Still Warm Ashes (Part 2), Sebastian/F!Hawke (DA2)
Title: Still Warm Ashes (Part 2)
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Rating: PG-13
Characters: F!Hawke, Sebastian
Pairing: F!Hawke/Sebastian
Word Count: 2,471
Summary: Some people are meant to be in your life, for better or worse. Two years after the events of Kirkwall, Sebastian believes that chapter of his life closed - until a woman from his past resurfaces seeking refuge and forgiveness.
Warnings: Set post-game. Major spoilers for endgame sprinkled throughout.
Sebastian is in the middle of his noonday prayers when he hears the door open and close behind him, without introduction. There is only one person crafty enough to sneak around his seneschal, and impertinent enough to dare. He turns from the miniature statue of Andraste to face the intruder.
“You could have been an assassin in another life, Ennis,” he says with a broad smile.
“Bite your tongue, Sebastian,” she replies, clucking at him in her old, familiar way. “That’s no way to be talking to a lady.”
“That’s funny. I don’t remember giving you a title.”
Ennis scoffs at his teasing. “A real lady has no need of earthly titles.” She rearranges some of the pleats in her skirt without looking down. “Although, a little acknowledgement from time to time never hurts.”
Her lips remain in a stiff, regal line although he can tell that she is fighting a smile. Sebastian momentarily reflects on his good fortune - something that seems in short supply these days. Having such an honest woman in his life right now, particularly at such a vulnerable time when he can trust very few others, can only be the result of the Maker’s hand at work. Ennis is not who one might expect in the employ of a prince, but it is for that very reason that Sebastian prizes her service above the rest. She may be getting up there in years, but for all that time Starkhaven has been her home, the Vaels her lords, and that is where her loyalties lie. Of that, he has never doubted.
Without needing to be asked, he takes her gently by the elbow and helps guide her to a seat in front of his desk.
Today she does not complain about the aid, and he cannot help but find it odd. Ever since she lost her sight, long before his return so she tells him, Ennis has insisted on getting around on her own power. She’s quite good at it, too, he has noticed. That has never stopped him from offering to make things easier for her, but most days he has received the same response. It’s always: You needn’t coddle me, Sebastian and My eyes may be blind, but my legs work well enough and I can manage on my own just fine, thank you very much.
But as she looks toward the window, where she can feel the warmth of the sun on her weathered face, Sebastian thinks she looks sad and tired and he does not have to wonder why. Ennis has always been all heart, and that is a hard way for a soul to live, constantly caring.
“How is she?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Asleep now,” she tells him. “I drew her a bath, and put new linens on the bed for her, like you asked. Her clothes were filthy, so I’ve given her one of my old dressing gowns to wear until I can find something more suitable.”
Sebastian nods, thoughtful. “If I gave you a few sovereigns for the material, could you procure something more suitable?”
Ennis rises a brow at the question. “A few sovereigns and I could have her rivaling the Queen of Ferelden. I have known you to be generous, Sebastian, but never impractical. I do not need sovereigns where a few silvers will do.”
“I only want her to be comfortable,” he explains, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself. She may not be able to see, but her scrutiny still makes him feel like a little boy whose been caught playing with his grandfather’s bow again. More than that, it makes him wonder why he is going to such lengths for a woman whose company he swore off more than two years ago. “Andraste said that we must -“
“Stop right there,” Ennis says, wearily. “Do not think you can hide behind Andraste’s skirts with me. I know you better than that, Sebastian.”
“I do not know what you mean, madam.”
“Who is she?”
The question is straightforward, yet he cannot seem to answer it. Who is Priscila Hawke? That is what’s on everyone’s minds, isn’t it? She is a refugee, Ferelden born, and a long ways from home. She is a noblewoman belonging to the house of Amell. And not least of all, she is the Champion of Kirkwall. But those are just descriptions, pointless titles. What was it that Ennis said about titles? A real lady has no need of them, and they certainly have done little good for Hawke.
But as he meets Ennis’s unseeing gaze, he knows she is asking for more than a name and history. What she means is, who is she, to you? And Sebastian is not sure he knows anymore, if he ever did.
“She is someone from my past,” he answers at last. It is probably not the answer Ennis is looking for, but she accepts it. Whatever her suspicions, she keeps them to herself and for that he is grateful.
Her expression falls with a sigh. “Poor thing, what’s been done to her.”
He does not know the extent of her recent trials, but he knows her crimes. Not the least helping an apostate blow up a chantry. His head fills with the image of the sky bleeding red, and Sebastian wonders if what’s been done to her is not a result of what she’s done herself. Justice. “Your sympathy may be better served elsewhere, Ennis.”
She frowns just like his mother did whenever he misbehaved. “Sebastian Vael,” she says, also in the tone his mother would take.
“I know,” he stops her, waving off her lecture. “I know.”
Sebastian finds himself stooping over the statue of Andraste, although he’s not sure what answers he’ll find in her golden veneer. He feels spoiled from the inside out, like rotten milk, soured by events in his life outside of his control. There’s so much bitterness in him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was - maybe it has been there since before he joined the Chantry, restrained by hastily made vows. He does not know. He isn’t sure. And that is what troubles him the most.
A hand presses his shoulder, firm but understanding. “A prince has many cares.” Her voice now reminds him of the Grand Cleric, and he hears Elthina’s wisdom in the words. ”But he should not let his past be one of them.”
“I am still angry,” he admits, and the tightness in his chest loosens a little.
“You may be, for some time still and that is all right. But, Sebastian, you cannot let the anger be all that you are.” She pokes a finger into his chest. “You still have a heart in there. Do not be afraid to use it!”
~ ~ ~
Sebastian does not go to see Priscila until late that evening, by which point he has run out of excuses not to.
All day he has agonized over the coming conversation - what she will say, how he will respond, how he should respond. Once, their relationship had seemed so simple. But his life then had been clean lines, black and white. Now it is all shades of grey, bleak and confusing, where right and wrong bleed into one another with alarming frequency and he cannot always distinguish the one from the other.
It troubles him, and Hawke troubles him, but he cannot abandon her now.
He finds her in the garden, wandering the grounds. She is wearing a simple, linen dress that blends in with the midnight blues decorating the hedges. It would be easy to miss her amidst the shadows, and he suspects that is why she’s hugging the courtyard walls, where the moonlight cannot reach her. Where, perhaps, no one can reach her, isolating herself both in body and mind. Sebastian feels lonely as he watches her drifting through the rows, a mournful apparition, without purpose. This woman is a far cry from the champion he followed into battle countless times, and he wonders if that woman walked away from that final battle in Kirkwall at all.
Not wanting to intrude, and perhaps not ready to face the ghosts of his past, he turns to leave. However, before he can surrender her to privacy, she takes notice of his presence and prevents his departure.
“Sebastian,” she says, emerging from the dark with a small smile. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting company. As she approaches, she makes an effort to stand a little straighter, walk a little taller. She’s putting on a good show, wearing the brave face, but he is not fooled, not after last night. “You can stop lurking now. I don’t bite.”
He doesn’t know how she does that, makes light even in the midst of despair.
Her expression falters. “Please, say something.”
“I would not want to disturb you if you’d rather be alone,” he tells her.
“Alone,” she repeats, and the smile falls from her face altogether to be replaced with a frown. It was a poor choice of words on his part, Sebastian realizes too late, debilitating her good nature like a poison. She sighs heavily, shifting from foot to foot. “No. I don’t want to be alone. I just couldn’t stand being cooped up in that little room any longer.” He didn’t notice before from a distance, but she looks fidgety. Flighty even, and he wonders if escape hasn’t crossed her mind. “I needed some air.”
“If your room is not sufficient -“
“It wasn’t commentary on your hospitality, Sebastian,” she hastens to explain, for fear of offending him. “And I’d prefer you didn’t give me any special treatment.”
She makes it sound as though she doesn’t deserve any special treatment, and he is not sure he disagrees with that assessment. The thought strikes him as particularly cold-hearted, and his stomach twists in disgust at himself. He tries to remember Ennis’ words. He does not want to be unfeeling, but he does not trust his passions to guide him reasonably where Hawke is concerned. Maker give him strength.
“I cannot be indifferent, Priscila,” he admits softly, and her eyes widen a little. “I have tried.”
Before the moment can turn awkward, she steps forward and places a tentative hand on his arm. It is a small gesture, reminiscent of the years of friendship they once shared. “I want to make things right,” she whispers. “Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
“Were it so simple . . .”
“Does it have to be complicated?” Her lips form a strangled smile.
He cannot stand the sight of her, not looking like this - so vulnerable, her emotions exposed and raw. It attacks his heart, and Sebastian looks away. “Elthina is dead, Hawke, as are countless other innocents. You started a war. You and Anders.”
Maybe it’s the accusation or mention of her former lover, possibly the combination of both, but the great champion comes undone at his words. She steps back, then turns on him, eyes flashing angrily. “Don’t,” she warns. She makes to leave, but doubles back on him at the last second. “You were there that day, how can you say that? You should know better than anyone I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Andraste as my witness, I had no idea what he was planning.
“And if I could go back . . . if I could do it all over . . . I would stop him. I would fix all of this.” Her eyes are reddened by grief, her voice stained with regret. “But I can’t. I can’t, Sebastian.”
His resolve breaks on her sincerity, finally.
“I believe you,” he says, after a long silence. She is wary of this admission, keeping her distance, while her heart continues to bleed. It’s as if she does not believe him. He fills with shame, realizing that he has not given her much of a reason to since she came to him for help. A place to sleep and food to eat is basic charity; he can do better. She deserves better.
He goes to her wordlessly. She stares up at him with silvery eyes, full of tears. “It may not make a difference now,” he murmurs, “but I believe you.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she confesses.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s stupid, really. For the past two years, I thought that if I could just do enough good, I could somehow make up for what happened. But the truth is, nothing I ever do will erase Kirkwall and the Gallows. No one will remember me for rescuing a slave or making the streets safe at night. I’ll always be the instigator of a civil war. My memory will be covered in blood.” She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a shaky breath, and he can see her trying to gain a hold of herself.
She opens them again, and a brokenness is there, a revelation that cuts deep.
“I’ll never be the hero of this story, despite Varric’s best efforts. I am bound to be the villain, no matter what I do.”
“No,” he says, searching for the right words to console her. “We are cast only in the roles the Maker would have us in. Our choices determine who and what we are. Even Andraste was tested, her convictions forged in the fires of conflict.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “I wish I had your faith, Sebastian.”
“Maybe one day, you will.”
“Until then, I suppose you’ll just have to have faith enough for the both of us, won’t you?” And she touches the side of his face like she used to, and he remembers loving her like he used to. His hand folds over hers. Sebastian cannot know why she’s been brought back into his life, but is grateful for the opportunity to make amends. This time, unlike his rebirth in the chantry, he will not squander his second chance.
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Rating: PG-13
Characters: F!Hawke, Sebastian
Pairing: F!Hawke/Sebastian
Word Count: 2,471
Summary: Some people are meant to be in your life, for better or worse. Two years after the events of Kirkwall, Sebastian believes that chapter of his life closed - until a woman from his past resurfaces seeking refuge and forgiveness.
Warnings: Set post-game. Major spoilers for endgame sprinkled throughout.
Sebastian is in the middle of his noonday prayers when he hears the door open and close behind him, without introduction. There is only one person crafty enough to sneak around his seneschal, and impertinent enough to dare. He turns from the miniature statue of Andraste to face the intruder.
“You could have been an assassin in another life, Ennis,” he says with a broad smile.
“Bite your tongue, Sebastian,” she replies, clucking at him in her old, familiar way. “That’s no way to be talking to a lady.”
“That’s funny. I don’t remember giving you a title.”
Ennis scoffs at his teasing. “A real lady has no need of earthly titles.” She rearranges some of the pleats in her skirt without looking down. “Although, a little acknowledgement from time to time never hurts.”
Her lips remain in a stiff, regal line although he can tell that she is fighting a smile. Sebastian momentarily reflects on his good fortune - something that seems in short supply these days. Having such an honest woman in his life right now, particularly at such a vulnerable time when he can trust very few others, can only be the result of the Maker’s hand at work. Ennis is not who one might expect in the employ of a prince, but it is for that very reason that Sebastian prizes her service above the rest. She may be getting up there in years, but for all that time Starkhaven has been her home, the Vaels her lords, and that is where her loyalties lie. Of that, he has never doubted.
Without needing to be asked, he takes her gently by the elbow and helps guide her to a seat in front of his desk.
Today she does not complain about the aid, and he cannot help but find it odd. Ever since she lost her sight, long before his return so she tells him, Ennis has insisted on getting around on her own power. She’s quite good at it, too, he has noticed. That has never stopped him from offering to make things easier for her, but most days he has received the same response. It’s always: You needn’t coddle me, Sebastian and My eyes may be blind, but my legs work well enough and I can manage on my own just fine, thank you very much.
But as she looks toward the window, where she can feel the warmth of the sun on her weathered face, Sebastian thinks she looks sad and tired and he does not have to wonder why. Ennis has always been all heart, and that is a hard way for a soul to live, constantly caring.
“How is she?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Asleep now,” she tells him. “I drew her a bath, and put new linens on the bed for her, like you asked. Her clothes were filthy, so I’ve given her one of my old dressing gowns to wear until I can find something more suitable.”
Sebastian nods, thoughtful. “If I gave you a few sovereigns for the material, could you procure something more suitable?”
Ennis rises a brow at the question. “A few sovereigns and I could have her rivaling the Queen of Ferelden. I have known you to be generous, Sebastian, but never impractical. I do not need sovereigns where a few silvers will do.”
“I only want her to be comfortable,” he explains, unsure why he feels the need to defend himself. She may not be able to see, but her scrutiny still makes him feel like a little boy whose been caught playing with his grandfather’s bow again. More than that, it makes him wonder why he is going to such lengths for a woman whose company he swore off more than two years ago. “Andraste said that we must -“
“Stop right there,” Ennis says, wearily. “Do not think you can hide behind Andraste’s skirts with me. I know you better than that, Sebastian.”
“I do not know what you mean, madam.”
“Who is she?”
The question is straightforward, yet he cannot seem to answer it. Who is Priscila Hawke? That is what’s on everyone’s minds, isn’t it? She is a refugee, Ferelden born, and a long ways from home. She is a noblewoman belonging to the house of Amell. And not least of all, she is the Champion of Kirkwall. But those are just descriptions, pointless titles. What was it that Ennis said about titles? A real lady has no need of them, and they certainly have done little good for Hawke.
But as he meets Ennis’s unseeing gaze, he knows she is asking for more than a name and history. What she means is, who is she, to you? And Sebastian is not sure he knows anymore, if he ever did.
“She is someone from my past,” he answers at last. It is probably not the answer Ennis is looking for, but she accepts it. Whatever her suspicions, she keeps them to herself and for that he is grateful.
Her expression falls with a sigh. “Poor thing, what’s been done to her.”
He does not know the extent of her recent trials, but he knows her crimes. Not the least helping an apostate blow up a chantry. His head fills with the image of the sky bleeding red, and Sebastian wonders if what’s been done to her is not a result of what she’s done herself. Justice. “Your sympathy may be better served elsewhere, Ennis.”
She frowns just like his mother did whenever he misbehaved. “Sebastian Vael,” she says, also in the tone his mother would take.
“I know,” he stops her, waving off her lecture. “I know.”
Sebastian finds himself stooping over the statue of Andraste, although he’s not sure what answers he’ll find in her golden veneer. He feels spoiled from the inside out, like rotten milk, soured by events in his life outside of his control. There’s so much bitterness in him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was - maybe it has been there since before he joined the Chantry, restrained by hastily made vows. He does not know. He isn’t sure. And that is what troubles him the most.
A hand presses his shoulder, firm but understanding. “A prince has many cares.” Her voice now reminds him of the Grand Cleric, and he hears Elthina’s wisdom in the words. ”But he should not let his past be one of them.”
“I am still angry,” he admits, and the tightness in his chest loosens a little.
“You may be, for some time still and that is all right. But, Sebastian, you cannot let the anger be all that you are.” She pokes a finger into his chest. “You still have a heart in there. Do not be afraid to use it!”
~ ~ ~
Sebastian does not go to see Priscila until late that evening, by which point he has run out of excuses not to.
All day he has agonized over the coming conversation - what she will say, how he will respond, how he should respond. Once, their relationship had seemed so simple. But his life then had been clean lines, black and white. Now it is all shades of grey, bleak and confusing, where right and wrong bleed into one another with alarming frequency and he cannot always distinguish the one from the other.
It troubles him, and Hawke troubles him, but he cannot abandon her now.
He finds her in the garden, wandering the grounds. She is wearing a simple, linen dress that blends in with the midnight blues decorating the hedges. It would be easy to miss her amidst the shadows, and he suspects that is why she’s hugging the courtyard walls, where the moonlight cannot reach her. Where, perhaps, no one can reach her, isolating herself both in body and mind. Sebastian feels lonely as he watches her drifting through the rows, a mournful apparition, without purpose. This woman is a far cry from the champion he followed into battle countless times, and he wonders if that woman walked away from that final battle in Kirkwall at all.
Not wanting to intrude, and perhaps not ready to face the ghosts of his past, he turns to leave. However, before he can surrender her to privacy, she takes notice of his presence and prevents his departure.
“Sebastian,” she says, emerging from the dark with a small smile. It’s clear she wasn’t expecting company. As she approaches, she makes an effort to stand a little straighter, walk a little taller. She’s putting on a good show, wearing the brave face, but he is not fooled, not after last night. “You can stop lurking now. I don’t bite.”
He doesn’t know how she does that, makes light even in the midst of despair.
Her expression falters. “Please, say something.”
“I would not want to disturb you if you’d rather be alone,” he tells her.
“Alone,” she repeats, and the smile falls from her face altogether to be replaced with a frown. It was a poor choice of words on his part, Sebastian realizes too late, debilitating her good nature like a poison. She sighs heavily, shifting from foot to foot. “No. I don’t want to be alone. I just couldn’t stand being cooped up in that little room any longer.” He didn’t notice before from a distance, but she looks fidgety. Flighty even, and he wonders if escape hasn’t crossed her mind. “I needed some air.”
“If your room is not sufficient -“
“It wasn’t commentary on your hospitality, Sebastian,” she hastens to explain, for fear of offending him. “And I’d prefer you didn’t give me any special treatment.”
She makes it sound as though she doesn’t deserve any special treatment, and he is not sure he disagrees with that assessment. The thought strikes him as particularly cold-hearted, and his stomach twists in disgust at himself. He tries to remember Ennis’ words. He does not want to be unfeeling, but he does not trust his passions to guide him reasonably where Hawke is concerned. Maker give him strength.
“I cannot be indifferent, Priscila,” he admits softly, and her eyes widen a little. “I have tried.”
Before the moment can turn awkward, she steps forward and places a tentative hand on his arm. It is a small gesture, reminiscent of the years of friendship they once shared. “I want to make things right,” she whispers. “Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
“Were it so simple . . .”
“Does it have to be complicated?” Her lips form a strangled smile.
He cannot stand the sight of her, not looking like this - so vulnerable, her emotions exposed and raw. It attacks his heart, and Sebastian looks away. “Elthina is dead, Hawke, as are countless other innocents. You started a war. You and Anders.”
Maybe it’s the accusation or mention of her former lover, possibly the combination of both, but the great champion comes undone at his words. She steps back, then turns on him, eyes flashing angrily. “Don’t,” she warns. She makes to leave, but doubles back on him at the last second. “You were there that day, how can you say that? You should know better than anyone I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Andraste as my witness, I had no idea what he was planning.
“And if I could go back . . . if I could do it all over . . . I would stop him. I would fix all of this.” Her eyes are reddened by grief, her voice stained with regret. “But I can’t. I can’t, Sebastian.”
His resolve breaks on her sincerity, finally.
“I believe you,” he says, after a long silence. She is wary of this admission, keeping her distance, while her heart continues to bleed. It’s as if she does not believe him. He fills with shame, realizing that he has not given her much of a reason to since she came to him for help. A place to sleep and food to eat is basic charity; he can do better. She deserves better.
He goes to her wordlessly. She stares up at him with silvery eyes, full of tears. “It may not make a difference now,” he murmurs, “but I believe you.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she confesses.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s stupid, really. For the past two years, I thought that if I could just do enough good, I could somehow make up for what happened. But the truth is, nothing I ever do will erase Kirkwall and the Gallows. No one will remember me for rescuing a slave or making the streets safe at night. I’ll always be the instigator of a civil war. My memory will be covered in blood.” She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a shaky breath, and he can see her trying to gain a hold of herself.
She opens them again, and a brokenness is there, a revelation that cuts deep.
“I’ll never be the hero of this story, despite Varric’s best efforts. I am bound to be the villain, no matter what I do.”
“No,” he says, searching for the right words to console her. “We are cast only in the roles the Maker would have us in. Our choices determine who and what we are. Even Andraste was tested, her convictions forged in the fires of conflict.”
A faint smile touches her lips. “I wish I had your faith, Sebastian.”
“Maybe one day, you will.”
“Until then, I suppose you’ll just have to have faith enough for the both of us, won’t you?” And she touches the side of his face like she used to, and he remembers loving her like he used to. His hand folds over hers. Sebastian cannot know why she’s been brought back into his life, but is grateful for the opportunity to make amends. This time, unlike his rebirth in the chantry, he will not squander his second chance.