning your other friends serve?” She smiled reasonably. “I'm not suggesting that you should go out and find a replacement for your handsome prince, but if you truly believe that you and Sebastian are finished, maybe you should at least keep your options open.”
She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Think about it.”
Jillian smiled up at her, looking rueful. “Anyone would think that you know a little about going on with life after you've lost someone you care for.”
“I think we both do. But sometimes a reminder is nice.”
When her mother closed the door behind her, Hawke sat for a long while gazing out the window, her book forgotten in her lap. Sometime later, when the sound of Bodhan greeting a visitor penetrated the parlor door, she put the book aside and went out to greet her guest.
~*~
Sebastian, unwanted third son of a ruling family, had never had much opportunity to travel in his life. His entire childhood had been spent in the city of Starkhaven. The last time he had undertaken a journey like this, he had been sixteen. That was the year that his parents finally tired of his drinking and debauching and paid the Chantry to take him off of their hands. The trip from Starkhaven to Kirkwall had taken several days, and each step of it had seemed a fresh insult to the exiled prince. He would have given anything then to simply disappear into the countryside, but his parents had sent along a company of soldiers led by Captain Leland, an “escort” to ensure that he made it safely to his destination.
This was the first time he could remember having the chance to venture out on his own and actually explore the Free Marches. He had been too sunk in resentment and self-pity to appreciate the surrounding countryside then, and so it was not without a certain sense of anticipation that he had packed for the journey to Tantervale.
Unfortunately, the encounter with Hawke had dampened that enthusiasm. For the first day, as he walked through the pass of the Vimmark Mountains, high Sundermount to the east, all Sebastian could think of was how badly he had handled himself from the first moment he had seen her. When it occurred to him that he had never told her that he was leaving, hadn't even left a note when he returned to the Chantry to collect his belongings, it was all he could do to keep his feet moving northward.
He consoled himself with the certainty that she would understand. After all, he had told her that he'd had news concerning his family. She of all people must know how important avenging their deaths was to him. And then, of course, there was the fact that she was angry with him. Giving her time to cool her temper before writing to her was not necessarily unwise.
He had been shocked when she told him that she cared deeply for him, in a way that implied even more than it said. Always since they met, he had been focused on his own feelings. He spent most of his time trying not to think about her, unless it was as a friend, or a student. But he usually failed. Instead he saw her as an almost irresistible temptation. He tried for months to suppress anything warmer than friendship, throwing himself almost desperately into his duties at the Chantry and his devotions to the Maker and His Bride. But Hawke always crept back in.
Those rare occasions when he did let himself wonder how she felt, he had supposed that she considered him a good friend, maybe even a substitute for the absent Carver. Apparently that hadn't been the case. Discovering something he would have known if he hadn't been so selfish, especially in light of what Leandra had interrupted, set off such a confusion of emotions inside him that he couldn't even pick one to focus on. He had stood gaping like a moron while fury leaped into those wide gray eyes. Knowing he had earned both her fury and her contempt seemed just. He had certainly earned his own.
These thoughts among others occupied his mind as he trekked alone through the unsettled lands of the Free Marches known as the Wildervale. Rolling, forested foothills gave way to flatter land the further north Sebastian went. The road was kept in good condition thanks to trade between the free cities, and though he traveled by himself, he saw several merchant carts and caravans pass by. Since merchants were always a good source of news, the prince often took advantage of an opportunity to speak with them. But he learned little that he didn't already know from the north.
Inns by the roadside became rarer the further into unsettled country he moved. Occasionally he saw a farmstead in the distance, but these also became less frequent. Sebastian didn't consider it any serious hardship. He had packed provisions for a week, planning to reach Tantervale in a little more than half that time. And thankfully, bandits were less prevalent in the Wildervale. Attacks were of course not unheard of, but they were more frequent nearer to the cities. Sebastian was reasonably confident in his ability to fight off any would-be thieves. By day, he walked as far as he could while the light lasted, then at night made his camp a bit off from the road, choosing a sheltered spot for his fire.
It was at night that he found himself missing Hawke the most. During the day, there were endless sights and sounds to keep his mind busy even when no other travelers shared the road. But when he sat alone with only the crackling campfire for company, his thoughts went unerringly to her. He recited line after line of the Chant and prayed with every ounce of devotion he had, trying to keep himself focused on heavenly things. It would have been much easier if he had never touched her that last day, had never tasted her. When he closed his eyes to sleep, the image of her lying naked before him, hips arching up, tormented him. He heard again the sounds she made, smelled her scent, and writhed anew in desire and shame. When he finally slept, he dreamed of her.
If this was his punishment, it was a good one. Sebastian had never felt so conflicted, or so much of a failure. In one moment of weakness he had hurt Hawke, possibly destroying their friendship in the process, and he had failed the Maker. Despite years of study and commitment, he remained unworthy. His faith seemed ever harder to hold onto.
As if the weather commiserated, midway through Sebastian's third day on the road dark clouds swept in from the east, heavy with rain that began to fall almost immediately. The sudden, swiftly blowing wind sent the water across the road in sheets, soaking everything - including him - instantly. When the edge of the storm had passed, the rain continued to fall in a steady torrent. There was little shelter to be had on this stretch of road, so Sebastian just put his head down and continued walking. The novelty of being out on his own on the open road was quickly waning. With Tantervale no more than a day's journey away, he was ready for a hot bath and a warm meal.
The rain continued to fall, turning the road to mud that sucked at his boots with every step. He plodded onward, not wanting to waste time as daylight waned. Tonight of all nights he wanted a sheltered place to sleep, and so far the land to either side of the road stubbornly refused to offer him any decent prospects. But finally he thought he saw a likely looking spot through the curtain of rain that masked the arrival of night in gradually darkening shades of gray. On the leeward side of a nearby hill was a thick stand of trees. They wouldn't block out all of the rain, but the weather had calmed enough that he had hopes of being able to make a fire. Silently thanking Andraste for Her mercy, he made straight for the copse.
An hour later, with the rain pattering softly on the leaves overhead, Sebastian felt a little better. The copse was even thicker than he had first thought. He managed to find some deadfall that was damp, but still dry enough to burn. After some concerted effort with flint and tinder, he coaxed a flame to life and kept it that way long enough to feed it. Now it was a respectable, if smoky, fire. He had eaten some of his provisions and washed the cold meal down with a small skin of ale. If it wasn't for the fact that his clothes beneath his armor were soaked, he would have actually gone so far as to call himself content.
But before he could see to setting out his clothes by the fire to dry, he had to tend to his bow. He had managed to get it covered with the oiled cloth he had packed for just that purpose, but not before the string was already soaked. He tested the draw and grimaced at the weaker tension. It would have to be replaced. He sat down next to the fire, taking a string wrapped in oiled paper from his pack. He deftly removed the ruined string from the nocks, tossing it unceremoniously into the fire before restringing the powerful weapon. Again testing the draw, Sebastian nodded to himself. Much better.
It was as he was re-wrapping the bow in the oilcloth that he heard the sound. He went completely still as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. The noise came again, but clearer. Someone, perhaps more than one, was approaching his camp. And they were trying to do so quietly. The wet ground muffled their approach, and he figured that they were close enough to have already seen him by the fire's light. With a fervent prayer to the Maker for protection, he made a sudden lunge for his quiver and sprinted into the darkness beneath the trees. Surprised cries immediately went up, and he knew for certain that more than one hunted him.
But Sebastian was a hunter, too. He had spent more nights sneaking through the darkness than he could count when he was a boy. And even later, he had kept his skills sharp. It was a point of pride with him that he could take the best of what he had been before the Chantry and continue to improve it. Now he put those abilities to good use. By turns he was stillness and calculated motion, but always he was silence. His senses heightened, he watched and listened for the unknown, unseen others that stalked beneath the trees.
He circled around, eyes straining in the darkness to pick out a shadow that moved when the shadows around it did not. When he saw one, he went completely still except for the hand that pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to the bowstring. He grimaced at the wet fletching of the arrow, but at this range it wouldn't matter. The bow would creak as he drew it - there was no help for that. So he drew swiftly, and by the time the shadow was aware of the sound, it was already pierced by an arrow through the chest. And just that quickly, another arrow found a home next to the first, and the shadow fell to the earth with a dull thud.
Sebastian heard footfalls quickly moving toward the fallen assailant. Rather than melting back into the darkness, he put another arrow to his bowstring and waited. Another movement in the dark had him jerking the bow to the ready and firing off a shot that found its mark in the target's eye. The second shadow fell.
After that, the copse was silent. Sebastian waited, forcing himself to stay calm and listen. The minutes ticked by, and just when he was about to move forward to inspect his fallen foes, he became aware of a presence to his left. Apparently one of the shadows had a bit of skill, because he was already far too close for Sebastian to get his bow up in time. The shadowy figure rushed at him, and Sebastian parried an almost unseen swipe of a dagger with his bow. He drove one end of the bow into the figure's midsection, giving himself time to draw his own blade as his attacker grunted, doubling over for just a moment.
Then they closed with one another, blades at the ready. There was no room for the prince to get away from his opponent. The trees and underbrush ringed them on all sides, and footing was treacherous. Sebastian's foot slipped on a patch of wet leaves as he swiped at the other man, and he felt the edge of the enemy's dagger as it sliced through the leather of his armor, scoring along his forearm. He gritted his teeth against the instant, searing pain and lunged again. This time it was his own blade that bit, leaving a shallow gash along the other man's ribs.
In the tense, unrevealing dark, Sebastian's heart pounded with adrenaline. Anticipating his enemy's attacks was quite nearly an exercise in futility. He knew for the first time that he was fighting for his life, and that there was no one else around to save him. This battle would come down to luck, nothing more. And if he died, the Vael family line died with him - a dynasty brought to a sudden and complete end. He couldn't let that happen.
Attacks were traded again, and Sebastian took another wound, this time to his thigh, slowing him. He knew the man was better at this than he was, and panic began to claw at his insides. But he forced it down, circling the other man warily, heavily favoring his left leg. He prayed with all his might for deliverance, for a miracle.
As if in mockery of the effort, his attacker darted in swiftly, aiming a kick directly at the gash on Sebastian's thigh. He wasn't quick enough to avoid it. Breath-stopping agony exploded in his leg. He cried out and went down to one knee. The other man didn't hesitate. He stepped closer, the dagger's point aimed straight at Sebastian's throat as he grabbed his hair, jerking his head back painfully.
Sebastian knew that he was dead. Words of the Chant whispered through his mind. The Veil holds no uncertainty for him, and he will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be his beacon and his shield, his foundation and his sword. He was not afraid. He steadily met the eyes of the other man, glinting in the dark. If he was going to die, by the Maker, he was going to die a prince.
With the edge of his blade resting against Sebastian's jugular, the man spoke, his words holding quiet satisfaction. “You thought you finished us off, my buck. But Flint Company never leaves a job undone. First you, and then that bitch in Kirkwall they call Hawke. I'll enjoy that the most.”
It was a mistake. When Sebastian heard Hawke's name, fury overtook him in an instant. A wordless scream of rage burst from him, and the mercenary took a half-step back in surprise. He recovered at once, but not before Sebastian sprang up from the ground and barreled into him. They both fell to the wet, mulch-covered ground, rolling over and over as each of their blades rose and fell. Sebastian had the heavier armor. The mercenary's thrusts were wild, and most were turned away by the scale mail. Sebastian's dagger bit into the other man again and again, until he was motionless beneath him.
When it finally penetrated his fogged senses that the mercenary was dead, Sebastian tried to get up only to discover that the man had found a weak spot after all. A lucky thrust had gone beneath the skirt of the armor, finding a home deep in Sebastian's flesh above the hip. He hadn't even felt it. But he felt it now. His first attempt to stand landed him right back in the wet leaves and mud. His second was more successful, and he stood for a moment braced against a tree trunk, feeling a wave of nausea overwhelm him. He tried to control his labored breathing, willing the colorful spots that swam in his vision to subside.
Though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering from ailments both great and small, his heart was strong, and he moved on.
He was alive, and sent up a prayer of thanks to Andraste that it was so. But alive would only be a temporary condition if he allowed himself to pass out. He needed to get back to the road, but there was no way he would make it with the mercenary's knife sticking out of his side. Each step back toward the campsite was its own individual agony, each one a test of his resolve, but eventually he stood before the glowing red embers of the dying fire. He knew what he had to do.
He carefully knelt and laid the blade of his own dagger against the hot coals. When it too glowed red, he held the skirt of the armor out of his way and, gritting his teeth, swiftly pulled the mercenary's dagger free. He closed his eyes, swaying as a fresh wave of agony tore through him. He felt the hot rush of blood flowing steadily down his side and forced his eyes open. His hand shook as he gripped the hilt of his own dagger to pull it from the fire. He took a deep, steadying breath.
Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.
Before he could let himself think about it further, he pressed the glowing metal to the wound in his side. A hoarse scream ripped from him as the skin around the wound seared. The night around him tilted crazily, then went still as he slid mercifully into unconsciousness.
~*~
The merchant's wagon, drawn by two sturdy oxen, trundled slowly down the muddy road toward Tantervale. Two men sat up behind the team, one stocky and graying, the other not much past his eighteenth year. A rust-colored mabari walked alongside the wagon, but occasionally darted off to chase after a bird or to investigate an interesting smell. He had found the younger of the two men when he was just a pup, and chosen him. Since the dogs were not as common here in the Marches as they were down south in Ferelden, he was all the more treasured by the family.
The younger man watched his hound with a fond smile.
“Maybe one of his side-trips will find us a brace of rabbits,” the older man said hopefully.
“Not sure we'd want 'em after he finished,” his son grinned.
“I'll have t'give you that.”
They rode in silence for a while, the boy driving the team while his father whittled at a piece of wood with deft, thick fingers. As they neared a rise, the mabari disappeared into a thick copse of trees not far from the road. He returned almost immediately to begin excitedly barking. He looked at the two men for a moment, barked once more, and trotted back into the trees.
Stopping the team, the younger man gave his father a perplexed look and climbed down.
“Sergeant! Come back here!”
But Sergeant only gave a muffled bark from somewhere ahead.
The man made it about halfway to the copse before his mabari reemerged, backing toward him and dragging at... Maker's breath!
“Dad!”
The merchants managed to get the injured man into the back of the wagon with its load of woolens bound for the north, but a look exchanged between them was grim. The man had half a dozen wounds, crusted with blood and dirt. He was pale as death, except where two spots of color rode his cheeks.
“Will he make it to the healers in Tantervale, Dad?”
"It's in the Maker's hands."