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bluebeetle · 1 year

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Ashes of Yesterday - Chapter 3

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Summary: Male Hawke/Anders, Merrill/Carver Hawke; Red Mage Hawke and very anders positive/pro-mage.

Sebastian has captured Hawke after taking the Starkhaven throne, hoping to lure out Anders to bring them both to trial for their crimes. Being held captive on a ship heading towards Starkhaven isn't exactly a vacation for Hawke, but it gives both Sebastian and him time to reflect on their past friendship before it all came crashing down.

A fic exploring a religious pro-mage Anders romance mage Hawke and his tentative relationship with Sebastian, along with a hearty helping of headcanons and flashbacks.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 (here - 23k words) | Ch 4

Then.

If Hawke had been told a few years ago he’d be wedged between a Templar and a Chantry Brother willingly—without either of them wanting to drag him to the Circle—he would have laughed.

It wasn’t so funny when the Templar was his brother.

“Oh, so High and Mighty Ser Carver has come to grave me with his presence,” Hawke spat, staggering along the streets of Lowtown. He nearly face-planted into the market stairs, his weight supported by Sebastian. The smaller man’s face pinched into a frown.

“Grace, not grave,” Carver corrected. He sounded tired. It was late, admittedly; the half moon was bright in the sky.

“High and mighty,” slurred Hawke, waving his hand dismissively in Carver’s face. Smug bastard, always bragging about being the taller one…

“Hawke,” Sebastian said, “you’re drunk. Let’s get you home.”

“Why’re you even here, Sebastian? I’m trying to yell at the idiot who looks like my mother,” Hawke snapped, struggling against the archer. Sebastian held tight, refusing to let Hawke slink away. The rogue’s frown deepened.

“You invited me to meet your… friends at the Hanged Man,” Sebastian explained. His face reminded Hawke of his father when trying to corral three overactive children into bed. “And I promised Varric I’d get you home to Hightown in one piece. He seems like a good man. Good dwarf?”

“What ‘bout Anders? I’d rather… he can take me home instead,” Hawke replied. He liked Anders. Anders was tall and warm and smelled like elfroot—and had just agreed to move in. Move in! Mother was more hesitant, but she had given in, muttering about how Hawke was too much like her.

“Anders left early. He went to his clinic, remember?” Sebastian said, concern sparkling in his eyes. “Are you alright? I think you had too much to drink if your memory has gaps.”

“I’m fine,” Hawke grunted. Maybe he had overdone it, but he’d been through worse. He just… had some nightmares about his return from the Deep Roads recently, that was all. Not even about the Darkspawn, or well… not just the Darkspawn. After all, none of the horrors he had seen in that Maker-forsaken place had frightened him so thoroughly as seeing the blade of mercy etched onto his little brother’s chestplate.

And now his little brother was haunting his waking world too. Ugh.

“I don’t think you are, Hawke, trust me. I know what it’s like to drink so much you forget or black out,” Sebastian murmured, voice soft and warm, too close to Hawke’s own ear.

“I don’t care about your sad backstory right now! I need to yell at my idiot brother,” Hawke yelled, straining his neck away so that Sebastian’s mouth was less likely to eat his earlobe. Gross.

Carver rolled his eyes. “You can barely stand,” he pointed out. “I don’t have time for this, Garrett. Let’s get you home.” He moved to occupy Hawke’s free side, a too-gentle hand on the older brother’s back. Far too gentle for someone in Templar armour. Ugh . Hawke was going to be sick if he had to look at that damn burning blade any longer.

Together, the three of them stumbled up the stairs in Lowtown. Or rather, Hawke stumbled, half carried as he was by the other two men. “Why’re you here ?” Hawke asked Carver, earning a groan for breaking the silence.

“I wanted some air,” Carver explained, not looking at Hawke. “The barracks are stuffy. Then, when I got to Lowtown, I was pulled in by the sound of yelling and went wow, that sounds like my brother! But yet, I smell a brewery? And then I thought, oh, I better go investigate before he decides to use a fire spell on some poor pickpocket and blows up half of Lowtown! And then I found poor Brother Vael trying to help you.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Hawke. He stared at the ground, idly counting the cobblestones as they walked. 1… 2… 3…

“Real mature, Gar,” Carver sighed above him.

“Please, don’t antagonise each other,” Sebastian added, exasperated.

“You’re not our mother,” Carver and Hawke said together. In turn, they glared at each other, finally meeting eyes. Hawke hated that he had to tilt his head up.

“And thank the Maker for that,” Sebastian grumbled, barely audible over their shuffling and the sound of Carver’s armour.

Why’d Carver even put on platemail for his damn walk? What a tit, thought Hawke. Maybe it was a lie to cover up being on a patrol or something. Probably worried Hawke would freak out on him about hunting for poor mages at night. Whatever. Hawke didn’t care. Really. He didn’t. Nope, his idiot brother didn’t matter to him anymore—

“I don’t need Carver’s help,” Hawke sneered, trying to pull away from the Templar—but Sebastian held fast, not letting the mage stumble over him in order to do so.

“You never need my help,” Carver retorted, “because you’re sooooo perfect at everything, right?”

“Please, both of you, there’s no need to fight,” Sebastian said, fingers digging into Hawke’s side hard enough to bruise. “Let’s just all get everyone home safe, okay?”

“Stay out of this,” Hawke snipped, ignoring Sebastian's painful warning. “This is between us brothers.”

“It’s hard not to when you insist on arguing right beside me,” Sebastian replied, levelling Hawke with a look. Overall, he seemed rather unimpressed by the two of them.

Hawke rolled his eyes, moving his entire head to exaggerate the motion. “Then let me knock Carver out and we can leave—”

“I’m not going to let you—Hawke, please,” Sebastian sighed, free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is no need for you two to argue like this right now. He’s just trying to help.”

Carver snorted in Hawke’s poor, poor ear. “He hates it when people dare to help him.”

“I do if their idea of help is to join the damn Templars!” Hawke sneered, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sebastian’s shoulder. Sweet revenge! “So much for being the protective little brother like you promise Father you’d be!”

“I am trying to protect you and mother!” Carver retorted, towering over Hawke’s face. Stupid tall asshole. “And I have a right to prove myself! To have a life out of your damn shadow!”

“So you joined the fucking Templars?!” Hawke shouted. Fury flared, snapping into place over despair and annoyance, slotting in nicely with the flush on his cheeks from alcohol. “That’s real fuckin’ smart of you, it’ll look real good for everyone when your fuckin’ Knight-captain is dragging your older apostate brother into the Gallows kicking and screaming!”

“Hawke, volume—” Sebastian tried.

“That’s not going to happen!” Carver asserted, speaking over Sebastian. “I won’t let it happen!”

Sebastian winced, glancing around nervously. Luckily, Hawke’s druken yelling had long since chased away any stragglers in the streets. The chances of a bloody fight breaking out in Lowtown were never zero, after all.

“Oh, lucky me,” Hawke said, rolling his eyes yet again. “I get to be everyone’s favourite free apostate then while you beat some poor circle mage.” Sebastian flinched, violently enough that Hawke felt it. He frowned, glancing over at the archer. The man said nothing.

“I’m not—I’m not going to do anything like that. I won’t,” Carver said. Hawke turned to meet his eyes once more, molten gold to sky blue. “You… I would never.”

Sebastian stayed silent, stiff as a statue at Hawke’s side. Hawke wasn’t feeling very charitable, so he only thought good, he shut up.

“You hate me,” Hawke whispered, voice shaking ever so slightly—a far cry from his slurring words earlier. “You hate Anders. You’ll probably find some other mage you hate too, and then what?” He laughed, the sound venomous even to his own ears.

“It’s not like there’s anyone who’ll stop you in there from hurting them, you know,” Hawke sneered, pulling away from both men. He learned on a wall, the hard stone Kirkwall was cut out of digging into his flesh through his thin jacket. He kept his eyes to the ground, biting back tears, biting back his own guilt at the cruel, bitter words that slipped through his lips. “You could get away with it, with nothing but a slap on a wrist and a guilty conscience—and who fuckin’ knows how long that last one’ll last.”

Carver was quiet for a blessed moment. He just stared at Hawke, pale as a ghost. Sebastian disappeared into the background. Hawke wished everyone else—his brother, his own conscience—would join the archer there so he could finally be alone; completely and utterly alone.

Then, “...I wouldn’t do that,” Carver croaked, all anger drained. “...I.. Garrett, do you really see me like that?” He sounded hurt, genuinely hurt in a way that Hawke hadn’t heard in a long time. “ I… I’m not going to say we’ve always gotten along, and I still meant what I said, back when… when you returned,” Carver sighed, platemail creaking nervously. He looked away, adding, “…most of what I said, anyways.”

Hawke’s hand slinked up to his neck. He rubbed at the scar there, long and ragged across brown skin—a memory of long ago playing on loop in his head, half forgotten but never to be forgiven.

Carver swallowed, filling the silence where his brother had decided to not. “I would… I wouldn’t hurt someone like that, even if I did hate them. And I don’t… I don’t hate you. Some days I wish I could hate you, but you’re… you’re family, dammit! And I already lost Bethany and Father, I don’t want to lose you too, either to death or the Blighted circle.” They really shouldn’t be having this conversation out in public, out in front of Sebastian. But yet, here they were… If Hawke wasn’t feeling so much rage and guilt, he’d be flushed with embarrassment instead.

Carver ran a hand through his hair, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are just… so infuriating to talk to.”

“...I don’t.. I’m sorry,” Hawke said finally, deflating. His entire body felt sore, his mind sluggish. He felt like was going to throw up. “I don’t see you that way, Carver. I really don’t. I guess… I just. I have a hard time seeing… just, the idea of a nice templar doesn’t work in my mind.” Hawke’s hand brushed against his scar. “But that’s not your fault. And I guess I’m just… I’m just scared one day you’ll be just like them and I know I'll have lost my brother without him having to die,” he finished, voice a near whisper.

“I’m not going to abandon you, or mother,” Carver replied, voice just as hushed. “Let me protect you.”

“...I don’t think you can, Carv, especially not as a Templar,” Hawke replied bitterly. “...but thank you.” His mouth felt like a desert, and he swallowed hard as the words forced themselves out.

“Let’s get you home,” Carver sighed, an unreadable expression scrunching up his face. He draped Hawke’s right arm over his shoulder, hefting up his sibling with strength Hawke sometimes forgot Carver had. But it made sense—Carver had always been the fighter. That was why he was the soldier, the Templar. He had muscle, stamina that even Hawke did not, despite Hawke being rather fit for a refugee apostate himself.

Carver’s strength was an idea that was hard to marry with the Carver in his head; the Carver who was still a little boy, flip-flopping between hero worship and jealousy when it came to his older brother, the little boy who played with sticks and made Garrett be the dragon he rescued Bethany from when they played outside in the dying light of half forgotten Fereldan summers.

Hawke missed those days more than anything.

He barely registered Sebastian at his other side, the man’s presence reduced to nothing but a spectre. He’d deal with Sebastian later; hopefully if the man had any tact, he wouldn’t involve himself in the siblings' feud further. Even if they had argued in front of him. Ugh, he’d have to apologise for that when he had a clearer head and the ability to swallow his pride enough (unlikely; apologising to Carver was hard enough).

Hawke sighed as he leaned his too-warm face against the biting chill of Carver’s armour. “I love you,” Hawke breathed.

Carver didn’t reply. The tightening of his grip was enough. Carver cared, in his own annoying way. But that was the relationship they had, wasn’t it? Where they loved each other despite never seeing each other eye to eye, because they couldn’t imagine a world without. Where they both tried to protect each other, in ways that only made the other brother frustrated. It was the game they had always played, even if now the pain of their failures cut far deeper than it had years ago.

There were times Hawke wished he could hate his brother too. Especially after such a betrayal. And yet, he couldn't, leaving his anger with no place to go.

“...you… you don’t have to stay away from me, from everyone, you know?” Hawke murmured, hobbling along towards Hightown. What a sight they must have made: a fully armed Templar knight dragging some drunken noble through the dark streets of Kirkwall, aided by a brother of the Chantry who was the sole heir to the throne of Starkhaven. It sounded like the start of a bad joke. Varric would have laughed.

“They weren’t much happier with my career choice, Varric and Anders especially,” Carver replied. “They act like I stuck a knife in your back.”

You did. Hawke didn’t voice that thought. Not with the waters of their relationship calmed, finally. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal from his brother, from everything, but that didn’t mean he wished to open up the wounds already, after they had finally stopped festering for a blissful moment. Anyways, with how drunk Hawke knew he was, stumbling along to keep up with Carver’s strong strides, he’d say something he’d regret, something he may or may not mean. Again.

“I don’t think Sebastian or Fenris are mad,” Hawke said instead. “...and I’m sure they’ll get over it. Except maybe Anders. But it’ll be easier for them if you, I don’t know… actually talk to them? Talk to me in front of them without us breaking into an argument? I… I don’t want… I don’t want to lose you, Carver.”

“I think joining the Templars is an admirable thing to do,” Sebastian agreed, alive once more. “They do good work.” Hawke ignored how Sebastian’s words made his skin crawl. He didn’t feel like dwelling on anything negative. Not tonight, anyways.

Carver nodded, fighting to keep from preening under Sebastian’s praise. Hawke could tell. He knew his little brother too well. “...Fine. Maybe when I have free time I can stop by the Hanged Man occasionally. Maybe. Just… keep Anders from attacking me like a rabid animal,” Carver relented, adjusting his grip on his brother as they climbed the steps up to the Hightown Market.

“He’s usually too busy being destroyed by Isabela at cards to do anything else,” Hawke snickered. “But I will. He likes me a lot, I think. I hope. I like him a lot. A lot."

Carver groaned, the sound low but yet too-loud all the same. Hawke's head was pounding now, and all he wanted was for his companions to stop making noise. “You’re unbelievable,” Carver muttered into the night. Sebastian chuckled in agreement, but the sound was off. Hawke chalked it up to the awkwardness of having two siblings argue in front of him about something so personal—and not Sebastian’s budding distaste for Anders. He had doubted the two would get along, but luckily, they had barely gotten any time to even talk. Perhaps that was for the best…

As they approached the Hawke-Amell Estate, Carver made himself scarce. Avoiding Mother, the coward. Still, Hawke was glad they had come to some sort of truce before his brother ran with his tail between his legs.

Sebastian lingered in the entryway to the estate, warmed by the candles burning around them, a sharp contrast to the unseasonably bitter cold of the night. “Hawke…” the archer began, fiddling with his hands. He had chosen not to wear his armour, which wasn’t the smartest decision around Hawke. Even normal social gatherings with him could turn into a brawl—that’s just what Kirkwall was like. Lowtown especially. “Do you… really hate the Templars? I thought… you’ve helped them before, yes?”

Ah. And thus Hawke’s big, drunken mouth had backed himself into a corner yet again. It was so easy for his lies to unravel when he wasn’t careful, after all.

“I’m just mad about Carver and very drunk, don’t listen to me,” Hawke replied, waving him off dismissively. “I’m not… I’m…. but, it’s… it’s complicated, alright? And I have. I just… it’s…” He fought for the right words that wouldn’t dig his grave any deeper, hand rubbing at his scar. But he had a splitting headache and needed to sleep off the drinks he had that night before he could form a halfway decent defence.

“You… you touch that scar a lot, especially Templars are brought up,” Sebastian pointed out. “I only started to notice recently, but even during some of our talks…”

“Yes,” Hawke said curtly. He schooled his face, chasing away the sneer that wanted to make itself known. “I do that. Nervous habit. Thank you for your help, Sebastian. Sorry about the family drama. Good night.” And with that, Hawke sulked off to his room to sleep off his inebriation, leaving Sebastian alone in the atrium.

(If he only made it to his room because of Orana’s help, well, no one needed to know.)

Laughter rang out in the warm air, spring in full swing as the days grew longer and longer in the Free Marches. The smell of alcohol invaded his nose, mingling with whatever oils Isabela wore and the elfroot lingering on Anders’ clothes.

“And what do you know, Anders loses again,” Isabela snickered as she swiped some coins, Anders merely rolling his eyes.

“Y’know, Blondie, I don’t get why you play if you always lose,” Varric sighed, shaking his head.

“I don’t always lose,” Anders muttered, shifting closer to Hawke despite the humidity. He almost missed the dryness of Fereldan's cooler months, so long as one was away from the coast. Almost—Bethany and Carver had been the type to get nosebleeds often because of it. Ugh, what a pain that had been to deal with.

“I’ve yet to see proof of that,” came Fenris’s dry tones.

“Whatever,” Anders huffed.

“C’mon now, go easy on him, he’s got a clinic to run,” Hawke said, shuffling the cards Aveline had passed to him.

Varric’s room was crowded tonight, bodies crammed together in the candlelight. Even Aveline and Sebastian had made it, and Anders himself was in a good enough mood to keep from picking any fights with the latter or Fenris, despite his losing streak. It was nice; a break from the pace of the city, from the looming tensions of the Qunari.

Hell, even Carver was present, which was a miracle in and of itself; it seemed their little truce the week before had turned out to not be a bittersweet lie. The fact that Anders wasn’t turning blue and glowy over his presence was enough to almost make Hawke wonder if this was a dream. It helped, of course, that Carver was rather quiet, nothing more than a ghost from his past sitting in the corner with Merrill, nursing what passed for an ale in Lowtown.

His mother had urged him to try and reconnect with his brother; they didn’t have much family left, though Hawke couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she was just wishing they wouldn’t turn out like her and Gamlen. After Carver and Sebastian had brought Hawke home nearly wasted, she had doubled down on her efforts—even if she too always flinched at the sight of Templars in Hightown. (Apparently Mother had been woken up by Hawke coming home. She had talked with Sebastian, the traitor, while Hawke was being helped to his room by poor Orana.)

Hawke worried in that scenario his mother had constructed, he’d be Gamlen, despite already having an apostate lover to run off with. Templars didn’t pay much, but they paid consistently. And didn’t leave as much time for gambling like Hawke’s ‘work’.

“I’d feel pity for him if he still lived in Darktown,” Varric said, cutting through Hawke’s thoughts, “but I hear he’s now got a new place up in Hightown, hm?” He gave Hawke a pointed look, like Varric often did when he knew the answer to something but wanted to pry anyways.

Anders flushed, the red chasing off his freckles. Hawke merely chuckled; it wasn’t like he and Anders were exactly subtle and hiding their interest in each other. “Yes, he even somehow managed to smuggle a cat into the Amell Estate the other day,” Hawke said, splitting the worn deck. No point in dancing around the fact. He knew none of their friends would have much problem with it, or at least wouldn’t dare voice such a fact in front of everyone.

“And your Mabari was fine with that?” Aveline asked.

“Of course, Nightshade didn’t even try to eat her, because he’s such a good boy,” Hawke said, ignoring Anders’ scoff. “They get along now, anyways. Thick as thieves. Nap together. It’s real cute. No name yet, Anders isn’t allowed to pick it.”

“Ugh,” Isabela said, “he really is rubbing off on you if all you can talk about are your pets instead of anything actually interesting."

“Trust me,” Anders muttered into his mug, “talking about Ser Pounce-a-lot is more interesting than anything I could tell you about broodmothers and the deep roads. Just a bunch of horrors and boring old rock.”

“Not even anything about the Hero of Ferelden?” Sebastian spoke up. “You knew her, yes?”

“Oh!” Merrill chirped. “So did I, actually, we’re from the same clan and we were around the same age so we grew up together. I mean, we weren’t friend-friends since I was so busy with the Keeper but I do have a few stories, and oh I’m rambling—"

“It’s fine, Daisy,” Varric said, “why don’t you tell us a story then if Anders won’t?”

The conversation flowed like that, swirling around Hawke as he let himself relax.

Merrill launched into a story about the Hero of Ferelden from when they were young—something about her getting stuck in a tree when she was a hunter apprentice. Tamlen and herself tried to get Yorii Mahariel out, only for Tamlen to end up with a broken arm from Yorii falling on him.

“She was small,” Merrill laughed. “But she was a warrior and had all the muscle for it, so when she landed on him, she landed hard. He pouted about it for weeks! She teased him about being scared by the bear cub, too. Yorii always insisted she was just scared the mother was around.” She giggled, glancing over at Carver sulking in the corner as her story came to an end.

“Sooooo, I got a question for you, Hawke,” Isabela said, loud enough to get everyone else’s attention.

“Ask away,” Hawke replied, taking a swig of his drink. Ugh. Awful as always.

“That scar,” Isabela said, waving vaguely at Hawke’s neck. He stiffened, muscles tense as he slowly sat down his mug. “How’d you get it? It’s real sexy, y’know. Bet it has a great story.”

He was distantly aware of his other friends leaning in a little as well. It wasn’t a surprise; the scar was ugly, a prominent ridge along the cusp of his throat, nearly impossible to hide and only made more noticeable by the swirling tattoos along his neck. Hawke caught people staring at it often; whether it was back in Lothering or Lowtown, or especially Hightown. It was usually one of the first things people noticed about him, other than his eyes.

Hawked swallowed, silent for a moment, mind lost in thought. He could tell. These were his friends, not ogling strangers. But the memory was not pleasant; the memory of it made him feel… vulnerable. Open. It was odd, he often listened to those around him, his demeanour inviting in a way that had people just telling him about their inner workings and problems. Coming for help. He had no idea why, but they did. He tried to help, even with the rage that boiled inside him.

But opening up in return? Allowing himself to be dissected for those around him, for them to know what kept him up at night, what the demons whispered about to him in his sleep?

Hawke wished the floor of the Hanged Man would swallow him whole.

“C’mooooon,” Isabela whined, prodding him again. “We’ve known you for years! Years, and you never told us!”

“...he doesn’t have to, you know,” Anders said, bristling defensively. But when he glanced at his lover, Hawke saw a spark of curiosity in his brown eyes.

Hawke turned back to counting the grains in the table. “I…” he began. “It’s just.” It’s just… I don’t want you to think less of me, even though I know you won’t. I don’t want to be vulnerable; I don’t want to shatter the idea of me as some untouchable battle mage who violently helps those in need that you’ve all started seeing me as. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. And I worry you’ll all end up turning on me like that day–

“Shut up, he doesn’t have to tell if he doesn’t want to, alright?” Carver’s voice cut through the swirling thoughts in Hawke’s head. He was sure this was the first time Carver had spoken to the whole group all night, or possibly spoken to anyone at all.

“C’mon, Junior, they’re just a little curious,” Varric said, shrugging a little. “Surprised you even chipped in to help him out.”

Carver ignored the dig at him. “Look. It’s not a happy memory, or an especially daring one. It’s just a really shitty thing that happened years ago. Drop it.”

“...he has a point, some things just aren’t meant to be shared in front of everyone,” Sebastian added. He politely kept his eyes on his cards.

Hawke blinked, surprised by Carver’s concern and vitriol over this. Then again, he doubted it was a happy memory for Carver either… Still, his brother’s words sobered Isabela enough to stop prying as the group turned back to their game of Wicked Grace.

The awful feeling in the pit of his stomach remained for the rest of the night.

He couldn’t sleep that night. Neither could Anders, if his constant tossing and turning was any indication. A pity both of them were too exhausted for anything else but staring at the ceiling together.

“...you don’t have to answer this,” Anders said finally, settling down, his back to Hawke, strawberry blonde hair splayed on the pillow. “...but did a templar do that to you?”

Part of Hawke wanted to laugh bitterly, accuse Anders of only caring about mages and nothing else. To say of course you’d assume it was a Templar who did it, you act like all cruelty comes from them!

But Hawke knew those were not his real thoughts, not at all; they were just the cruel, mean part of him that didn’t want to expose his heart, even to the man he loved.

Hawke stared at the curtains, moonlight breaking through a crack between them, illuminating Nightshade sleeping at the foot of the bed (Anders has been insistent there was no room for two grown men and a Mabari war hound in the bed. Hawke begged to differ).

“Yes,” Hawke breathed.

Anders said nothing more.

Sebastian hadn’t been sure what he had signed himself up for, when he had agreed to lend his bow to Hawke as a way of showing thanks. He had gathered that the mage led a very… interesting life, but Sebastian hadn’t thought there would be so much going on in Kirkwall. Still, he didn’t mind; it gave him a way to look at the city with different eyes, to extend a helping hand to its people. Trouble knew how to find Hawke and his friends, but Sebastian found himself not minding.

They were trekking through the dunes of the Wounded Coast that day, the breeze from the ocean light and salty. It was a fully booked day—find fresh plants for Solitivus from the Circle, deal with a bounty for some bandits, and take Nightshade the Mabari for a much needed beachside run.

The aforementioned Mabari was hot on the heels of its owner, sending up clouds of dust and sand as the hulking beast ran. Sebastian found himself watching the dog with a curious eye for most of the hike—Hawke and he ahead, Fenris and Varric just steps behind them.

Sebastian had heard many stories about the Ferelden war dogs but being up close to one was something else entirely. Apparently the smell hadn’t been an exaggeration… Nor the size or intelligence. He had never seen a dog understand what it was being ordered as well as Nightshade did, a knowing sparkle behind its yellow-orange eyes. It still felt so foreign to Sebastian, though, to use any animal but mounts in a battle.

Still, Nightshade seemed to be a very loyal and talented beast; he could see why Hawke was so fond of it. And he could understand why walks in the market weren’t enough to stretch the creature’s muscles, built as it was for endurance.

They reached a small cliff—if one was feeling generous enough to even call it that—overlooking more dunes, the sea grasses blowing gently, the sounds of waves just in the distance. It was peaceful; so unlike Kirkwall, yet so similar in the mix of loneliness and beauty it contained.

“I—” Sebastian started—but he never got the words out. He was focused instead on the arrow that had nearly gone through his eye, grazing off his armour just as he moved to talk to Hawke. “Shit.” Sebastian had gotten lucky—whoever was aiming at him wasn’t as good of a shot as he was.

“I think we found our targets!” Fenris shouted from his side, ripping the heart out of a rogue who had made the mistake of trying to sneak up on him. Sebastian winced. He did not enjoy the sight of blood and gore up close and personal; this was part of why he was an archer, thank you.

“Least they made it easy,” Varric muttered, pulling out Bianca with a sigh. Fenris ran ahead, leaping from their high point into the fray. They were outnumbered, but not significantly so; four to ten.

Hawke groaned as he stuffed herbs farther into his bag. He jumped down into the soft sands, close to Fenris’s crater. The Mabari charged forward, strong jaws snapping around a woman’s arm with a sickening crunch.

Hawke had explained to them that he was hoping to practise his spirit healing and creation magic, so he’d be taking a backseat role similar to Anders. Of course, that meant their group was a healer, two archers and Fenris—who while certainly capable, was only one man.

Like Varric and Sebastian, Hawke was trying to keep distance between him and the bandits. At the very least, he wasn’t undefended—Hawke was willing to still get his hands dirty with the blade on his stave, if the way he held it at the ready was any indication, anyways.

“This isn’t so bad,” Hawke said, blue light dancing on his hands as he healed Fenris. The elf grunted in thanks.

“I’m surprised you even agreed to this. You’re usually impossible to keep from jumping right in,” Varric muttered, looking like a beleaguered brother. Sebastian knew that look well. (He tried not to think about the fight he had witnessed between Hawke and his brother. He had a feeling the man was just as embarrassed as Sebastian was that they had the fight in front of someone. Even if there were questions that nagged at Sebastian incessantly…)

“I am a man of many talents; I know how to be patient when I want to be, I just usually don’t want to,” Hawke laughed. “I can still switch to elemental magic if I need to.” With his focus on Varric, he wasn’t paying enough attention to the battlefield around them. Sebastian was—surveying the dunes of the Wounded Coast with an eagle’s eye. He saw movement in the grasses behind Hawke, just under Sebastian’s perch. The sparkle of a blade hitting the sun just right was the only warning he had—

“Hawke! Down!” Sebastian yelled, jumping into the soft sands below. He didn’t have time to load and draw his bow—the major downside between it and Varric’s crossbow. Instead Sebastian lunged, shoving Hawke to the ground.

Sebastian drew his dagger—one he rarely used; the blade only a precaution in case something happened to his bow. He wasn’t like Isabela, he didn’t have much in the way of dual weapon expertise. But it didn’t take talent to hit a target directly in front of him. Of course, the same went for his rival; Sebastian felt the blade before he saw it, puncturing through his chainmail and digging into the soft flesh of his lower ribs. Warm blood blossomed around the wound, the colour too saturated, too rich for the storm greys of the coast, for stark colours of his armour.

Sebastian gasped. Pain shot through him—but it didn’t immobilise. He felt his own dagger reach its mark, digging into the man’s throat—the bandit only able to cry out once before the blood from the severed artery choked him. The man fell to the ground, limp, knife abandoned in Sebastian’s abdomen.

Hawke pushed himself onto his feet, looking sheepish. Sand stuck to his dark clothing. Concern flashed along his face. “Shit,” he said, immediately at Sebastian’s side.

Sebastian put his hand on the hilt of the knife. The blade was sharp; clearly well taken care of. Surprisingly well made, from what he could tell. Which was good—it would damage less when pulled out unlike a jagged, dull blade. “Don’t pull that out yet,” Hawke warned. “You’ll bleed out if it’s not dealt with fast enough.”

Hawke hooked an arm around Sebastian, lowering him to the ground. The sounds of fighting faded to the background; Sebastian had a feeling that the bandits’ numbers were dwindling fast, if Hawke was able to put his full attention on the archer now.

“Sorry,” Sebastian murmured, letting his hands drop. It hurt a lot—but it wasn’t the worst he’d been through. There was that one time, after a bar fight…

“Don’t be, you might have saved my life there, to be honest,” Hawke said, inspecting the wound with gentle touches and a perceptive eye. “Or saved us the trouble of dragging my sorry ass back to Anders for healing.”

“I’m going to have to open up your tunic,” Hawke warned, hands fumbling with the holds. Sebastian chuckled—and immediately regretted it. Ouch, ouch, fuck that hurt—

“Careful, he got you near the diaphragm; that’s why it hurts when you breathe,” Hawke explained. Sebastian winced; it was true, each breath brought with it a sharp jolt like he had overexerted himself.

Hawke slowly peeled Sebastian’s clothing away from the wound, deft hands removing broken chain mail. He was careful not to jostle the knife. It was odd; to see Hawke’s face scrunched up in such rapt attentiveness, to watch his hands move with such gentleness. The man was focused solely on healing–not to hurt, to kill, like Sebastian had seen his magic do in the past.

“When I say, pull the knife out; I can’t heal you fully with it in there, or else… well, it’d be bad,” Hawke warned, blue light at his fingertips. It was soft, warm; it reminded Sebastian of being wrapped in blankets and furs on chilly winter mornings after a blizzard, rare as they were in the Free Marches.

“Alright,” Sebastian croaked. He wasn’t going to die, not from this wound. Still, he felt like a newborn babe, trying his best to follow Hawke’s instructions. What had been thinking, jumping in like that with no plan? Without his bow?

He knew, of course, what he had been thinking: that he didn’t want to see anyone else he cared about die. Not after losing his family. And he liked Hawke, despite him being someone Sebastian knew he shouldn’t like; despite being an apostate, a killer, all because Sebastian knew there was more to the man than that.

But that didn’t erase the fact that those things were still true about him.

“Bite this,” Hawke said, stuffing one of his gloves in Sebastian’s face. At his befuddled expression, Hawke sighed, adding, “It’s so you don’t bite yourself when we remove the knife. Just in case.”

Sebastian gave a slow nod, relenting, opening his mouth. It tasted like sand.

“Ready?” Hawke said, his touches cool against Sebastian’s too-warm skin. “Pull it out in 1… 2… 3–”

Sebastian wretched the knife out, biting down on the glove. Hawke’s hands hovered over the wound, the soft glow strengthening to a blaze. Warmth flowed through Sebastian’s veins. He watched in amazement as the wound began to knit itself together, the pain receding like the tides. Soon, all that was left to tell a story was the jagged scar tissue in his abdomen. “...you’ve really taken to that magic, haven’t you?” he said, awed. Magic was… magic truly could be amazing, wasn’t it? Healing was a gift from the Maker; even if every other magic wasn’t, healing definitely was.

Anyone could maim, kill, burn—but healing like that was unique to only mages. Spirit healing, from what Sebastian understood, was even rarer. Far stronger than what creation magic and potions could do.

“Why’s everyone always so surprised?” Hawke asked, shaking his head, but he smiled good-naturedly. “I’m surprised myself, honestly. I thought I’d struggle more than I have—and trust me, I made a fool out of myself a few times at the clinic.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured. His skin tingled, and felt sore and tight—but the pain had mostly been chased away. Deft hands redid his tunic and armour, the motions a habit now. He’d have to repair his armour later; chainmail was good, but was made to block slashes from a blade, not piercing at close range. “I feel like you are always saving me, friend.”

“Not always,” Hawke replied, still smiling. “You just saved me a moment ago, didn’t you? And anyways, it’s my job; I always seem to be saving people’s asses. Just ask Varric.” Hawke laughed. “It’s annoying how much he likes talking about me.”

“Of course,” Sebastian said, smiling in return. “I’ll consider it.”

“Anyways, let’s get going before Varric and Fenris get all the good stuff,” Hawke said, dusting himself off as he stood up.

“Maybe we shouldn’t steal—"

“Why not? They’re dead, they’re not using it. You kill them, you get their stuff, that’s the rule. Anyways, they probably all stole it from other people in the first place. It’s only fair,” Hawke retorted, hands on his hips. “Don’t chicken out on me now, Vael.”

Sebastian sighed, wondering why he liked Hawke again.

“I’m surprised you came. Roughing it out on the Wounded Coast isn’t what I would call a princely activity,” Hawke remarked, poking the ambers of the campfire with a stick. The charcoal popped and snapped, sending warm sparks into the air.

Sebastian watched the sparks rise and disappear into the dark, burning away to nothing like dead stars. He mulled over his response, leaving Hawke in silence.

Fenris and Varric were asleep. Usually he brought Anders with him, but he wanted Sebastian to be eased into their group without Anders’... everything (Hawle loved him, but it was clear long before they met that the two wouldn’t get along). It was a good chance to flex his healing abilities, anyways.

Hawke found himself not minding being a support, despite being so used to leading the charge. It was a refreshing break from feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. To be there to help, but only from the sidelines; to not be the main event, the ringleader.

Sebastian shrugged, staring up at the twinkling stars above them. It was a beautiful night—the air crisp but not too cold, the humidity chased away by the winds from the sea. The sky was clear, the moons full and illuminating them all. “It is… humbling, I suppose,” he said, lips twitching into a smile. “I don’t mind it. I am used to living outside the means of royalty by now.”

Hawke hummed, scratching Nightshade’s head. The Mabari huffed in his sleep. “I guess that makes sense,” he said. “It’s my watch, you don’t have to stay out here, you know.”

Sebastian hummed. He looked tired, still drained from the healing earlier that day, dark bags around his eyes. Magic could only do so much; the rest was up to the human body. “I… couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Can’t promise I’m good at comforting, but I can at least lend an ear,” Hawke tried.

“I… it was. About family. It’s not important, I’d rather not dwell on things that aren’t real,” Sebastian murmured, still staring at the stars.

“That’s fine,” Hawke said, eyes back on the fire.

“It is nice out here,” Sebastian remarked. It was; the air was fresh in a way Kirkwall’s wasn’t, and the constellations were easier to spot without the smog from the foundry district. Hawke could see the princess crying a sea of stars for her beloved fallen knight, in a slightly different position than it had been in Ferelden. He remembered that story well; he and his mother had always found it romantic, though sad. He remembered her telling him, playing with his little fingers as she spoke slowly; her words punctuated by the snapping of the wood in the fire, his small body curled up in hers to keep warm.

“Yeah. I like to try and get out of Kirkwall once and awhile, or I’ll go insane,” Hawke agreed, turning away from the stars and the memories that they brought forth. “It reminds me a lot of travelling with my family.”

“You travelled around Ferelden a lot?” Sebastian asked, titling his head as he met Hawke’s eyes.

Hawke poked at the fire again, stoking the flames higher. “Yeah. We…” Were avoiding Templars. “It was just how it was, for us. Travelling from small village to small village, town to town. We were a transient family when I was young.”

“That seems like it must have been difficult, so young,” Sebastian said, tone sincere. “I’ve only ever been between Starkhaven and Kirkwall myself. And Val Royeaux once or twice.”

“I was used to it. I’m pretty good at making new friends because of it. Lots of practice, that,” Hawke replied, leaning onto Nightshade. The dog huffed in his sleep, but only adjusted slightly to get comfortable under the extra weight. Hawke was used to the smell of Mabari, so he never got why people complained about his dog. “And it was nice, nights like this, camping out under the stars.”

“Surely you must have wanted to not have to uproot your entire life, though?” Sebastian asked, digging out the tin tea set he had brought. Hawke had gathered herbs to make tea, which the rogue made to grab.

“...yeah. Sometimes,” Hawke agreed, handing Sebastian the tea leaves. “Lothering was the place we stayed the longest, until the Blight. Nearly ten years there…” Hawke hummed. It was hard thinking of that village, some days. It was the place where he had lost his father. The place where he had lost his sister escaping. And yet amidst the pain, so many happy memories too. It was the place he had watched his siblings grow up. The place he had become a man. “It wasn’t so bad. It was one of the more bustling places we had been since it was a crossroads, too. I got to meet a lot of interesting people, all passing through.”

“Was that where you met Ser Bryant?” Sebastian asked, filling the kettle with his waterskin. He left it hanging over the fire to boil.

Hawke blinked, taken aback for a moment. “How… do you know that name?”

“Carver mentioned him to me once,” Sebastian explained. He kept his eyes trained on the kettle. “He said you liked him. That he was a Templar.” Not a question outright—a simple statement, but a question hidden within. Hawke flushed; he had been hoping Sebastian would just forget about what a fool Hawke had made of himself while drunk.

Hawke shifted nervously. Nightshade grunted, annoyed with his shuffling. Hawke’s boots dug into the soft dirt. “Yeah. He was, and he… he was kind enough, I suppose. To the point. Knowledgeable.” Hawke paused. “... he knew I was a mage,” he whispered.

“So he…” Sebastian started, eyes narrowing, lips pulled into a frown. “He did not tell anyone? Why?” His kettle began to steam. Sebastian leaned forward, pouring the hot water into two tin cups, leaving in the tea leaves to steep. It wasn’t the most elegant way to make tea, but it was what they had.

“Normally the answer would be blackmail,” Hawke said dryly, “but in this case he… saw no reason to, I guess.” Hawke shrugged, jostling his poor dog again. Nightshade must have been comfy by the fire, as he still did not move.

“We weren’t hurting anyone,” Hawke explained, “and after he got to know us, I think he ended up having a soft spot for us. What we thought was a liability that would end up forcing us to leave early ended up being what made us able to stay as long as we did.”

Hawke reached out with his stick, drawing aimlessly in the dirt as he spoke. “We ended up going to the Chantry there in Lothering more than we had in any other place we lived before,” he said. “And it was nice. My sister learned how to sew from the lay sisters there. Carver had a crush on this redhead sister from Orlais who was way too old for him. It felt like it was a place we could spend most of our lives. That wasn’t something we had before, on account of the whole… having apostates hidden in the family thing.”

“I see,” Sebastian murmured. “It does sound nice. This Ser Bryant…”

“He was a good man,” Hawke hummed, staring at the blade of mercy he had etched into the dirt without realising. His face stayed neutral. Bryant had been a good man, despite being a Templar. “I hope he survived the Blight, but he was the type who’d stay behind to try and make sure others got out safe. He… he helped with my father’s funeral.” That had meant a lot, with Byrant knowing his father was also a mage. Few other Templars would have carried out the holy duties for a cremation like that for an apostate.

Ser Bryant had even let Hawke steal a few of his father’s bones from his pyre’s ashes before they were crushed to dust…. Byrant hadn’t asked why, had only made Hawke promise it wasn’t for any weird blood magic ritual (it hadn’t been; it just hadn’t felt right to have his father scatter to ashes and be nothing more.)

“And yet he did not follow his duties…” Sebastian pointed out, fiddling with his hands. Hawke recognized it as Sebastian being unsure, being uncomfortable. Best to tread carefully. Sebastian reached down, taking his drink. The other, Hawke assumed, was for himself. That was nice, at least.

“Being able to follow rules doesn’t make someone a good person,” Hawke said sharply. He met Sebastian’s too-blue eyes as he grabbed his own mug. “Sometimes you need to know when to bend them. And anyways, rules should always be judged by their power to oppress.”

“...I am starting to see why you and Anders get along so,” chuckled Sebastian. “You do sound a bit like him, based on what little I’ve heard from the man.”

“I am capable of having intelligent thoughts sometimes,” Hawke replied. He blew on his mug, taking a sip. It was awkward without anything to strain the leaves, but it didn’t taste bad.

“...that’s not quite what I meant,” Sebastian said cryptically, looking back to the stars. He rubbed his hands along his mug, warming them. “Honestly, I think you’re very well spoken and well read, especially for someone who apparently spent so much time on the road.”

“And the rest mostly on farms,” Hawke added with a shrug. He sat his drink down by the fire. “My mother was noble-born and my father was well taught by… tutors. They did what they could to educate us, and the Chantry sisters often helped fill in gaps. As a result, my siblings and I ended up with a better education than your typical peasant.”

“I see,” Sebastian hummed, closing his eyes. He was silent after that; leaving Hawke to his watch.

Hawke had almost thought Sebastian had fallen asleep when he spoke again. “...Were Templars why you moved around so much?” he asked, finally sipping his drink.

Hawke hesitated. It wasn’t like he wasn’t capable of defending himself if things went south, and anyways, out in the Wounded Coast was the best place to murder someone and get away with it. Just—he didn’t want to have to fight with Sebastian at all, physically or verbally. “Not always,” he said evenly. Not a lie; sometimes it was nosy lay sisters or suspicious neighbours, or his father’s own preemptive choice to leave before any Templars got involved.

“But it has been, before?” Sebastian pressed. “At least once?”

Hawke sighed, scanning the outskirts of their camp. He found himself hoping for darkspawn or Tal Valshoth to show up and cause trouble just to escape the conversation. He tried to tamp that part of him down; Sebastian was just curious. Hawke was just paranoid. Not everyone was digging for reasons to argue or drag Hawke to the Circle, not everyone who wasn’t a mage was trying to make his life miserable.

It was a hard truth to remind himself of, some days.

“Once or twice; usually we’d leave before there’d be any trouble,” Hawke replied, shrugging. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone but we felt that… going to the Circle wasn’t the right choice. As I said before. We wanted to stay together as a family. And they would have separated us.”

“Are you certain?” Sebastian asked. He didn’t sound doubtful, just… unsure.

“Yes. I am,” Hawke answered curtly.

“But you’ve never been to the Circle,” Sebastian pointed out.

Hawke chewed on the side of his cheek. The time for lies of omission had passed, he supposed; since the rest of his friends knew things Sebastian hadn’t been told, he could easily learn with the right questions anyways. “My father did though. He grew up in the Circle, spent a lot of his life in them,” Hawke explained. “And my mother’s cousin’s children were all taken to the Circle—all five of them were split up.”

“Your father was a Circle Mage?” Sebastian said, eyebrows knit together. “But then how… ah. The Templar you spoke of, the one your brother is named after, I take it?” Sebastian wasn’t stupid. It made lying harder.

“Yeah,” Hawke breathed. He wondered if Carver still had those letters…

“...I understand that some mages do have a… terrible experience in the Circles,” Sebastian tried.

Hawke snorted before he could stop himself. What an understatement; never mind it didn’t matter if a mage was treated like a king. The entire problem was having rights taken away from them; the loss of freedom and agency. Being treated ‘well’ did not change that.

Sebastian frowned, taking another drink of tea to chase the expression away. “Did your father?”

“He didn’t speak of it often,” Hawke admitted. He bristled; the question felt too personal, but if Sebastian insisted on digging, Hawk would give him the truth. “But the things he did share weren’t always bad.” There had been people his father had loved, had cared about, in the Circle—even Templars like Ser Carver.

“But some of the stuff…” Hawke trailed off. His father’s back had been a landscape of scars he never spoke of. Anders had ones that matched. “I suppose it wasn’t very child friendly. I don’t think he wanted to scare us anymore than he needed to.”

“What was he like?” Sebastian asked, finishing off his tea. He sat the mug down beside his feet with a clink. “I’ve spoken about my family with you, and yet… I fear I never asked much in return.” Honestly, Hawke didn’t think Sebastian had shared that much; but perhaps he had shared all he could, given the strained and distant relationship his words had painted about his parents and brothers in their previous conversations. Sebastian was the sibling who felt he did not matter; no wonder he and Carver seemed to get along so well, if the two were apparently talking about Lothering together.

“Don’t fret about it, I spoke your ear off about my mother and siblings enough as is without prompting,” Hawke said, sipping his tea. He waved his free hand idly.

“And yet never your father,” Sebastian said.

“No,” Hawke relented. “It’s not that… He died when I was young.” Barely out of his teens, honestly, but still young—especially now that he was looking back with the eyes of a man who was nearing his 30s. “And it's hard to talk about him without talking about the whole mage thing.”

“I understand.”

Hawke hummed, eyes closed for a moment. Finding the right words was hard; how to describe his father? It was like describing a sunset; even his damnedest attempt could never compare to seeing the real thing. “He was… well, people say he was a lot like me,” he snorted. Saying that felt a little too egotistical for his liking, but he had heard it enough to figure it had some truth. “I also get most of my looks from him, while Carver looks more like Mother, as did Bethany. He was... A direct man. Always said what he meant—he’d only lie to strangers. Wasn’t the best at it, though. He made his expectations clear—you’d know when you didn’t meet them.”

“That sounds familiar,” muttered Sebastian.

“...yeah,” Hawke murmured with a sigh. “But he wasn’t a bad father. Strict, maybe at times, but he was just afraid of us hurting someone or someone hurting us because of our magic. The moment it was clear Bethany and I were mages he was making sure we understood the importance of control no matter what.” Hawk rubbed at his face. He needed a shave. “But he wasn’t cruel. He didn’t yell or anything, even when he got frustrated. He was kind too. He sacrificed a lot for all of us. I loved him a lot.”

“Can I ask how he died?” Sebastian’s voice was light, soft.

Hawke hesitated. His father’s death was an old wound, but a wound nonetheless. “Illness,” Hawke murmured. “Not much we could do, in the end.” Not much he could do, with his limited knowledge of healing and medicine at the time. Malcolm Hawke had not been a healer by trade; there was only so much he could teach his children.

It didn’t stop Hawke from feeling like he had failed his father. He hoped that Malcolm would forgive him for not learning until it was too late; hoped the Maker would understand Hawke had done all he could.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sebastian said.

“Thank you,” Hawke sighed. “Part of me is just glad he never had to deal with the Blight.” Or Bethany’s death… though perhaps she’d have lived, if there had been a better mage to protect her. He was a terrible protector. Maybe he was better off being the violent mage of the group.

“He sounds like my own father,” Sebastian admitted, pulling Hawke out of his self pity party. “He was a man of honour, but… strict as well. We fought a lot when I got close to being of age.” Sebastian sighed as well, watching the flicker of the waning campfire. “I wish… sometimes that I had better memories of him. It was a little better after I came to the Chantry, especially after I accepted my role there, but… still, in the end, he had to devote his time to Starkhaven, and to raising my older brothers to be the heirs. It makes sense he didn’t have time for me… so I suppose I sound a little selfish.”

“No,” Hawke cut in, shaking his head. “It’s normal to wish things had gone differently, had been better… especially after someone’s gone and you can’t fix anything. To wish a long gone father could have spent more time with you…” He pushed thoughts of Carver out of his mind. “That’s normal. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re far kinder than you let on, Hawke,” Sebastian teased with a smirk. “My mother was the same, you know; all tough and cold on the outside, but she was a real softie on the inside. A bleeding heart, especially for animals.”

“Shut up,” Hawke laughed. He cuddled into Nightshade again, bristly fur against his skin. “You’re going to ruin my tough guy image.”

“The neck scar does the leg work there, I think—ah, sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s fine, I’m not made of glass,” Hawke muttered. He didn’t meet Sebastian’s pitying gaze.

“It’s just, you did seem upset at the Hanged Man, so I apologise,” Sebastian insisted. Hawke just hummed, rolling his shoulders.

“...though I am glad you’ve managed to not hold a grudge towards Templars and the Chantry like Anders has,” Sebastian continued. Wrong, Vael, shut up—“I know you told your brother that you could not understand a nice templar, but I suspect that was just your frustration speaking.” Hawke twitched, because his feelings toward the latter were extremely complicated—twisted up in good and bad memories, with good and bad people—but his feelings about the former, towards Templars?

Sure, people like Keran, Bryant, Thrask, and the original Ser Carver seemed decent enough folk, but that didn’t excuse any of the work they did as mage hunters in his eyes. He may not want him dead, but that didn’t mean he carried no ill will towards them. They had chosen to take up the role, to become what mages feared more than demons. It didn’t matter how kind they were; they still were required to kill children if it called for it, required to make mages tranquil. If they lasted in the Order, they’d likely become jaded and hateful towards mages after seeing them at their most desperate, hatred fueled farther by the damage lyrium usage did to their minds.

But it was clear Sebastian didn’t want to hear any of that.

“I tend to hold grudges against specific people as opposed to groups,” Hawke said instead, since it was diplomatic enough whilst also not being untrue.

“And so you’ve never had a bad experience with a Templar?” Sebastian said. “That’s good to hear, the way Anders spoke of them when we met, you’d think they thought all apostates were wild maleficarum—”

“That’s not what I said,” Hawke cut in, anger flaring for a moment before he could temper it. He couldn’t help it; Even if Sebastian didn’t mean it, he could not stand having someone else put words in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, hands up.

Hawke tried to cool his rising emotions. He didn’t need to say something stupid. But how dare Sebastian assume such a thing? Not when he wore the scars of a Templar encounter on his skin. Not that the archer knew, really, so who could blame him?

Part of him didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to share the story he had kept within him. Another part of him wanted to shout it to the heavens, to make it clear that was a victim to zealots just as much as Anders was, even if he had stayed out from under the Chantry’s claws.

The latter part of him won out, in the end. He found himself uncaring if Sebastian told anyone else—though he doubted the archer would. “When I was a teenager,” Hawke began. Sebastian blinked owlishly, not following the thread of conversation just yet. “Right before we settled outside of Lothering. I was about 14? 15?” Hawke made a vague hand gesture, continuing on. “Regardless, I… I had a crush on another boy in town. It was a small village, up around the Waking Sea. Anyways, I had a crush on him and so I ended up admitting to him that I was an apostate, which frankly—looking back? Idiotic of me, but I was stupid and young and I trusted him and I thought… I don’t know, that he’d understand?”

“...but he told the Chantry,” Sebastian concluded.

Not really a question, but Hawke replied anyways, “He did. He waved me off awkwardly and told me he’d think about my love confession.” That had been the last time he saw his crush. “Later that day, I went to grab the twins from the Chantry—they were still rather young, so they went for small lessons with the sisters there while the rest of us worked.”

“On our way back home for dinner, we stopped by a Templar,” Hawke said. “I didn’t think anything of it, at first; I knew the guy, had seen him around a few times, since he was only one of two Templars in the entire village. I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but then next thing I know he’s telling me to come with him, to turn myself in to the Circle, that he was told I was an apostate, yadda, yadda. I knew who betrayed me, and my heart shattered. But still… I ran.”

“Running makes things worse,” Sebastian interjected, shifting awkwardly.

“Really? Had no idea,” Hawke snarked. “I was just thinking about how Bethany had just found out she was a mage, a mere month prior, and how I wanted her to be safe, and how Carver could still turn out to have magic too, he still had time to be a late bloomer! So I ran, tried to get home to get our father’s help. I ended up trying to carry the twins—but we weren’t fast enough. The Templar caught up, even in his armour. I remember dropping to the ground like a sack of bricks from a holy smite.”

“And your father managed to come save you, at that point?”

“No,” Hawke breathed. “If he had, maybe things would have gone better than they did. No… I told Carver and Bethany to go on ahead, and they listened. Took off into the wheat fields to take a shortcut home. Too short to see over the stalks, too.” He laughed. “But anyways, I thought about fighting back, at first, but… I didn’t want to hurt anyone, you know. I hadn’t ever used my magic to hurt anyone back then, and certainly didn’t have any muscles to fight with. Funny how things change. Not that I had my magic to use against him at the time.”

“Sometimes violence is necessary,” Sebastian murmured. He was staring at this empty mug.

“Yeah, my father would say that too. Anyways,” Hawke sighed, running a hand through his hair. He felt exhaustion settle over him. “I thought that I’d just be chained up and taken to the Chantry where I could be rescued from. So imagine my fear when the Templar drew his sword instead.”

“He was probably afraid you’d attack him,” said Sebastian, glancing up at Hawke.

“I had no magic because of him. No weapon, no staff. I was a child, still,” Hawke retorted. “I don’t remember exactly what he said. Just something about me clearly being too old now to be integrated into the Circle, that I had probably been corrupted by a demon already. That it was why I had ran. That I wouldn’t likely pass my harrowing if I was brought there at my age. He said he was doing everyone a favour, including me. And then he slit my throat.”

Sebastian’s frown deepened. “But—that’s not—he had no authority to—”

“The ‘rules’ didn’t matter to him!” Hawke snapped. “He was told he had the power to carry out the will of the Chantry and do what was right when it came to mages. You’re not supposed to just kill random apostate children, of course, but… I’m sure he would have made up a lie. Maybe he would have been punished, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Sebastian murmured. “Surely, he—”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Hawke said, motioning towards his face. “The story doesn’t end there. I don’t really remember much; the shock of the wound, of losing so much blood took precedent. But I was told later that my Father had made it to me in time, using the work horse that belonged to the farmer our family worked for back then. He killed the Templar in a rage, and then did what he could to heal the wound before I bled out. He wasn’t much of a healer, but I guess he knew enough to stop the blood flow from the wound long enough to patch me up. We fled immediately, with me barely lucid in the back of the cart. It wasn’t safe to stay after that, between the apostate thing, the murder, and the horse stealing.”

Sebastian was still pale, washed out under the moonlight. His face was contemplative. A good sign, Hawke hoped. Sebastian needed to get his head out of his clouds some days.

“My father was no master healer, so I got a scar out of it,” Hawke finished. "When I was older, I got the tattoos in a fit of teenage rebellion, claiming that if people wanted to keep staring at the ugly thing, I’d give them something to stare at. I was kind of an idiot teenager, if it wasn’t obvious.” He snorted at the memory; Mother had been livid. Father had just said the red colour of the ink suited him.

“I.. I am sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate… I just don't understand,” Sebastian said lamely. “It seems so antithetical to the oaths the Order gives… so unlike all the Templars I have met.”

“Many people enjoy the power their positions give over others,” Hawke replied, voice hard as stone. “And they use that power to hurt people because they can, or convince themselves their actions are merciful regardless of the bloody truth. And it can be easy to not notice, if you aren’t the person they have power over.”

“To do that to a young mage though,” Sebastian murmured, leaning on his hands. “Without giving them even a chance… It’s not right.”

“No. No it’s not,” Hawke said. He scratched between Nightshade's ears, not looking at Sebastian.

“I… thank you, you didn’t have to tell me this,” stammered Sebastian. “I… I think I’ll turn in, until my watch. I need.. Some time to think about things.”

“Good night, Sebastian,” Hawke murmured, arms wrapping around his Mabari for comfort. He wondered if this would change how Sebastian viewed Templars and Mages. The terrible truth of the oppression his people faced was an ice cold wake up call to some. Still, he didn’t dare get his hope up, however; people’s deep rooted beliefs were not weeded out overnight.

Now.

Blood, warm and wet, running down his neck, coating his skin. Too much, too much—his hands slippery, unable to find any purchase, unable to apply any pressure. The taste of iron filled his mouth, choking him; he couldn’t breath, couldn’t scream. He was dying, dying in a field in a backwater village, all alone—

“I can help. I can give you the power to stop this from ever happening again—” Power? He had no power, back then, but now?—NO!

Hawke gasped, eyes shooting open. His heart jumped, feeling like he was falling despite the weight of the bed pressing against his back. The cabin was completely dark; the smell of sea and the rocking of the ship reminded him, however, that he was out of the Fade now.

The Fade? He could feel it now, and a wisp of mana tingling the back of his mind, barely out of reach. Not enough for anything but nightmares.

The magebane must have worn off enough during the night; perhaps his body was adjusting to the dosage? He could only pray they didn't notice and try to increase it to combat his resistance.

It had been days since he last dreamt. It felt so foreign to be cut off from the Fade, to have only dreamless nights.

Nightmares were not new for him, but it had been years since he had dreamed of the worst day of his childhood. He rubbed at his neck, feeling the scar tingle. “Ugh,” he muttered, voice hoarse like he had been yelling in his sleep. Perhaps he had. He did a quick look over his body, confirming he was himself—not possessed, no demon contracts made in the midst of a bad dream.

Good, good. He settled back down, closing his eyes to try and sleep again anyways. There was little to do until the candles in the cabin were lit by a crew member.

Hawke heard his cell door click open. His body tensed; a tightly coiled spring at the ready. Nothing good came from late night visits to prisoners' quarters.

“Hawke?” came Sebastian’s voice, soft just like his footsteps. Hawke could feel the faint heat of a candle. He cracked his eyes open, rolling over to face Sebastian. The prince was dressed down, in comfortable looking sleep clothes made of silk, one hand holding a candelabra that looked out of place on a ship. Royalty sure insisted on bringing odd things with them, huh?

Hawke glared at him, still on edge. Just because it was Sebastian didn’t mean this visit was going to be good. Honestly, it being him made it worse. No one would punish the actions of a prince.

Perhaps his idea of what was Hawke’s due punishment had changed. Hawke’s heart pounded, still off kilter from the nightmare. He didn’t want to think of what sort of punishment came only in the dead silence of the night.

“I thought… I thought I heard you scream,” Sebastian admitted. His thumb traced circles on the worn metal of the candelabra. “Are you alright?”

“...Just a dream, it’s nothing your royal highness has to worry about,” grumbled Hawke.

Sebastian nodded, unsurprised with his stubbornness. Good. At least he was getting used to it again. “...I had a nightmare too,” Sebastian mentioned. Hawke said nothing.

“About… my parents, and my brothers. Them coming back from the dead in order to tell me how disappointed they were in me,” Sebastian continued. Hawke frowned, not wanting to deal with Sebastian’s problems. He wasn’t the only one with a dead family and many regrets, after all. Hawke had to see what his mother actually looked like brought back from the dead. “And then they attack me, tear me apart limb by limb…”

“I dreamt about my encounter with a Templar when I was a young teen,” Hawke cut in. Sebastian’s jaw clamped shut.

“Ah,” he said, looking away awkwardly. “I just wanted to…”

“Make sure I wasn’t going to be an abomination when you send someone to give me breakfast?” Hawke snapped. He glared at the wall. Go away, go away—

“No. I just… wanted to make sure you were okay,” Sebastian murmured, eyes closed. He looked remorseful. It made Hawke’s blood boil.

“I’m fine. I don’t need your pity. Go away.”

“I…”

“Leave me be, Sebastian. I don’t have the energy for this,” Hawke huffed, forcing his eyes shut despite the fear pumping through his veins. Leave, leave before you do something awful, please— He couldn't stop the anxiety he felt, the stories he had heard from other mages who had been at the mercy of powerful people just like he was swirling in his mind. The feeling choked him, closing up his throat like the blood in his dream. He hated how small and fragile he felt—but the weight of his capture, of his dreams, of his memories, were all heavy on his mind.

“You are still mad about our last talk,” remarked Sebastian.

“No shit I am,” Hawke said. Among so many other things. “Go away.”

“I pray you rest easy, Hawke. I… I hope you will reconsider. I miss the trust we once had in each other, to talk about our vulnerabilities...” Sebastian lamented. He seemed to realise something then, surprise on his face for a moment. "And speak to the herbalist about increasing your magebane dosage, if you are able to dream in the Fade again." Shit. He should have lied, said he was just angry and yelling. Nice going, Hawke. Ruining things yet again by not keeping your mouth shut.

Hawke barely heard Sebastian leave, the door clicking softly as it was locked once again.

Hawke settled back down in the bed, determined to force himself to sleep regardless of how little he wanted to. He didn’t let his mind wander. The phalanges, the metatarsals, the lateral, middle, and medial cuneiforms… Going through the bones he had drilled into his head by Anders all those years ago had helped. Took his mind off his troubles, kept him focused; but simple enough to lull him into sleep. It was a trick he hadn’t had to fall back to for a long time now. The cubioid, the navicular, the talus is part of the ankle, the calcaneus forms the heel… the fibula, the tibia, the patella in the knee…

He drifted off to sleep like that, mind away from any princes or breaches of trust. It didn’t matter anyways, the words that Sebastian spoke. Even if they still hurt, it wasn’t new. Sebastian had already broken his trust long before the chantry explosion.

Then.

Hawke hated visiting the Gallows. The sight of Templar armour no longer made him flinch, but still his heart sped up, his skin itched with sweat, every time they got too close.

Hawke knew he wasn’t untouchable—his title of Champion and the protection it gave was fragile. As soon as the nobles grew bored of him, as soon as they seemed to remember they were supposed to fear and hate mages, well… his wealth, his nobility, Varric’s connections, even the people of Darktown who rallied behind him because of his position as assistant at Anders’ clinic—none of it would be able to keep him out of the Gallows. Assuming that Meredith even deigned to let Hawke live after all he had done; she might just name him a maleficar and order his death, clean her hands of him forever, or worse—have him be made tranquil as an act of ‘mercy’.

Meredith hated him, hated how he dared to be a mage living happily outside the Circle, free from her grasp, out of her reign of terror. He was no dog for her to kennel and there was little she could do until the protections around Hawke crumbled to ash. The only thing uncertain to him other than the when, was what exactly she’d do once she dug her claws into him.

His wandering mind drifted to Meredith’s tranquil assistant, his mouth dry. It’d be a real sight, wouldn’t it, for him to be the tranquil at her side instead? The former Champion of Kirkwall, now emotionless and without his magic; serving their great Knight-Commander like a loyal Mabari, just as she wanted.

Hawke felt like throwing up. He needed to get off the island. His task for Meredith was done, his hands washed of her for now—two blood mages dead, another mage free to the wind. He’d not given Emile up, even knowing Meredith saw through his paper-thin lies. There was nothing she could do to Hawke, not yet.

Not. Yet.

He headed down the stairs from the Templar’s Hall. His friends were waiting in the shade for him, skirting around the harsh midsummer sun. No one dared to let Hawke go to the Gallows alone—Hawke had no idea if it was for his safety or if they were worried about him turning it into a battleground—but he had them wait outside the Hall. There was no need to crowd into Meredith's office, especially when Anders was likely to push his luck and mouth off. Hawke would much appreciate it if his love stayed alive and outside the Circle, thank you, Anders. The Warden could bitch about her as soon as she was out of stabbing range.

Hawke sighed, rubbing at his forehead. His head pounded, the merciless sun beating down on him without end. Cicada chirps mingled with the cries of gulls in the distance. Maybe he’d return home with Anders now that they were done. They could spend the evening together in each other's arms reading. Or drinking, in Hawke’s case. He really needed a drink.

Anders stood by the stairs, leaning against the wall, stiff as a statue. He glared at the Templars keeping guard near his perch. Fenris and Sebastian were farther away, near Solivatus’ stall. The two had never got along with Anders, but Hawke trusted them regardless. That, and they’d be unaffected by a holy smite if things went sour. Also, Aveline and Varric were busy. With Isabela long gone and Carver in the Templars, he had a limited supply of friends who fit the bill of “not a mage”.

“Hello, love,” Hawke murmured, pulling Anders into his arms with a sigh. He kissed Anders’ cheek, wanting to chase away the scowl etched into his love’s face. “Let’s go home. It’s all done, and I doubt Meredith will waste time on going after Emile. Not with everything else going on.”

“I hope so. Thank you,” Anders murmured, eyes closing for a moment as he leaned on Hawke. “Let’s go. I hate this place.”

Hawke hummed in agreement. He freed Anders from his hug, but took the man’s calloused hand into his own, thumb stroking freckled skin.

“It is our duty,” came Sebastian’s voice, Starkhaven accent thick. The phrase was familiar; Sebastian cared a lot about personal duties—“to tell the Templars.” Hawke’s heart plummeted. He felt weightless, floating in a void with only his own shock for companionship. He barely even registered the pain from Anders’ bone breaking grip.

“Then why haven’t you done it?” Fenris drawled, having not noticed Hawke’s return. He was staring off into the Kirkwall harbour, the murky waters barely visible through the bars and pillars of the Gallows, his arms crossed and face broody as always.

Sebastian also seemed unawares of the mages’ return, blue eyes focused on Fenris. “I guess I was hoping they’d come to it on their own, considering…” Considering neither Anders nor Hawke were all that subtle about their magic, even before Hawke was made Champion. Even Merrill stood out, with the too-fancy ‘walking stick’ she had, topped with a gem that hummed with the magic of the Fade. After the Qunari siege, there was no excuse but the layers of fragile societal protection Hawke had managed to pull around him and his friends.

Fenris snorted, but his tone was cold when he spoke: “And then you wouldn’t have to betray Hawke’s friends, right?” he asked, emerald green eyes glancing at the rogue.

Sebastian shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the accusation. He worried his lip, adjusted his grandfather’s bow on his back—the very bow Hawke had gotten back for him. “That’s… that’s not reason enough to allow a maleficar to walk free,” he said, confidence slowly returning to his voice, his stance.

Anders dropped Hawke’s hand, marching towards the pair, a fire alight in his eyes. “You think the Templars don’t know I’m here?” Anders demanded, staring Sebastian down, shoulders squared for a fight. The sleek samir feathers on his coat seemed to puff up in agitation. “That they don’t know that I’ve been here for years, practising my magic freely? They just haven’t caught me yet.”

Sebastian regarded Anders for a moment, eyes flickering, thinking, calculating. Then he turned back to Fenris, saying, “Which one of us should do it? Shall we draw lots?” It would have been smug, humorous—the type of banter had got Hawke smiling even as his friends grumbled in frustration at each other—if not for the dark expression on Sebastian’s face. If not for the subject matter.

Anders gripped his staff so hard Hawke was afraid it’d splinter and break. His other hand shook in anger, balled into fists so tight his knuckles were white. But Anders made no move to say or do anything. Hawke could tell why; could see the flashes of blue struggling to break out in Anders honey coloured eyes; struggling to crackle along his sun-freckled skin (getting out of Darktown more often had done wonders for his complexion).

Sebastian was playing with fire, so close to having Justice come out in full force—in the middle of the Gallows. Did Sebastian want a bloodbath?! Sure—Anders would probably die, Hawke would probably die, but who knew how many Templars Justice could take with them before they did. Nevermind Fenris…

Though perhaps his siding with Hawke was only hopeful thinking. He liked to think they were good enough friends, though.

“Uh-uh,” Fenris replied, shaking his head. His eyes flitted between the three humans in front of him, clearly assessing the chances of a fight breaking out. “You want to turn them in, you work it out with Hawke.” Despite seeming like a diplomatic answer, Hawke saw it for the threat it was—because Hawke would not allow Merrill or Anders to be taken to the Circle, and was already known to resort to violence, probably more than necessary.

Hawke took the lull in the conversation as a chance to get his legs working again. They felt like they were made of lead, his heart still beating in double-time, adrenaline spiking through him with no outlet. There was no beast here to slaughter, no bandits to fight—just the betrayal of a man he thought was his friend, a man who he thought understood. A man who had eased Hawke’s worries about being both a mage and a believer in Andraste and the Maker. And yet, here Sebastian was, being everything Hawke hated about the Chantry.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to hurt Sebastian. Make him regret those words. Yet, Hawke could not bring those emotions to the surface, buried too deep, drowned out by the pain he was feeling.

He had always known Sebastian was the unpopular friend in the group—which was saying a lot, since he knew Anders often rubbed his companions the wrong way with his own callous words, or talked their ear off about mages. Still, Hawke had always disregarded what was said about Sebastian, much like he did with Anders. Sure, some of it was true—the man was sheltered, unaware of the real problems that plagued the world, but Hawke had been sure he truly cared, truly wanted to help.

Maybe Hawke had been a fool this whole time. Maybe Sebastian had just been hoping he could convince Hawke to turn himself into the Circle, just biding his time, only to realise now it was a lost cause. Or maybe he was like Fenris, and somehow saw Hawke as different from other mages; as special. Hawke always hated that—even more so in that it still stroked his ego despite his discomfort.

Sebastian had been acting differently since their return from the Vinmarks. Hawke had no idea if it was because of the shock of Hawke’s father being a blood mage (a surprise to Hawke too, but he understood his father had no choice; that he had done it for love, for the safety of his wife, of Hawke still in his mother’s womb). Carver hadn’t seemed sure of what to think about their father after that; Hawke was glad his brother had come though, and that it gave them time to talk—even if they had devolved briefly into bickering about resentment like they so often did, no matter how many truces they formed. It was part of how they loved each other.

Though, Sebastian’s change in attitude could also have been due to meeting one of the Magisters who defiled the Maker’s Golden City. That had shaken Anders as well, quite deeply. He still had the amulet of Dumat retrieved off of Corypheus’ corpse, which Hawke had found him staring at late at night more than a few times.

Or, perhaps it was for more petty reasons—like Hawke siding with Larius over Janeka. Sebastian had been angry with that choice, despite the fact that it was obvious the Wardens were being controlled by Corypheus. After all, the magister had done the same to Anders—and Hawke was forever thankful Justice was there to keep Anders safe, keep Hawke from having to kill the man he loved in self defence. He wasn’t sure if he could have kept living with Anders’ blood on his hands.

Hawke worked his mouth, trying to find the right words before they died on his tongue. “This isn’t a conversation for the Gallows,” he forced out, his swirling emotions poisoning his tone. “Let’s get out of here and return to the docks.”

Hawke stormed off, not waiting for anyone to follow. He heard Anders fall into step behind him, but didn’t dare look. He was afraid—afraid that if he saw even the barest look of pity or sympathy in his or Fenris’s eyes, he’d break down. It was silly. Sebastian and him hadn’t even been that close, right? But… but he had trusted Sebastian, despite his own instincts to not. And that trust had meant a lot to Hawke.

He had thought that Sebastian understood at least a little—especially after sharing with him the story behind his scar. Most of Hawke’s friends still didn’t know; it was not something Hawke liked to share. As much as people seemed to enjoy barring their souls to him, it was rare he did the same.

(Anders knew the whole story; it was hard to keep things from him, the words just tumbling out of Hawke’s mouth whenever the man smiled at him right)

He was reminded of when Isabela had left him. He had trusted her. And the worst part was, her leaving wasn’t what hurt him the most, no. It was her not trusting him to be able to keep his friends safe, keep her from being hunted down and harmed by Castillion. But Isabela was his own fault—he knew that he hadn’t done enough for her in the end. If he had only tried harder, maybe she wouldn’t have left, maybe she would have returned after the siege.

She was gone now, nothing but a memory. Perhaps Sebastian would soon be the same.

Maybe it was for the best; things were going to come to a head in Kirkwall soon, he knew. He could taste it in the air. And Maker only knew how things would end.

Hawke was silent on the boat ride to shore. Fenris gave him a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, but Hawke barely acknowledged it. He loved Fenris, truly, but the elf still troubled him at times. While Hawke understood why Fenris was the way he was—why he feared and hated mages and magic, because of all the horrible things he had seen and been subjected to. Knowing didn’t make it easy to swallow. Not when Fenris insisted all mages were dangerous; were weak-willed and just waiting to fall into the hands of a demon. Except, apparently, Hawke himself.

While Hawke was glad he had found a friend in Fenris, glad he had gotten through the man’s defensive walls—because Fenris was intelligent, kind, funny, and deserved so much more than the hand he had been dealt—it didn’t make his dislike of other mages easy to accept. Because it was too hard to stop himself from wincing when the man spoke of torture at the hands of Danarius, all too hard to feel those words apply to Hawke himself—because Hawke wasn’t that different from other mages. He wasn’t special, or especially selfless. He was just a man, with wants, desires, and fears like any other. He was just as liable to be corrupt as even Danarius was, just as capable of cruelty or falling prey to a demon. Unlike Danarius, Hawke fought tooth and nail to be better, to swallow his pride, to swallow his lust for violence; all in order to help others, in order to fill the hole in his chest with something other than bloodshed. All to feed the righteous anger that smouldered inside him.

Even he had a limit, a moment where desperation overtook all logic. There had been times where he had teetered on the edge, and he feared what he would become if he ever did fall off. What he’d do to the people around him. Knowing his father—once an incorruptible force in his mind—had once turned to blood magic only added to that fear. For now, that fear kept him from doing anything stupid—but only for now. If he found himself backed into a corner, faced with tranquillity at the hands of Meredith… Hawke may do something he’d regret, he knew, because the alternative frightened him too much. Not even death struck him like tranquillity did—he liked to think he could accept his own death with grace.

Truthfully, Hawke didn’t want to be seen as a shining example of a ‘good’ mage, he wanted to be seen as a man just like anyone else. No different than Carver or Sebastian. He wasn’t even that good—he could heal, he tried to help those who needed it, sure, all that was great. But he was hyper-aware of his own anger, the aggression he struggled to reign in, especially in the wake of his Mother’s death. His friends were all well aware of it too; and yet, seemed blind to all his faults. It shouldn’t’ve bothered him—and his ego did enjoy the love and attention—but yet he found himself frustrated anyways that he kept being put on a pedestal despite being, frankly, a damn mess of a human being. He was just one that got results, one who hated being caged and cornered—and thus lashed out like a wild animal.

The weight of his title of Champion was heavy on his shoulders—so many people relied on him now, so many hung onto his every word. Part of him revelled in it, in the attention, the power—the ability to finally change things for the better. But at the same time… the same time he was a candle burned down to just the wick. He had no ideas on how to fix anything, no idea how to stop Meredith before it was too late, and no idea how to bring revolution and change to the mages in Kirkwall, let alone Thedas. Hawke was burning away to nothing but ash from the inside. He was exhausted, and he knew his friends had noticed.

Then there was Anders, his Anders who barely smiled anymore…

And now he had to worry about Sebastian possibly turning the Templars against them, Champion title be damned. All for some idiotic sense of duty. Ugh. Blind loyalty was what got so many men killed in Ostagar, instead of running when it was clear the battle was unwinnable. He was glad Carver had gotten out, even if he had to apparently be dragged kicking and screaming. Despite their arguments, despite being a Templar, he really did love his brother.

Hawke had thought he had gotten through to Sebastian in a way similar to Fenris, but… He sighed, wanting nothing more than to slip into the dark depths of Kirkwall’s harbour and disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice, to sleep in the ocean forever?

They made it to the docks too fast for Hawke’s liking. “Thank you, Fenris,” Hawke murmured, clambering out of the rowboat. He worked his mouth, trying to think of what else to say. “..for everything, I…”

“You’re my friend, Hawke,” Fenris cut in, shaking his head. A small smile played on his lips. “Get some rest.�� He turned, heading towards Lowtown—likely planning on talking to Varric as soon as the man was free. Part of Hawke hoped Fenris wouldn’t even bring up what Sebastian had said to the dwarf.

“Let’s head home, love,” Anders murmured. Hawke could still see the lingering embers of fury in his face. “I think rest would do us some good. It’s been a long few days.” Rest, and maybe something else.

Hawke nodded, following Anders. He felt a tug at his arm and stopped in his tracks. Sebastian’s thin fingers were hooked into the sleeves of his robe. Hawke looked back, keeping his face neutral. For a moment, guilt flashed in Sebastian’s features, before he too schooled his expression to something flat and unreadable. “Hawke,” he began, “I…” He trailed off, glancing down, “...did… did Anders ever tell you what he wanted with the Chantry, before we left for the Vinmark Mountains?"

Hawke blinked. At the Chantry?—Ah. When Anders had asked him to distract Grand Cleric Elthina. “No,” Hawke replied, shrugging Sebastian’s arm off. “Go home, Sebastian.” He started after Anders, taking long strides, not daring to slow down. He felt like if he didn’t get out of there soon, the urge to look back would be too strong. And if he looked back, he feared what he would do—unsure if he’d merely breakdown and cry, or if his rage would finally claw its way out of his chest.

“He’s unstable, Hawke, I—I’m worried about you!” Sebastian called, voice echoing through the empty marina.

Hawke didn’t reply, falling in step again with Anders, hooking his arm with his love’s. Anders shot him a concerned look, but said nothing. Hawke was grateful for that. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak without saying something he’d regret, not until he calmed down.

Sebastian wasn’t completely wrong—Anders struggled mentally, and had once told Hawke he was the only thing keeping Anders sane. But Hawke wasn’t about to start throwing fireballs in glass houses. He had his own share of problems, his own moments of instability—especially in the wake of his Mother’s death, the wound still raw after three years. Hawke knew Anders benefited from having someone as an anchor, someone to help him on the days he was too melancholic to get out of bed; on days he was too manic to remember to eat while he worked.

But that didn’t mean Anders wasn’t worthy of being loved, of having people there for him. Having a rock like Hawke made it easier to keep together, anyways; Hawke knew that, since Anders had been his after his mother’s death.

What Hawke had told Sebastian wasn’t a lie, either—Anders had yet to tell him exactly what he had been doing in the Chantry that day. Hawke had a few ideas, not once believing Anders was trying to actually split from Justice. He regretted joining with the spirit, with his friend, without thinking things through—but never once talked of splitting from him. He had always insisted that they were too intertwined now, two halves of a whole. The idea of Anders cutting Justice out was more akin to amputation to Hawke—especially as he had never known Anders without the influence of the spirit (or demon, maybe. Hawke did not care what Justice, what Vengeance, was—because all that mattered was that he loved Anders and everything about him—flaws and all, including the Fade creature that shared his body. Merrill insisted there wasn’t much of a difference between spirits and demons anyways.)

And the way Anders spoke, the things he had asked for… He was hiding something, and Hawke knew it. Anders was not a good liar; it had cost him a lot of sovereigns in the past—and Hawke knew all the man’s tells.

It frustrated Hawke—that he could not trust even the word of the man he loved, the man he shared a bed with every night. He had thought he had made it clear to Anders, to Justice, that he believed in their cause wholeheartedly; that he agreed with their ideas of revolution, that he understood violence was sometimes necessary for the greater good, that he would not cry over the deaths of Templars who abused others. And yet, Anders was keeping things from him—from their friends, but especially from him. It hurt. It hurt, but like with Sebastian, he was a coward—unable to confront those closest to him. He had no qualms with being direct, being aggressive towards most people, but something about it being… being a friend made him clam up, and made him able to voice his frustrations and concerns. Made him afraid of his own anger.

Part of it was due to his pervasive fear of losing what few people he had left. Most of his family was dead—dead because he couldn’t save them, because he wasn’t a good enough healer, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t fast enough. His brother and he had a shaky relationship, one based on snide remarks, quiet drunken confessions, and trips away from the soul crushing atmosphere of Kirkwall that always ended with someone dead by their hands. Normal brotherly bonding, for them.

Even his friend group was dwindling—Isabela had been gone for years, abandoning him after he had proved unworthy of her trust; proof he really wasn’t fit to be a ‘hero’ like Varric built him up to be. Merrill rarely left her hovel; trying desperately still to figure out her Eluvian mirror. Anders had been more and more involved in his cause, his clinic; more and more he was spending nights away from their shared bed. Varric’s writing kept him busier than ever; he couldn’t remember the last time he had joined Hawke on an outing. Aveline was struggling to keep the Guards afloat in troubled times; she hadn’t even been down to the Hanged Man for weeks. And then there was Fenris and Sebastian—Fenris was always a bit of a loner, but he at least visited Hawke and Orana from time to time. Sebastian he had continued to speak with in the Chantry, when they weren’t hiking in the mountains together, but now…

Maybe Hawke deserved it. He was a coward. A liar too. How often had he lied to Sebastian, lied to his other friends? Lied to people who had trusted him. Most of the time it was to protect himself, protect his family, lest someone learn he was an apostate. But not always. Sometimes it was smaller things, too. Lying was easier than barring his soul.

Anders' secret could be something no one needed to know until the right time came, lest people get hurt. But Hawke still couldn’t shake the hypocritical pang in his heart at the thought of Anders lying to him. He kept telling himself it was because Anders was clearly keeping something big from him—and Hawke had only lied about small stuff. Oh no, I’m fine, I wasn’t crying in the study alone, I’m over my family's deaths, really—but truthfully he had no idea what Anders was hiding. Hawke only assumed it was big, only assumed it was connected to his work.

It was all Hawke’s fault, in the end; it was his relationships he couldn’t keep together, all while Kirkwall seemed to crumble around him despite so many relying on him as their Champion. His fault, and he had no idea how to fix anything.

“I’m going to kill that bastard if he even thinks about turning any of us in again,” Anders hissed as soon as they were through the door to their bedroom. Orana didn’t need to hear any threats of violence; she was finally starting to really open up and blossom now that she was free from slavery and in a better environment. There was no need to scare her.

(Hawke hated to admit it, but he was glad she was so used to magic being used so freely because of her upbringing in Tevinter; it made her working for two apostates go a lot smoother, when she didn’t jump at the sight of a spark or glow.)

“I think Sebastian’s parents were married,” Hawke replied, voice tired.

Anders sighed. Evidentially, he was not in a humorous mood. “Whatever. I’d have to deal with Fenris accusing me of only killing him because I’m possessed if I did,” he muttered. “He can run back to the Chantry and tell all of Thedas we’re mages for all I care. It’s not like anyone’s going to dare try to piss you off. And everyone already knows what you can do anyways.”

Hawke hummed vaguely, changing out of his robes. It wasn’t himself he was worried about when it came to Sebastian’s words, but he felt too hollow, too exhausted to find the words to explain. If Sebastian was like Fenris, the ‘maleficarum’ he spoke of were Merrill and Anders, not Hawke.

“He does live in the Chantry, right?” Anders asked, but it was clear he wasn’t really addressing Hawke; merely thinking out loud. Anders fiddled with his jacket—his new one, all black and sleek, simir bird feathers iridescent under the light. Hawke rather liked it. “Spends a lot of time there…” Anders' eyes narrowed, trailing off.

Hawke slid into bed, not wanting to think anymore. He’d rather sleep, not think; and certainly not think about how suspicious Anders was being. It didn’t matter that the sun was still up. He wanted to drift into the fade and be alone.

Anders slid in beside him, jacket since shed. He slipped his arms around Hawke, legs tangled, Anders' body warm against his chest. If Anders ranted about Sebastian further, the words merely washed over Hawke, deaf. He only felt the light kisses to his face, neck, the caresses along his back and side.

Hawke just wanted to sleep until everything was back the way it was supposed to be.

Now.

“Hawke,” Sebastian greeted. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“It will always be a no, Sebastian,” Hawke said, staring at the wall.

Sebastian had the audacity to look forlorn. Hawke wanted nothing more than to puke on him, but he hadn’t had any food yet for the day. The nausea from the poison lingered. The night before he had also been wrecked with chills and fever. Hawke really did wonder how much more magebane he could take before he died, or if his body would merely grow accustomed to it, leaving the poison to drain his mana only. He had grown used to the last dosage but would they continue to up it and pray it didn't kill him until his execution? He hoped not; dying was bad enough, being hopelessly sick from poison prior to bring brought to a hangman's nose was worse.

Hawke hadn't dreamed since the nightmare.

Sebastian took a seat. “Hawke,” he began, “back during that day in Kirkwall, when the Chantry was destroyed… I asked you if you would have been unable to decide what to do if I had been in there and died. You never gave me an answer in the end, but I have been thinking about it again.”

Hawke hummed, rolling the words he wanted to say around in his mind first, trying to find the right order to put them in. “But you weren’t in the Chantry, were you? That was on purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not notice that I started asking for you to come with me more often, after we met Lady Nightingale?” Hawke asked. “Sometimes even without Anders. I asked you to come with me to the Vinmark Mountains, to deal with demons under the city, that kind of stuff. Before, I mostly talked to you at the Hanged Man or the Chantry.”

Sebastian sat back, leaning against the wall as he thought Hawke’s words over. “...so you knew Anders was planning something and instead of warning me, just decided to… to keep me out of the Chantry?”

“I had a feeling something was going to happen, and right before the trip to the Vinmark Mountains was when Anders asked me to talk to the Grand Cleric while he set the charges. At the time I honestly didn’t know what he was doing, but I figured he was planning something that would lead to people dying,” Hawke explained, staring at his hands. “And I knew whatever he was planning, it was all in service of mage freedom and overthrowing the Templars, so I wasn’t going to rat him out when I wanted the same thing.”

“And you thought it was important to keep me alive over the Grand Cleric, why?” Sebastian demanded, tone sharp.

“Because you were my friend at the time, and I’m selfish. I had no attachment to Elthina,” Hawke replied with a shrug. It was the cold hard truth; Hawke’s empathy had always been limited outside of his inner circle.

“And your brother—”

“I had Thrask and Keran make sure Carver was never stationed in or near the Chantry after the trip to the Vinmark Mountains,” Hawke cut in, rubbing at his knuckles idly as he spoke. They were scarred; he had split the skin open punching Carver once, years ago. “They both trusted me since I had helped them before, and they knew he was my little brother—my little brother who had just been attacked in the Gallows barracks. They just assumed I was being a worrying, protective sibling—which I suppose I was, just for different reasons.”

Sebastian studied Hawke’s face. Hawke shifted under the scrutiny as the silence seemed to stretch on and on. He could hear the muffled sounds of the crew outside, likely preparing for lunch.

“I just don’t get it,” Sebastian finally said. “Why do you worry so much about the deaths of some but then condone the deaths of other innocents?”

“Because I know the people whose deaths I worry about? And the rest are all strangers, or people I couldn’t care less about?” Hawke said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

“But that doesn’t mean their deaths are okay! They’re still people, with lives, and families, and many of them were good people!”

“Hrmm… well, I know that but… I told you. I’m very selfish. So I only end up caring about the deaths of some,” Hawke sighed. “People just seem to forget that, just because I do care about strangers sometimes, if I feel what’s going on is… wrong. Like those elf children who were killed by the magistrate’s son, or mages who didn’t do anything except want to be free. And sometimes I just help people not because I care, but because I know it’ll make them like me. I guess I’m just good at fooling people into thinking I’m some heroic soul.” He could practically hear his friends’ voices in his head, telling him he was being too hard on himself, that he was better than what he was saying. He ignored them.

Sebastian’s voice was one of them. Hawke didn’t dare linger on that fact.

Hawke looked Sebastian in the eyes, unflinching as he said, “You’re not much better, you know.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?” he prompted.

“You act all selfless, but you really aren’t, not completely, is what I mean. You only help for some weird sense of self righteousness and redemption in His eyes. It always bothered me but I couldn’t figure out why, until now, and I’ve finally realised that. I mean, you at least do things that actually help people, so that puts you above Elthina in my mind,” Hawke replied, tracing the scars on his right hand.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hawke,” Sebastian said. “I—I do not have to justify my actions to you.”

“No. But I do to you, it seems. Isn’t life unfair?”

“Because your actions—your choice to not tell anyone of your suspicions about Anders plans—led to the death of innocents! Killed Elthina, destroyed my home, threw all of Thedas into chaos! And even now when given the chance to be redeemed, you refuse!” Sebastian shouted, standing quick enough to knock his stool over. He was pointing his finger at Hawke accusingly, all while Hawke just smirked at him. There was no joy behind the expression.

Hawke had been wondering how long it would take to boil Sebastian’s fury over enough for it to replace the sickeningly sweet ‘I’m-just-worried-for-your-immortal-soul’ schtick. Not long, if he pushed the right buttons, it seemed. Or maybe it was just anger left over from before. Hawke knew what it was like to have it smoulder under the surface, no matter how much it was smothered by other emotions. It always found a way to spark back to life, to burn everything in its path, if one wasn’t careful.

Anger was better than pity. Anger he could match easily, argue with. Anger didn’t make his stomach churn, it didn't make him feel pathetic. It'd be cathartic for Hawke to have free reign to yell with Sebastian, if nothing else.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I really don’t feel all that regretful about what happened in Kirkwall, Sebastian?” Hawke questioned, shaking his head. His hair was tangled, neglected from days of illness and stress. “I remember you accusing me of condoning it even then, and you weren’t wrong.”

Sebastian opened his mouth. Hawke cut him off before he could speak, the apostate’s voice growing stronger, clearer. “I am sorry you lost Elthina, but she… she wasn’t listening. She was refusing to do anything even as the situation became dire, even as Meredith started calling for the Right of Annulment. Her inaction was going to cost the lives of so many innocent mages, including children, and there would have been nothing to be done. It would have been swept under the rug like so many other crimes to my people. I wish she hadn’t had to die, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“It had to be done. I’m not going to pretend it was the morally right thing to do—a good thing to do—but it was what needed to be done. It was better to force Meredith's hand, to die fighting, to fight for freedom than to let her kill everyone laying down. If Anders hadn’t killed Elthina, hadn’t made it clear there was no compromise to be had, Orsino would have kept pushing for it—and then Templars would have just killed every mage in the Gallows and no one would have cared." Hawke’s voice shook, righteous anger fueling his words. “Anders and I do not regret it, even if we know it’s a mark on our souls. It’s not like I haven’t killed people who didn’t deserve it for lesser things, after all. I used to kill people in the streets for money! At least this was for a cause, at least her death was to force change, to save other lives before it was too late. To allow the deaths of those who did die to matter instead of being forgotten like they were disposable.”

“Nothing you say will justify what Anders did to me,” Sebastian said, his voice wavering. Hawke couldn’t tell if his words were laced with sorrow or rage.

“...I suppose I knew that,” Hawke lamented. “But it was worth a try.” He stared at his hands, folding them delicately in his lap. “We chose to fight. To make Meredith angry. To give mages a chance to at least fight back. It was better than letting everyone be slaughtered like cattle.”

“His betrayal wasn’t necessary,” Sebastian stated. “I don’t know how you can keep defending him when he betrayed your trust as well."

“I’ve lied to a lot of people who trusted me, Sebastian,” Hawke stated. “I’m a hypocrite, but I know when to forgive people when I am being one. I’m not angry he lied to me, not anymore.” Hawke sighed; his heart missed Anders more with each day they were apart. He prayed to the Maker each night that Anders would be okay, that Anders wouldn’t do anything that would get himself killed before his time came.

He had no idea if his prayers were even being heard. He didn’t care.

“And you talk to me about betrayal?” Hawke snorted. “I seem to remember you discussing with Fenris once, about turning Merrill and Anders over to the Circle; to the Templars who’d kill them. Or do worse. Fenris had the sense to shut you down gently, but yet you still thought about it, didn’t you? Despite knowing I cared for Merrill like a sister; that I loved Anders. And what about me? You knew I was a mage too. Did…” Hawke's voice cracked, his tongue wetting his lips, “did you ever consider turning me into the Templars too?”

“Yes,” Sebastian answered, far too fast for Hawke’s liking. “When I first found out you were a mage.”

Hawke sagged into the bed, the tension draining from his body. “Then don’t you dare talk to me about betrayal, Sebastian,” he hissed, teeth bared, but its effect was dampened by the hurt in his tone; the hurt written on his face. “You were considering sending me and the people I loved to the one place we feared the most, and you even spoke about it to my friend like you thought he’d throw me to the wolves too!”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t turn me in, any of them in, because why? Because you were afraid of me?” Hawke snapped. “What? Too scared I’d kill you before the Templars executed me or made me tranquil? You’re a coward. No wonder you needed someone else to enact your vengeance for your family.”

Sebastian was in Hawke’s face in one swift movement, towering over him. His hand gripped the hilt of the dagger at his waist, muscles shaking. Hawke’s pulse jumped, throat bobbing as Sebastian leaned in. “Do not speak of my family,” he hissed. “I will not let you sully their name.”

He pulled away, pacing in the room. “I considered you a friend, Hawke. I thought… That is why I did not wish to turn you in, in the end. I was more afraid of you being hurt by it than you hurting me. And I thought perhaps it really was the Maker’s plan for you to be outside the Circle in order to use your magic to serve others, like I explained the other day.” He stopped, staring at the wall. “But. The friend part was also why I hesitated, especially at first.”

Sebastian sighed, turning back around and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was a fool to have not turned in the other two however.” Oh, Sebastian was only digging his grave, wasn’t he? Hawke regretted not letting Anders kill Sebastian, regretted not ending him then and there in Kirkwall even when the archer had said his death would achieve nothing. It would have certainly kept Hawke from having to hear such traitorous words, saved him the heartbreak, the despair. Yet, even now, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to kill the prince. He didn’t care so much about the consequences of assassinating a leader of the Free Marches; no, he just didn’t want the blood of an old friend on his hands, not when he was already drenched in so much. Selfish, selfish, selfish…

“Merrill would have led her entire clan to a terrible death if you had not been there, and Anders… well...” Sebastian chuckled darkly. “No point in elaborating there.”

“I considered you a friend, too, you know,” Hawke breathed. “Or did you think I came to visit you in the Chantry to talk just for my nefarious plans?”

Sebastian locked eyes with Hawke. “I know,” he whispered. His hand dropped from his face. “I only thought someone who seemed as faithful as you did would not condone, would not be a part of something so terrible—willingly. Maybe I have been a fool, thinking you could be saved. Maybe it is truly too late for you, Hawke.”

“It’s been too late for me for years, Sebastian,” Hawke said with a sad smile. “Faith doesn’t stop people from hurting others. If it did, there wouldn’t be so many Templars raping and abusing mages, now would there? I can still believe in Andraste and the Maker, still want to seek out a Brother or Sister to speak to at a Chantry about the Chant while still wishing for my fellow mages to be free, no matter the cost.”

“But the Chant says—”

“The Chant says that ‘magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him,’ ” Hawke recited. “That doesn’t have to mean locking mages up, taking away their rights and treating them like lesser. Did I not serve the people of Kirkwall as Champion?”

“Of course you did, but—”

“And so did Merrill and Anders, even if you don’t want to believe it. Merrill tried to help her people reclaim their history. She aided the elves of the alienage in that last year in Kirkwall. Anders healed and saved so many with his clinic and work with the Mages’ Collective.” Hawke paused, swallowing, before he continued. “And in the Book of Shartan—”

“That text is considered heretical by—”

“By whom? The Chantry? Funny thing, that. They didn’t always, and it sure is interesting they only started leaving out the part about the elf who helped free his people along with Andraste when the Divine ordered the Exalted Marches on the Dales,” Hawke hissed. “Fenris and I talked about those verses often, you know. Even Anders spoke of Shartan, about how his Warden-Commander had a lot of respect for Andraste and Shartan as a Dalish elf, how she had supposedly talked with Shartan in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“...And why bring this up?” Sebastian inquired.

“Faith is not determined solely by what other people decide, faith is a personal thing,” Hawke murmured, “And even if Andraste and the Maker are infallible, men aren’t, right? So the Chantry can’t be perfect and infallible because it is created by men. It is just as affected by the ills of man as anything else, and that means sometimes… sometimes the people in charge have other goals that do not align with what He wanted. And that’s why I believe He and his Bride didn’t want mages to be locked up—that was because of the fear of man. Andraste wanted magic to serve man, yes, but the fear of it is being allowed to rule instead. The Chantry was made by man, and so it could be torn down by man too.”

Sebastian was quiet. Hawke took that as his chance to continue. “Anders and I always opposed the Chantry and its unjust laws, but not the Maker or Andraste. If that makes us maleficarum, so be it. But nothing you knew of me before this, nothing we discussed, really contradicts who I am now. I kept things from you, yes, but those details weren’t necessary to understand the fundamentals of who I am. I won’t lie; I have changed since we met, but it wasn’t because Anders manipulated me into hating the Maker or anything. He’s actually devout himself. I’ve merely grown like any other living being.”

“I just… struggle to make sense of you, Hawke,” Sebastian said finally, tapping the hilt of his dagger in thought. “I really do. And I hate that I so desperately want you to allow yourself to… for you to disavow Anders and come back to the Chantry while you still have hope, all because I believed in you once; because you were my friend. Even though I know it’s too late for that, even though you've made it clear you never will.”

“We all wish for things to be as they once were, especially in hard times,” Hawke murmured. “It’s not a sin, but it is something you have to learn to move past. It took me a while to realise that too.”

Hawke pushed himself up, staring down Sebastian. “We can’t be friends again, Sebastian. Not unless one of us radically changes ourselves. I doubt that will ever happen. It’s just how it is, so stop chasing the past, stop trying to make me ‘redeem’ myself.” He sighed, looking towards the wall. “I would say I’m sorry that we can’t kiss and make up, but you did threaten to kill me and the love of my life, so I have no idea if I’d really mean it. Just let them execute me, Sebastian, instead of chasing a ghost. It’s the kinder mercy.”

Sebastian was quiet. Hawke had no idea if the prince was taking his words to heart. Part of him didn’t care. Regardless, Sebastian didn’t apologise either. Instead, he stood up, making to leave. “We’ll be in the Free Marches soon. Then your trial preparations will start,” he said in lieu of anything else.

Hawke was alright with that. There was no need for apologies, not when the bridge between them had been rendered to ash years ago.

Then.

There was a Templar, staring up at the memorial wall in the Chantry. He looked tired, eyes red-rimmed and tear stained, his dark hair dishevelled. And although they had few interactions, Sebastian recognised Carver Hawke easily now, even when he was bound in the identical armour of his brother-in-arms.

“I am surprised to see that you are still on active duty, I must admit,” Sebastian murmured, coming up beside him. It was easy to follow the young man’s gaze, landing on Leandra Hawke Amell’s remembrance plate that Sebastian had put up.��

“I took some time off earlier, at the behest of the Knight-Commander and my Knight-Captain, though I actually didn’t want to,” Carver rasped, voice cracking. He looked and sounded like he had been crying all night. Sebastian did not dare speak on the Templar’s emotional state; he didn’t want to see the lad break into sobs in front of him. Military men like Carver often preferred to cry alone; Sebastian’s older brothers had been the same.

“I think their insistence was more about them feeling guilty for not catching the blood mage that killed her, more than the fact that my mother died,” muttered Carver. “Some apology, huh?” he sneered, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“I am… sure they tried their best,” Sebastian tried. Carver’s brother was an apostate, one Carver had no intention of turning in it seemed, so there was always risk of him turning against the Order. Sebastian had to tread carefully. “Even if they did fail your mother and so many others.”

Carver turned to Sebastian, looking down at him—Sebastian had always thought himself a decently tall man, but Carver and Anders towered over him. Almost made him feel small; almost. (Hawke, however, had always seemed sensitive about his height)

“No... you’re right,” Carver relented, shoulders sagging. “Even dear Brother tried and failed to track Quentin down in time. Ser Emeric tried, and it cost him his life. I… it’s not really anyone’s fault but that Maker damned blood mage, may he rest in the fucking Void.” Carver sucked in a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t come here to rant, I just… wanted to thank you for putting this up for our mother.”

“It’s alright,” Sebastian reassured him. “And of course; she seemed like a fine, strong woman. She certainly raised two very impressive sons. She deserves to be remembered.”

Carver nodded, looking back up at her remembrance plate, as though he was trying to commit it perfectly to his memory. “It just doesn’t feel… real, that she’s really gone. But I know that I’ll get used to it. It was the same with Father and Bethany’s deaths. It’s just… we were supposed to be safe here, the three of us.”

“Nowhere is truly safe from the ills of man, no matter where they are, until they are at the side of the Maker,” Sebastian said.

“Yeah, I suppose not,” Carver sighed, rubbing at his face. “I’ll miss her. So much. I… At least… at least she’ll be able to see Father and my sister again. She loved them.”

“She loved you and your brother, as well. I could tell when I spoke with her,” Sebastian said, choosing not to comment on Carver’s sniffling. He let a melancholic silence settle over them. He understood. He had been a mess after the death of his family as well. And then that sadness had turned to anger…

Sebastian itched to ask about Hawke, worried for his friend—but he knew from his few interactions with Carver that he had something of an inferiority complex with his older brother. Sebastian understood that more than anyone. He did not want to dig at any still-scabbing wounds.

“...Anders came to me, actually,” Carver spoke, filling the silence with his deep tones. “It surprised me, because I thought he hated me and was pretending I didn’t exist anymore.” Anders' irrational hatred for Templars was, after all, no secret. “He was worried for my brother, as always. Said Garrett barely leaves the house now, and was drinking a lot. I had no idea what to say to Anders, other than to just… just to keep an eye on Garrett, I guess. So that he wouldn’t do something incredibly stupid. He’s liable to do stupid things on the best of days. But… I don’t want to lose the last person I have left.”

Sebastian nodded, just letting Carver speak. He sounded like he needed it, and he had few friends who knew of his brother’s status as a mage. It made sense Sebastian was one of the few he could speak with, without worrying about accidentally sharing something he shouldn’t.

“But I can’t help thinking I was making a mistake, letting Anders of all people watch over Brother,” Carver finished, shrugging. “He’s crazy. I have no idea why Garrett’s so attached to him.”

“...Anders is…. Unstable, at times, but he is a healer,” Sebastian tried. “He likely knows how to console people over the deaths of loved ones.

“I suppose,” Carver murmured. “I just worry. I don’t want my brother to get dragged down with Anders when the Templars finally decide to go after him.”

Sebastian hummed in agreement, thinking back to the conversation he had with Hawke months ago over why he was not in the Circle.

“But Garrett’s always been… he’s always been obsessed with people liking him, you know?” Carver said. Despite it being rhetorical, Sebastian did know; he had been like that too, once, desperate for affection wherever he could get it, no matter how fleeting or deprived. Then he had found solace instead in the Maker. He hoped Hawke could find the same one day; he was already closer than Sebastian had been ten years ago.

“Because of that he just… does the daftest things to make people like him, and failing that, he’ll just try to make them hate him instead,” Carver spoke. “He’s always been desperate for attention, even when we were young. Which made the whole you-know-what thing pretty hard growing up. So I can’t help but worry that’s why he’s even putting up with Anders because…”

“...because Anders himself has always had an obvious fixation on Hawke?” Sebastian finished. “I am glad I am not the only one to notice. It’s been like that even before they began to court one another.”

Carver grunted in agreement. “I want to be happy for Brother, but he’s… he frustrates me to no end, and Anders just pisses me off.” He rolled his shoulders, his platemail clanking. “Mother wanted us to get along, but I keep worrying that with her gone, Garrett’s going to cut me out completely and Anders will only encourage it. And part of me worries that I’ll be okay with that.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t think you will, if you are worrying as you are. Give it time; I know you two began to talk a bit after the last time I gave you advice, yes?” Sebastian said. He paused, thinking for a moment. “And… Anders went to you out of concern for Hawke, so perhaps he doesn’t want you gone as much as you think.” He was no fan of Anders, but there was no point in making Carver worry unnecessarily.

“I hope so, Sebastian, I really do,” Carver muttered. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve been a good friend to my brother.”

“And to you, I hope,” Sebastian said, smiling a little.

Carver smiled back, eyes still wet with unshed tears.

Now.

“Hawke,” Sebastian greeted as he strode into the cell. He looked sad. Hawke wanted to punch the pitying look right off his face. “We will be in Starkhaven in two days. Prepare yourself. The details of your trial will be etched out while we wait for Anders to come, assuming he is not already on our tail.” The prince hesitated, his voice soft as he continued, “I wish… it did not have to be this way. I really do wish you would have agreed to join the Circle.”

Hawke blinked sleep out of his eyes. He had been spending most of this time doing that—sleeping. There was little else to do in solitary and he didn’t want to swallow his pride enough to ask Sebastian for a book. Being denied would only make his mood worse.

He hadn’t eaten yet that day, and combined with the sleep, his mind felt clearer, nausea at bearable levels. He could feel just a wisp of mana. It was not enough to do anything other than summon a magelight—for a few fleeting moments.

“Right,” Hawke said, mostly reassuring himself he could still speak. Sebastian’s visits since their last argument had been brief, and too far apart. Being alone with just his thoughts was unbearable. He understood Anders more and more; it was a miracle a year of solitary confinement hadn’t destroyed his mind. He wondered if that was what the Templars had wanted; to break Anders' will. To keep him from ever trying to escape again. It hadn’t worked, and that made Hawke appreciate Anders' strength all the more.

Or, perhaps, Hawke was just really unused to being alone. Having grown up in a tightly knit household and then living with Anders always at his side hadn’t prepared Hawke much for solitude.

Sebastian moved towards the bed, opening his mouth. Whatever he said was drowned out by yelling down the hall. The cell door was kicked open with a loud crack. Sebastian whipped his head around, eyes wide—just as a blood soaked woman came lunging at him through the doorway.

The cabin was too small for Sebastian’s bow to be of any use. He struggled to get his knife out of its sheath as the woman, dressed in a captain’s coat and hat that contrasted with her low cut courtesan top and thigh high boots, slashed at him with wicked-looking twin daggers. The archer managed to back away, but his stance in the confined area was weak. Sebastian could only gasp as she kicked him square in the chest. Sebastian hit the far wall, head snapping back against the wood. He slumped down, trying to catch his breath, one of her blades aimed at his throat.

While the prince tried to recover, the woman edged towards Hawke, who was sitting on the bed still, mouth slack in shock. She hoisted him onto unsteady feet with a wink. “Hey, handsome,” she drawled, golden piercings twinkling under the candlelight, her skin a warm, deep brown, just like her eyes, just like her dark curly hair.

“Isabela?”

#dragon age #handers #garrett hawke #sebastian vael #carver hawke #templar carver #mhanders #male hawke #mage hawke #my writing #dragon age 2 #da2 #fanfic #ashes of yesterday

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