Dawn of the Magic Age
Title: Dawn of the Magic Age
Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: MaleRogueHawke/Anders, Carver/Merrill, Sebastian+???, the rest of Hawke’s party later
Genre: Drama, Adventure, Romance
Status: Ongoing
Current Word Count: 109,991
Summary: Hawke, Carver and Sebastian take wholly separate paths following the rebellion in Kirkwall. The politics and energies of Thedas begin changing as Hawke’s crew finds itself in the middle of a morally-difficult holy war, fighting for the same side but not at all united. Relationships and faith are put to the ultimate test as a few destined leaders are forced to shoulder more responsibility than they feel they can handle.
Rated M for violence, sex and crushingly realistic emotional ups and downs.
Part One
Prologue: Choices
Chapter 1: Threads
Chapter 2: Understanding
Chapter 3: Trust
Chapter 4: Risk
Chapter 5 Part A: Passage
Chapter 5 Part B: Capture
Chapter 6: Cornered
Chapter 7: Revelation
Chapter 8: Admission
Chapter 9: Amalgam
Part Two
Chapter 10: Chosen
Chapter 11: Alliance
Chapter 12: Gather
Chapter 13: Journey
Chapter 14: Horizon
Chapter 15: Expectations
Chapter 16 Part A: Vows
Chapter 16 Part B: Blind
Part Three
Chapter 17: Roles
Chapter 18: Define
Chapter 19: Icon
Chapter 20: Deal
I'M BACK EVERYONE
Expect regular updates once again. And there's a cosplay surprise for you at the end of the chapter!
***Imperial Highway, Southern Tevinter Imperium***
Hawke was almost thankful that the journey to the Imperium was so incredibly long. It gave them the time they needed to test out the subtle mannerisms they'd need to exhibit once they reached Minrathous; things Hawke would never in his lifetime have considered important enough to notice.
They had to begin their journey, however, by fighting their way across the Silent Plains. Andraste ignored the usual formalities and allowed them all to race across the blighted lands on horseback together. It helped them minimize confrontations with Darkspawn, which, while not a real threat to their lives, would have slowed them down considerably. By the time they made it through to safety they were exhausted, and the sight of a town on the horizon was he only thing driving them forward. No one realized the significance of the town's name, so no one knew why Andraste was missing when they finally awoke the next morning.
It was Hawke who found her on her knees in front of the sign that marked the main entrance to the town, her posture displaying the kind of reverence usually reserved for Chantry prayers.
“Are you... hurt?” Hawke asked quietly. He knew public discussions of Andraste's injuries were strictly off limits, but he had no idea what she was doing; not until he was close enough to realize that he had no business being there.
Andraste's shoulders shook once without a sound, and then something escaped from her throat, obviously fighting its way past barriers that didn't want to let it through.
Hawke couldn't imagine that anyone had ever seen Andraste; the leader of armies, conqueror of magisters and chosen soldier of the Maker, reduced to tears with her knees buried in the dirt. He froze in response, unsure of whether he was supposed to stay or go, and his eyes darted around in the hopes that the answer lay somewhere in the scene before him.
Andraste was sobbing before a stone monolith with the name of the city, Solas, carved in faded letters at the top. Between his childhood lessons and Andraste's explanation of her past, Hawke knew enough about Chantry lore to know that Maferath got to keep the southern Tevinter lands after he betrayed his wife; the lands they were currently in. As he looked at the faded stone one last time he finally realized that it wasn't marking the entrance to the town.
It was a grave site.
There was only one person Andraste could have been mourning so ardently, and Hawke had no words which could have soothed the pain she must have been feeling in that moment. He didn't have children; he couldn't possibly imagine how empty and guilty she must have felt being the one to survive. The whole scene brought him back to his mother's haunted words on the day of Bethany's eventual memorial service in Kirkwall: Parents are never meant to bury their children.
He knew that Andraste had heard him, but Hawke chose to walk away as if nothing had happened. Later that night, as they left the city, Andraste thanked him and they never discussed why.
As a result of their new roles there seemed to be entire sets of language for each of them to learn, with the rules changing based on who was addressing whom. Andraste was Anders' mentor, meaning he was allowed to be forthright with her, but still humble and at least partially obedient, while she in turn spoke to him with a highly authoritative kind of respect. Even among the servants there were variations on the customs, as masters were expected to address their personal slaves differently than slaves belonging to others.
Fenris had been assigned the role of Anders' personal slave, and Orana as Hawke's, considering the task of “breaking in” Isabela was something only Andraste could be trusted to do correctly. Truth be told, Isabela was shaping up to be a horrible slave, to the point where Hawke almost wanted to suggest they send her back to Starkhaven. She couldn't seem to deliver her expected responses without sounding rehearsed and insincere, all the while slumping her posture and ignoring the needs of her mistress in favor of her own. About two weeks into traveling, however, Andraste seemed to give up and declare, “Do not worry. I have a plan.”
That didn't reassure Hawke in the least, but if it meant not having to hear another lecture on the language of social hierarchy then he was willing to pretend it did. He had plenty of other things to worry about, after all, not least of which was Anders' slowly shifting personality and Hawke's inability to decipher how he felt about it.
The changes were subtle at first, but things began to get more obviously perplexing when Andraste tried to describe Hawke's expected relationship with Anders.
“It should border on ownership,” she described, “but not in the same way as owning slaves.”
“What in the Maker's name does that even mean?” Anders asked.
“Act like you, at least partially, believe you own Hawke and he is yours to do with as you please; as if pleasing you is his privilege.”
Hawke expected Anders to argue, or note how disturbing the concept sounded, but the words that came out instead didn't sound like anything the mage had ever said, and the voice didn't even sound like his.
“Oh, I like the sound of that.”
Isabela and Fenris even stopped their tired, lagging pace beside the horses in an attempt to decide if they'd heard Anders correctly.
Hawke looked over in disbelief, so shocked by the behavior that he simply laughed with a stupid grin plastered on his face, unable to think of any other response to what felt like a taste of his own medicine.
At night Anders laid quiet, affectionate kisses along Hawke's neck and jaw before slipping into a peaceful sleep that lasted the whole night, leaving the rogue awake to stare at the sky and wonder who it was he was lying beside. Anders? The real Anders, if there was such a thing?
He wanted to miss the man he'd spent six years of his life with, but as their journey continued Hawke was introduced to more and more things he hadn't realized he'd wanted; things that made Anders just so much better to him. A genuine laugh with no hints of melancholy or bitterness. A playfulness with some subjects that didn't interfere with the seriousness required for others. There was no longer a constant, underlying fear that Justice's vengeful wrath would just show up out of nowhere and warp Anders' consciousness. Because even if Anders claimed that he and Justice had destroyed each other, Hawke imagined that the other-worldly power of one of the Maker's first children was slightly more to blame than one pissed-off mage.
By the time they reached Vol Dorma Hawke didn't feel any more sure of where he stood on the matter, but he did feel that he and the others were ready to blend in with the culture of the Imperium. Andraste and Anders brandished their staffs in public and threw around sovereigns as if the things grew on trees. Her royal highness booked one room entirely for herself and Hawke and Anders shelled out some serious coin for a large suit that included a large bathing room.
Andraste asked if there was room in the stables for their slaves, and Hawke could see Orana's face light up briefly out of the corner of his eye. There was a fine line, he had been told, between having the money and station to care for ones slaves and running the risk of “pampering” them, as if a roof over their head while smelling like horse manure was somehow bordering on too great a privilege for beings as lowly as slaves. The innkeeper charged extra, the same cost as it was to board their three horses, and everyone left to get what little rest they could.
The next day they went shopping for supplies and Anders had to learn to let Fenris into his personal space. Orana and Isabela were... aesthetic slaves. They were meant to be pretty, quiet and obedient. When Hawke needed to pay for something Orana slipped his coin purse into his hand and removed it without a sound when he done. She held his purchases and stood out of his way, her spine straight with the pride she felt serving her master and her head bowed with the recognition of her station. Fenris, on the other hand, was meant to play the bodyguard; to look at anyone who wasn't Anders, Hawke or Andraste like potential targets ready to be slaughtered at the slightest provocation. The elf wasn't just a living weapon, he was a living shield as well. There was no personhood in his role, only purpose.
Isabela, on the other hand, was still faltering. Her instincts told her to study the world around her, not the needs and wants of her mistress. She didn't notice her cues to act, and constantly needed to be called on by name; something Andraste had warned them would ruin their cover immediately. When even that didn't work, Andraste called out something that Hawke didn't recognize.
“Naishe.”
It came out like a warning, and Hawke wasn't sure if it was in another language or simply something he misheard, but the look in Isabela's eyes betrayed a vulnerability the likes of which he had never seen from her before. Her chest heaved as she drew in a deep breath, but she couldn't seem to let the air go. Obviously furious, she gritted her teeth and tried to at least keep her retaliation quite. “Never call me that again.”
It was far too late for privacy, however, and Hawke could see the odd looks directed at them from the shopkeeper and the other patrons around them. Having no other choice, Andraste was forced to play her role out loudly and with convincing authenticity.
Thankfully Isabela didn't fight back when Andraste grabbed her by her hair and pulled back until the former pirate queen had no other option but to fall to her knees. A bright blaze of flames crackled to life in Andraste's other hand, illuminating the odd mix of fear and defiance still glowing strong in Isabela's eyes.
“You are not Isabela anymore,” Andraste declared tacitly. She didn't need to yell; Hawke could tell without looking that she had the attention of the room. “You are queen of nothing. You lead no one. You do not even belong to yourself. You, my pretty prize, are Naishe, the lowly child whore from the streets of Rivain. Do not forget that.”
Leaving no time for anyone to respond, Andraste swung her slave into a broke heap on the dusty shop floor. When Isabela tried to scramble to her feet, Fenris appeared from behind her and clamped one gauntleted hand over her mouth to keep her from letting loose the plethora of obscenities they all knew she wanted to screech at the top of her lungs.
“You need to learn your place,” Fenris told her. To anyone else it probably sounded like a slave acting on behalf of his masters' desires, but Hawke could tell the elf was trying to remind her what they stood to lose if they failed.
“Take her to gather our things and meet us by the road to the Imperial Highway,” Andraste ordered. “When you reach the outskirts of the city, beat her for her insubordination.”
Fenris nodded in compliance and roughly lead Isabela out of the shop.
Hawke tried with everything in him to act unfazed by what had just happened, telling himself over and over again that Fenris wasn't actually going to hurt Isabela; not when Andraste had been smart enough to send them away from the eyes of the city. It didn't help his nerves, however, when their leader resumed her shopping with a cold nonchalance that Anders was frighteningly good at mimicking. Another magister in the shop slid next to Andraste and pretended to browse the same shelf of potions before casually asking, “New slave?”
“New and unbroken,” Andraste admitted without looking at the man beside her. “But the more they fight it-”
“-the more rewarding when they finally submit,” he finished for her. That earned him a smile from the princess, one he returned in earnest.
Before they left the shop Hawke tried to get a good look at the man's face. He tried to take solace in the fact that if they completed their mission, and succeeded in starting a war with the Imperium, then he would get to watch the sadistic superiority drain from the eyes of this man and every last disgusting magister like him.
***Starkhaven, City Outskirts***
Merrill locked the bottles of Carver's blood in a chest in their room and studied every scrap of information she could gather between the books provided by the Circles and the various Dalish clans which were still pouring in from across Thedas.
Carver recovered quickly with the help of a few very discrete healers, and was back to overseeing Templar training within days of his self-inflicted ordeal. He asked Sebastian to provide him with an excuse, and he was thankful when the prince did so without asking any questions. Carver would never have guessed that he'd be so proud to serve Sebastian of all people, but in time the man was beginning to come into his role as ruler of Starkhaven, though he owed a great deal of his success to choosing the right leaders.
Carver didn't have time to be humble about the things he'd accomplished in his short time as Knight-Commander. He'd not only recruited the first ever (known) mage Templar, but he'd been able to convince two others to join as well. The two men and one woman were accomplished in combat and highly knowledgeable when it came to how mages engaged others both offensively and defensively. Carver enlisted them to run training sessions based on what they knew, as they were not only capable of instruction, but demonstration as well.
With the lyrium out of their systems, many of the Templars reported having more energy and clearer focus. Even Hollis admitted that his senses felt heightened, entertaining the idea that perhaps they were actually just returning to normal. He and the other Templars did still have occasional cravings for the stuff, but it was locked up in the palace and heavily guarded with the intent to save it for use by the mages in the coming war.
And then, as if his time as Knight-Commander hadn't been controversial enough, Carver began talking to Merrill about some of his recruits and asking her about a few of the elves. He called a small meeting on the training grounds a bit before lights-out in the barracks, and when the six recruits he'd chosen showed up they were surprised to find six elves already there to greet them.
As much as he wanted to keep his numbers up and his Knights' skills varied, Carver knew the Templars focused mainly on heavy armor and sword work, be it two-handed weaponry or weapon and shield combination tactics. There was some room for dagger work, but their emphasis was never on speed, agility or accuracy. After being raised beside a brother that excelled in those areas, Carver recognized their usefulness while still acknowledging that the Templars would never excel at them.
The militia was an option, but Carver didn't seem to be done testing his luck. He knew Andraste had fought this war once before and, if anything, things only got worse afterward. If they did everything the same then they'd just end up with the same outcome, whether they won or not.
“Is this a training exercise?” one of the elves asked Merrill, almost acting as if the Templars weren't even there.
“No,” Merrill answered with a great deal of new-found authority, “it is an exchange.”
All twelve soldiers began to protest at once, but Merrill and Carver stood at the head of the group and demanded order.
“You twelve in particular have demonstrated proficiency in skills that your faction cannot properly train you in,” Carver explained to all of them. “To ensure we're all fighting at our best when the time comes to march, we will be sending you to hone your skills elsewhere; either under the guidance of the Dalish or the Templars.”
One of the young Templar recruits couldn't help but laugh. “You think they'd let us train with them? Bunch of stuck up knife-ears is what they are. Think humans can't move like that can.”
“Like shemlen would ever let an elf wear their precious crest,” a Dalish man shot back. “Some of us are just as good with an axe, if not better.”
“Funny,” Merrill observed, “how you all think the problem is that the other group won't accept you.” She paused for a moment and let that realization sink in before continuing, sneaking in a quick and knowing smile toward Carver that made him bite the inside of his cheek so as not to mirror it. “We are at war alongside each other, not against. Now is not the time to be petty. You are all very talented, and while your talents are greatly appreciated among your own people, you would serve them and yourselves better by serving elsewhere.”
“You will report to either me or Merrill tomorrow morning for armor fitting and skill evaluation,” Carver told them. “Until then you are all dismissed to pack your things before retiring for the evening.”
Carver was accustomed to hearing “Yes Knight-Commander” in response to his orders, but he understood why it was silence that loitered in the air that night as everyone meandered away slowly.
“You're a good leader,” Carver told her, trying to make sure the compliment didn't sound too affectionate. He wasn't saying it because he loved her, he was saying it because it was true. They were both willing to be daring, to be different, and different was going to win the war, he could feel it. Different was going to change Thedas.
“I'm not quite ready to return to the palace yet,” Merrill replied quietly without looking at him. “Do you think maybe we can take a walk?”
Carver was a bit nervous about the sadness and longing that seemed to tint Merrill's voice, but when he began to follow her she reached up and took hold of his arm, the only comfortable gesture of affection they could manage while they were both still wearing their armor.
They walked for quite a while in silence, and Carver got the idea that maybe she was trying to find some place private for them to talk. When the elves had first shown up in Starkhaven they insisted on setting up camp outside the city walls. Then, when the city was practically bursting at the seams from over-population, more and more settlements began popping up along the outskirts. It took a great deal of walking to find a place that was still uninhabited, but the two of them did eventually arrive at a quiet, private clearing with an open view of the night sky.
“This used to all be ours,” Merrill sighed as she sat on the ground in the middle of the field. “Not to own, but to harness. Ancient elven texts say that the understanding we once held for the raw power of nature allowed us to be virtually immortal.”
It took some careful maneuvering, but Carver was able to get himself on the ground as well, his legs straight out in front of him and both arms supporting his slightly reclined torso. “Is that what you want? Immortality?”
“Creators, no,” Merrill dismissed, “I don't think anyone is meant to live forever. Who would want to do that anyways? I don't- I mean I don't want to die, but mortality gives life... meaning, purpose, importance, significan-”
“I get it, Merrill,” he interrupted gently. “But why bring it up then?”
“Being with you is different for me than it is for you,” she answered before pausing to play her words back in her own head. “That didn't make much sense, did it? That's not what I meant. What I mean is the only thing you have to worry about is people looking at you funny. Like you're, I don't know, making a mistake or something. And I want you to know that I don't think like that, at least, not anymore I don't, or I try not to. But other people still do. I'm not stupid. I know they do.”
“That's because they are stupid,” Carver pointed out. “They don't know you, and that's their loss.”
“Even if you're right, that doesn't make the prejudice any less real,” she told him, and he could tell she was choosing her tone of voice carefully as to avoid turning their conversation into an argument. In what he viewed as one of the smarter decisions he'd made recently, Carver decided to just be quiet and listen. “I'm not- I mean, I don't want you to think that I think about this kind of thing all the time, but it is something that others have brought up and-” Merrill skidded her rambling to a halt and started her thought over again. “Elves used to have grand kingdoms and a unified culture and powers that sound like they could only be true in one of Varric's stories. We used to have a complete language, not bits and pieces that no one can even agree on the correct pronunciation of. Now we're dying. Every generation fewer and fewer elves are born with magic. And really, the truth is that every generation fewer and fewer elves are simply born. We... sometimes call the children of elves and humans half-breeds but it means nothing. They are born human in both blood and body.”
Carver looked down at Merrill and when she finally turned to face him she could read the concern and confusion written plainly across his features. “I don't mean that- I'm not talking about our children, specifically, or at all really. Or anyone's children, if that makes any sense. What I mean is, I don't really care about who is born what. You know how when, if you don't have enough Halla, you breed them so you have more? That's not how I want my people to behave. I am not an animal. Elves are not animals. What makes us people is our history and our culture, and that is what we live on through. I've always wanted to revive that, but being with you just makes it so much more important. If I can lead us to victory and rebuild the culture we once had, then we can never die. Elven culture can do so much for Thedas, but the elves are too protective of what little they have left and the humans can't be bothered to care.”
“But you're working on that,” Carver reassured her. “We both are. Look at what we started tonight.”
“I know,” Merrill acknowledged with a faint smile. “And I'm excited to see how it plays out, but sometimes I worry that it won't be enough. The consequences of elves being the only ones deemed willing or worthy to carry on our lore is that the survival of our culture depends solely on continuing to have elven children, and I don't think that's fair. I want everyone to have the freedom to make their own decisions without having to worry about the fate of an entire culture's survival resting on their shoulders. And so, if it means that someone like me can someday feel safe and accepted loving someone like you, then I'll gladly bare that burden for them now. I'll fix whatever broken scraps from our past that we still have and I'll risk my life to try spells other people are too afraid to. I just- I want you to know why it is I do these things. I want you to know that I'm not just being selfish and stubborn.”
“I never thought that,” he assured her. “I didn't-” Even though he knew they were alone, Carver still dropped his voice and chose his next words carefully. “I didn't do... what I did, because I thought I was catering to some impulsive whim you had. I understand why you need to do this. Or at least, I try to. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get confused sometimes.”
“I trusted that you'd understand, but I had to be sure,” Merrill admitted. “I am so grateful for what you did- for everything you've done for me, really. I do not want you to think for even a moment that I take your feelings for granted, but I worry that it can seem that way when I'm so wrapped up in the fate of my people. I love you both so much, and even if having both seems impossible, it will not stop me from trying.”
“I'm glad we have each other,” Carver said as he tried to affectionately rub Merrill's back despite his plated gloves. “I don't think anyone else could stand our particular breed of brash, cocky selflessness.”
“Probably not,” Merrill laughed. She smiled up at him and shifted over until she could rest her head against his shoulder and look up at the stars. “But we don't have to worry about that, now do we?”
***Starkhaven Palace, Royal Chantry***
The decision regarding whether or not to appoint Leliana as Divine of the new Chantry was eventually shelved after Varric keenly observed that the war actually had to be won before a new trans-national religion could be established. Everyone agreed to withhold their final decisions until after the war was over, as there were plenty of far more urgent matters which needed to be discussed, not least of all was the ever-growing population of Starkhaven and the city's inability to house and feed its people.
Sebastian had expected allies to come in from other parts of Thedas, but the arrival of foreign aid hadn't ceased since his marriage to Andraste. As word continued to spread further and wider, so then did the official borders of the city. There had been some farming lands surrounding Starkhaven when Sebastian was a boy, but most of their food arrived via the Minanter River from farmers in the soil-rich delta. Now, with Templars, mages, soldiers and elves bringing their entire families with them to Starkhaven, the need for food and jobs ended up leading to an unexpected agricultural boom.
Training was going well, or so Sebastian was being told via the plethora of reports stacked upon the desk in his bedchambers. He was beginning, in time, to see the positive results of his more-than-adequate leadership, but he still felt a stifling lack of support and companionship throughout his ordeal. As a result he found himself allowing self-care to fall to the wayside on occasion, as evidenced by the fact that he hadn't shaved in weeks. Varric and Donnic approved of the new facial hair, however, and told him to keep it, lest people begin to worry about the implications of their prince not having grown his beard out on purpose.
It seemed, Sebastian often mused, that it was the subtle social responsibilities of being prince that were far more daunting than the political ones.
And yet Sebastian couldn't decide which was worse; the physical and mental exhaustion that came with shouldering his duties alone, or the crippling fear that plagued him before he went to bed every night, wondering if Andraste was locked in a Tevinter prison somewhere being tortured... again, while he slept under furs and dined on fish and egg pies. The fear either kept him up at night or seeped into his dreams to warp them into nightmares. On one particular night he found himself turning Andraste in to the Imperium before he awoke with a yell that, thankfully, none of the servants seemed to hear. He knew he wasn't going to sleep for the rest of the night, so he dressed himself in just his black jacket and pants and went to the only place that seemed appropriate after the Fade had shown him such terrible and deep-seated fears.
The Palace Chantry was much smaller than the City one, but now that it was empty for the night it seemed almost never-ending, and Sebastian actually enjoyed the feeling of being dwarfed by the magnitude of the place. Everything else in his life seemed so insurmountable in theory, but the Chantry was tangibly massive, and Sebastian found comfort in his ability to pinpoint the feeling and attribute it to something so easy to understand.
It wasn't until he sat down to pray that he noticed the sound of someone else in the Chantry with him. He'd gotten much worse at situational awareness, having fallen a long way from the keen-eyed archer Hawke had depended on for perception and precision. When he stood up again he found Leliana walking toward him, clad once again in her Seeker armor. He still hadn't spoken to her since he'd embarrassed them both before the High Council, and he wasn't sure which of them had been responsible for avoiding the other. “Still having trouble sleeping, I see.”
“I supposed that much is obvious,” Sebastian relented. “It is frustrating, this feeling. All day I look forward to the moment when I no longer have to work, only to find myself unable to extinguish the roar of worries that come when I am alone.”
He didn't know why he felt so comfortable pouring out his concerns to her, considering it was entirely inappropriate of him to do so, but he trusted her nevertheless, and he was desperate for her guidance.
“Your work is difficult because you take the time to ensure that things are done right,” Leliana assured him. “If it begins to feel easy, then you should consider stepping down.”
“When I was younger this role was all I ever wanted,” he admitted. That time felt so impossibly long ago that Sebastian had trouble believing it had been real. “I coveted it like a petulant child even as I grew into adulthood. Now I have it, and while I would never give it up, I realize it is no prize. It is daunting, and it has required sacrifices the likes of which I never could have imagined.”
“It won't always be like this, though. It may seem impossible to envision it now, but there will be an 'after the war.' It will be a time of great reformation, and not only will your authority be unquestioned, but you will have Andraste there to rule by your side.”
Sebastian didn't realize his desire to laugh in response to her words until he had already rudely done so. Leliana's nose scrunched with uncensored offense and she looked fully ready to leave him there to wallow in solitude if he didn't have a good enough excuse for his behavior. “Please, let me explain,” he begged, “I am not- thank you, for trying to help me see a future in all of this chaos. I am truly grateful for your wisdom and you positivity, but I cannot, in all good faith, say that I believe Andraste and I will ever have anything more than a marriage of convenience.”
“Maybe that is true, but perhaps it is also enough” Leliana suggested. “In my time as a bard I collected many stories about so-called 'true' love; the kind that drives people to do seemingly impossible deeds in order to preserve it. In truth, they are all filled with pain and chaos and death. Sometimes the true beauty is in the mundane; in the simple facts we already know which grant us the peace we need. Your relationship with Andraste may not inspire poetry, but you will always know where she stands with you, and where she stands is by your side.”
“I would like to believe that,” Sebastian sighed, “but I do not think she has any interest in seeing me keep my promises to her. The earnestness with which I originally pledged myself to her was, perhaps, a bit foolish.”
Giving voice to his insecurities only seemed to grant them the power to sit heavily in Sebastian's chest. He reached back and let his palms rest on the back of a long bench as he shifted his weight back onto the wood.
“What is it that you want, then?” Leliana asked, her tone shifting in a way Sebastian found odd. She made her way toward him slowly, punctuating each of her questions with another step forward. “A beautiful wife? A loving marriage? Passion? Intimacy?”
“Whether I want those things or not is irrelevant,” he argued. “Andraste does not care if I ever share her bed. She allows- no, expects disinterest and infidelity.”
“Does she now?” The curious lilt to Leliana's voice made Sebastian's shoulders tense in reaction. He may not have heard that tone directed at him in many, many years, but that didn't mean he'd forgotten what it meant. “And where do you stand on the... possibilities that such freedom offers?”
Leliana's entire posture was bold and inviting as she leaned in towards him. Sebastian tried to hush the frantic clamor of questions in his mind long enough to answer even one of them, but the Seeker's ever-increasing proximity only served to remind him of her beauty and openness. He couldn't deny how much easier it would be to have her by his side instead, and the opportunity was presenting itself with what seemed like little to no consequence.
All he had to do was want it. All he had to do was take it.
At some point he'd shut his eyes in preparation to accept her advance, but after that- nothing. Sebastian wasn't sure how much time had passed, but never once did his body so much as twitch toward hers. This wasn't what he wanted, and something inside him knew that. When he finally opened his eyes and started to explain why Leliana had to go, he found that she was already walking down the middle aisle toward the exit of the Chantry.
She was never going to kiss him, Sebastian realized. It was a test. He felt like he should have said or asked something, but he was too confused to think of what that something was.
Luckily Leliana offered him one last piece of advice before she disappeared through the large wooden doors. “You do not have be what she wants, Your Highness. You need only be what she deserves.”
And, as promised
