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rose_in_winterCharacters: Fenris, Mage Female Hawke, Sebastian Vael (Fenris/f!Hawke/Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks tosenmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.
Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
"Do you wish to speak of it?"
Hawke paused, the brush partway through her hair, and turned her head to look at Fenris, who stood leaning against the edge of her bed. He watched her steadily. She tugged the brush the rest of the way through and set it down, idly twisting the length of her hair into a loose braid for sleep while she considered the question.
"Whether I want to or not," she said slowly, "I probably should."
He unfolded his arms and let them hang by his sides. She appreciated the implicit invitation, but instead of approaching him, she paced to the fireplace and back. Movement helped jar the words loose, or at least let her do something other than sit with them. "I think Tranquility is wrong," she said. "It's worse than slavery. It's a punishment that doesn't truly punish the target, only the people around her, because it says this can also happen to you but the person made Tranquil no longer cares. They can't. And then the Circle exploits them for what's left of their magic. They're slaves and they cannot even consider escape because that has been stripped from them." Her voice had gotten higher and louder, her words faster to match her steps, as she spoke. She spun to begin another pass, and wobbled slightly. Fenris watched her silently. "It's wrong," she said, "and I don't want it used. But Maker help me, if that's the only way to make Orsino stop, if that's all the templars would do--I would help them." She shuddered, remembering Elsa's even and pleasant voice, and Karl's blank expression. "I don't know what that makes me."
"A person, perhaps." He made a small movement with his hands. "You have told me over and over again that not all mages are evil. Not all magic is wrong. I disagree with you more often than not, but I understand. But the same token applies in reverse. Not all mages are good, either, Hawke. And I don't just mean magisters. You say blood magic can be used for good sometimes. But Orsino chose this. He of all people should have known the risks, the evil, in this choice, and he did it anyway."
She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears--when had she started crying?--and saw that he'd drawn nearer. His put his hands gently on her upper arms, warm through the thin fabric of her night shift. "You did not make his choices for him, Hawke, but those choices have earned him his punishment." He hesitated. "Though I too would rather see him dead than Tranquil."
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, feeling the fabric grow damp against her face from her tears. He ran his hands gently up and down her arms, the occasional tiny spark of magic from his tattoos buzzing against her skin. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly enough that she felt the strain in her muscles, but he didn't complain, keeping the easy movement going.
"Will it be enough?" His voice was soft enough she could pretend not to have heard. "If you get rid of both of them, will you feel you have achieved enough?"
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and felt more hot tears spill over. "I don't know," she said. Behind his back, her hands drew into tight fists, and she squeezed him harder. "I have to stop."
He made a thoughtful sound.
"There is something wrong with this city," she said. "Something too big for me to fix. I can....cut away some of the poison, I think. Lance it. But someone else will have to keep it clean and bandaged. I can't keep trying to heal Kirkwall. I can feel myself losing."
He stepped back, suddenly, and she swayed. He caught her fists in his hands and squeezed them. "Hawke," he said, and then, "Ariane." Her given name landed like the swing of his greatsword; she so rarely heard it anymore. "Don't let it take you," he said, soft but urgent. His face was drawn and anxious. "If we have to leave tonight, we can."
She couldn't find words. She opened her mouth and closed it twice. He had been calmer, she thought wildly, when they fought Hadriana. The altar to Dumat hidden in the Grey Warden stronghold had not spurred so much emotion. She forced herself to uncurl her fists, turned her hands, and locked her fingers around his wrists. "I promise," she said, infusing the words with all the intensity she could dredge up. "Cullen has four days to deal with Meredith, and four for Orsino after that. If he doesn't, I burn the Gallows down, and then we leave." She tightened her grip. "I've already told Bodahn and Orana."
He tilted his head, his forehead pressed against hers, and she could feel the tension thrumming through him.
She lifted her hands slowly, closing them around his upper arms. "I've given Kirkwall too much of me," she said softly, and she heard Sebastian's cadence in the words even as she spoke. "No more. Not from me, and not from you."
They stood, holding on to each other, for several breaths. When he lifted his head, she closed her eyes for a moment until they stopped stinging, and then looked at him with a careful, small smile, one she knew he saw through, but she had to pretend, even here. If she stopped pretending, she didn't know if she could ever pick up the mask again, and it was not safe--might not ever be safe--for her to show her unfiltered feelings, even here, even with him.
She tried not to think about how exhausting that idea was. None of her selves had time for it.
"Come to bed?" she invited him, and from the way he studied her, she knew he saw it as the cover it was--but this time, he didn't comment, and let her pull him in with a kiss.
It still felt strange, walking into the Chantry not as his home but as a place he was visiting. Most days, he came here alone to pray before going about his remaining business. Today, Hawke had asked to join him, and Fenris had come as well. The Grand Cleric watched them, not subtly, as she delivered a service on the question of duty, and hewing to one's promises. Sebastian forced himself not to squirm under that gaze. Hawke brushed her hand against his very lightly, under cover of adjusting her sleeves. On his other side, Fenris pressed just a bit closer, enough for Sebastian to feel the long line of his thigh, warm against Sebastian's own.
He sent a prayer of gratitude to the Maker.
When the service was done, a lithe woman approached them by the candles Hawke was lighting for her family. She wore dark blue, and her red hair was a few shades lighter than Hawke's. "Excuse me," she said with a charming Orlesian accent, "but are you the Champion?"
Sebastian saw the moment Hawke's shoulders drooped before she pulled them upright and turned with her Champion smile firmly in place. "I am," she said. She tilted her head slightly. "Is there something I can help you with? A child that needs rescuing from a tree, or perhaps a family heirloom wanting to be reclaimed?"
The woman smiled. "I think perhaps there is," she said. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"
Hawke glanced at Sebastian. "There is a side room," he said, and the woman nodded. He led the way.
Not so long ago, he had spoken with Hawke here, trying desperately to give her fair advice while she tried to live up to what she thought Fenris wanted from her. He hoped this conversation would be less fraught.
Fenris was last in the room, and he closed the door behind himself with quiet finality, then stationed himself beside it--not quite blocking it, but not easy to bypass, either. Hawke took a seat at the table with her chin high. Sebastian considered his options and sat beside Hawke, trying not to think about any future permutations of such a seating arrangement. The Orlesian woman cast her gaze over all three of them, and then took a seat across from them.
"You are Brother Sebastian, I am told," she said to him.
"Just Sebastian, if you would," he said. "The Grand Cleric has chosen not to renew my vows. But you have the advantage of us; you know our names, but we do not know yours."
She smiled. "You may call me Sister Nightingale," she said. "I am in service to the Divine."
Beside him, Sebastian felt Hawke's attention narrow and sharpen, a fine light blade ready to strike.
"Though I will no longer be a formal part of the Chantry," he said carefully, "my life is ever in service to the Maker. What does the Divine seek in Kirkwall?"
Sister Nightingale considered him thoughtfully. "Kirkwall has a long and storied history," she said. "Magic is in the mortar of the walls, and the stones of the Gallows. Many, many events of note have occurred here. The Divine wants to know what the Champion would do with the city, and what its other powers seek."
Sebastian felt a chill run down his spine. If the Divine was sending spies to Kirkwall, the situation was worse than he'd feared.
"Tell me, Sister Nightingale," Hawke said, "what purpose does the Circle serve?"
Fenris made a gesture, quickly choked, by the door, but Sebastian felt sure Sister Nightingale had seen it.
"Are you asking if I know what powers you claim, Champion?" She smiled. "I am not here to drag anyone anywhere. I merely seek to know."
"Perhaps my question was not clear." Hawke rested both hands on the table, one palm up, one palm down. "What constrains a templar from harming the mages in the Circle he guards?"
"Ah." Sister Nightingale sat back in her chair, her hands loosely folded in her lap. "So you are aware of Ser Alrik's letter to the Divine, then."
"I am aware of the solution he sought," Hawke answered.
"He was denied." The statement was swift and sure. "The Divine does not believe that Tranquility is a proper course, except in the narrowest of circumstances."
"Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard and many of her templars use it for the smallest of infractions," Hawke said, "and she is going to drive Kirkwall to ruin if left unchecked."
Sister Nightingale raised an eyebrow.
"The First Enchanter is no better," Hawke said, "but if you desire to keep Kirkwall's storied history from becoming more interesting yet, you would do well to see Meredith removed from her command."
"I do not have that power of command."
"I am sure," Hawke said dryly, "that the words of an agent of the Divine would weigh heavy on Rutherford's ears. He has the evidence he needs to act. He just needs to do it."
"Leaving the path to the throne clear for you," Sister Nightingale observed.
Hawke shook her head. "I never wanted a seat in Viscount's Keep and I still don't. I fought the Arishok because there was no other choice I was willing to take."
Sebastian wondered if she was tired of assuring everyone that she didn't want their power.
"Then what do you gain?" A simple question, but Sebastian could feel the attention that hovered, awaiting an answer.
"I had a younger sister," Hawke said, "who might, one day, have gone to the Circle, if she'd lived. I have a younger brother who's a templar. He might be a shithead, but he's not evil, and I would prefer that order not warp him. And besides that--no one deserves what this Circle does to its mages."
"I admire your passion," Sister Nightingale said, "but I doubt your altruism."
"Call it self-interest, then, if you know so much about me." Hawke's expression was not quite a smile. There was too much threat in the curve of her mouth and the show of her teeth. "Is it not enough to wish to right a wrong, Sister?"
"You say that there is evidence," Sister Nightingale prodded.
"Tell me where to have a copy sent and you'll have it by sundown," Hawke replied.
"Very well. I have rooms at the Hanged Man." This time it was Sister Nightingale whose expression was not a proper smile. "You can send it there."
"I'll be sure to hand-deliver it." Hawke tilted her head. "Have you spoken to the Grand Cleric?"
"I have." Her voice gave no sign of her opinon of that conversation.
"I see," Hawke said. "You might find a discussion with the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter enlightening."
"You said he was no better--" Sister Nightingale began.
"That is not a conversation for here, or now," Hawke interrupted. She stood. "You'll have what you seek tonight, Sister."
"I appreciate it." The delicate hint of doubt lingered, like a faded perfume. "A good day to you, Champion." She rose and left the room on silent feet.
The curse Hawke uttered under her breath was pungent enough that Sebastian flinched. He'd said worse, in his time, but never in the Chantry itself, even in his wildest days.
"I am very tired of being the subject of powerful people's interest," Hawke muttered.
"You told her a lot," Fenris observed. He'd been silent for the whole conversation, but hardly inattentive.
"I expect she already knew most of it," Hawke said, "since I believe she already talked to Cullen."
"What?" Sebastian asked, startled, and then realized. "She didn't ask you who he was, and she wasn't surprised by anything you said."
"She's a spy," Fenris said, "she would only show her surprise if she wanted to."
"And all walls have ears," Hawke reminded them. She shoved herself to her feet. "I have some copies to make."
Sebastian bade them farewell, then went to his meeting with Flora Harriman, where he paid much less attention than he ought.
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks to
senmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
"Do you wish to speak of it?"
Hawke paused, the brush partway through her hair, and turned her head to look at Fenris, who stood leaning against the edge of her bed. He watched her steadily. She tugged the brush the rest of the way through and set it down, idly twisting the length of her hair into a loose braid for sleep while she considered the question.
"Whether I want to or not," she said slowly, "I probably should."
He unfolded his arms and let them hang by his sides. She appreciated the implicit invitation, but instead of approaching him, she paced to the fireplace and back. Movement helped jar the words loose, or at least let her do something other than sit with them. "I think Tranquility is wrong," she said. "It's worse than slavery. It's a punishment that doesn't truly punish the target, only the people around her, because it says this can also happen to you but the person made Tranquil no longer cares. They can't. And then the Circle exploits them for what's left of their magic. They're slaves and they cannot even consider escape because that has been stripped from them." Her voice had gotten higher and louder, her words faster to match her steps, as she spoke. She spun to begin another pass, and wobbled slightly. Fenris watched her silently. "It's wrong," she said, "and I don't want it used. But Maker help me, if that's the only way to make Orsino stop, if that's all the templars would do--I would help them." She shuddered, remembering Elsa's even and pleasant voice, and Karl's blank expression. "I don't know what that makes me."
"A person, perhaps." He made a small movement with his hands. "You have told me over and over again that not all mages are evil. Not all magic is wrong. I disagree with you more often than not, but I understand. But the same token applies in reverse. Not all mages are good, either, Hawke. And I don't just mean magisters. You say blood magic can be used for good sometimes. But Orsino chose this. He of all people should have known the risks, the evil, in this choice, and he did it anyway."
She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears--when had she started crying?--and saw that he'd drawn nearer. His put his hands gently on her upper arms, warm through the thin fabric of her night shift. "You did not make his choices for him, Hawke, but those choices have earned him his punishment." He hesitated. "Though I too would rather see him dead than Tranquil."
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, feeling the fabric grow damp against her face from her tears. He ran his hands gently up and down her arms, the occasional tiny spark of magic from his tattoos buzzing against her skin. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tightly enough that she felt the strain in her muscles, but he didn't complain, keeping the easy movement going.
"Will it be enough?" His voice was soft enough she could pretend not to have heard. "If you get rid of both of them, will you feel you have achieved enough?"
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and felt more hot tears spill over. "I don't know," she said. Behind his back, her hands drew into tight fists, and she squeezed him harder. "I have to stop."
He made a thoughtful sound.
"There is something wrong with this city," she said. "Something too big for me to fix. I can....cut away some of the poison, I think. Lance it. But someone else will have to keep it clean and bandaged. I can't keep trying to heal Kirkwall. I can feel myself losing."
He stepped back, suddenly, and she swayed. He caught her fists in his hands and squeezed them. "Hawke," he said, and then, "Ariane." Her given name landed like the swing of his greatsword; she so rarely heard it anymore. "Don't let it take you," he said, soft but urgent. His face was drawn and anxious. "If we have to leave tonight, we can."
She couldn't find words. She opened her mouth and closed it twice. He had been calmer, she thought wildly, when they fought Hadriana. The altar to Dumat hidden in the Grey Warden stronghold had not spurred so much emotion. She forced herself to uncurl her fists, turned her hands, and locked her fingers around his wrists. "I promise," she said, infusing the words with all the intensity she could dredge up. "Cullen has four days to deal with Meredith, and four for Orsino after that. If he doesn't, I burn the Gallows down, and then we leave." She tightened her grip. "I've already told Bodahn and Orana."
He tilted his head, his forehead pressed against hers, and she could feel the tension thrumming through him.
She lifted her hands slowly, closing them around his upper arms. "I've given Kirkwall too much of me," she said softly, and she heard Sebastian's cadence in the words even as she spoke. "No more. Not from me, and not from you."
They stood, holding on to each other, for several breaths. When he lifted his head, she closed her eyes for a moment until they stopped stinging, and then looked at him with a careful, small smile, one she knew he saw through, but she had to pretend, even here. If she stopped pretending, she didn't know if she could ever pick up the mask again, and it was not safe--might not ever be safe--for her to show her unfiltered feelings, even here, even with him.
She tried not to think about how exhausting that idea was. None of her selves had time for it.
"Come to bed?" she invited him, and from the way he studied her, she knew he saw it as the cover it was--but this time, he didn't comment, and let her pull him in with a kiss.
It still felt strange, walking into the Chantry not as his home but as a place he was visiting. Most days, he came here alone to pray before going about his remaining business. Today, Hawke had asked to join him, and Fenris had come as well. The Grand Cleric watched them, not subtly, as she delivered a service on the question of duty, and hewing to one's promises. Sebastian forced himself not to squirm under that gaze. Hawke brushed her hand against his very lightly, under cover of adjusting her sleeves. On his other side, Fenris pressed just a bit closer, enough for Sebastian to feel the long line of his thigh, warm against Sebastian's own.
He sent a prayer of gratitude to the Maker.
When the service was done, a lithe woman approached them by the candles Hawke was lighting for her family. She wore dark blue, and her red hair was a few shades lighter than Hawke's. "Excuse me," she said with a charming Orlesian accent, "but are you the Champion?"
Sebastian saw the moment Hawke's shoulders drooped before she pulled them upright and turned with her Champion smile firmly in place. "I am," she said. She tilted her head slightly. "Is there something I can help you with? A child that needs rescuing from a tree, or perhaps a family heirloom wanting to be reclaimed?"
The woman smiled. "I think perhaps there is," she said. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"
Hawke glanced at Sebastian. "There is a side room," he said, and the woman nodded. He led the way.
Not so long ago, he had spoken with Hawke here, trying desperately to give her fair advice while she tried to live up to what she thought Fenris wanted from her. He hoped this conversation would be less fraught.
Fenris was last in the room, and he closed the door behind himself with quiet finality, then stationed himself beside it--not quite blocking it, but not easy to bypass, either. Hawke took a seat at the table with her chin high. Sebastian considered his options and sat beside Hawke, trying not to think about any future permutations of such a seating arrangement. The Orlesian woman cast her gaze over all three of them, and then took a seat across from them.
"You are Brother Sebastian, I am told," she said to him.
"Just Sebastian, if you would," he said. "The Grand Cleric has chosen not to renew my vows. But you have the advantage of us; you know our names, but we do not know yours."
She smiled. "You may call me Sister Nightingale," she said. "I am in service to the Divine."
Beside him, Sebastian felt Hawke's attention narrow and sharpen, a fine light blade ready to strike.
"Though I will no longer be a formal part of the Chantry," he said carefully, "my life is ever in service to the Maker. What does the Divine seek in Kirkwall?"
Sister Nightingale considered him thoughtfully. "Kirkwall has a long and storied history," she said. "Magic is in the mortar of the walls, and the stones of the Gallows. Many, many events of note have occurred here. The Divine wants to know what the Champion would do with the city, and what its other powers seek."
Sebastian felt a chill run down his spine. If the Divine was sending spies to Kirkwall, the situation was worse than he'd feared.
"Tell me, Sister Nightingale," Hawke said, "what purpose does the Circle serve?"
Fenris made a gesture, quickly choked, by the door, but Sebastian felt sure Sister Nightingale had seen it.
"Are you asking if I know what powers you claim, Champion?" She smiled. "I am not here to drag anyone anywhere. I merely seek to know."
"Perhaps my question was not clear." Hawke rested both hands on the table, one palm up, one palm down. "What constrains a templar from harming the mages in the Circle he guards?"
"Ah." Sister Nightingale sat back in her chair, her hands loosely folded in her lap. "So you are aware of Ser Alrik's letter to the Divine, then."
"I am aware of the solution he sought," Hawke answered.
"He was denied." The statement was swift and sure. "The Divine does not believe that Tranquility is a proper course, except in the narrowest of circumstances."
"Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard and many of her templars use it for the smallest of infractions," Hawke said, "and she is going to drive Kirkwall to ruin if left unchecked."
Sister Nightingale raised an eyebrow.
"The First Enchanter is no better," Hawke said, "but if you desire to keep Kirkwall's storied history from becoming more interesting yet, you would do well to see Meredith removed from her command."
"I do not have that power of command."
"I am sure," Hawke said dryly, "that the words of an agent of the Divine would weigh heavy on Rutherford's ears. He has the evidence he needs to act. He just needs to do it."
"Leaving the path to the throne clear for you," Sister Nightingale observed.
Hawke shook her head. "I never wanted a seat in Viscount's Keep and I still don't. I fought the Arishok because there was no other choice I was willing to take."
Sebastian wondered if she was tired of assuring everyone that she didn't want their power.
"Then what do you gain?" A simple question, but Sebastian could feel the attention that hovered, awaiting an answer.
"I had a younger sister," Hawke said, "who might, one day, have gone to the Circle, if she'd lived. I have a younger brother who's a templar. He might be a shithead, but he's not evil, and I would prefer that order not warp him. And besides that--no one deserves what this Circle does to its mages."
"I admire your passion," Sister Nightingale said, "but I doubt your altruism."
"Call it self-interest, then, if you know so much about me." Hawke's expression was not quite a smile. There was too much threat in the curve of her mouth and the show of her teeth. "Is it not enough to wish to right a wrong, Sister?"
"You say that there is evidence," Sister Nightingale prodded.
"Tell me where to have a copy sent and you'll have it by sundown," Hawke replied.
"Very well. I have rooms at the Hanged Man." This time it was Sister Nightingale whose expression was not a proper smile. "You can send it there."
"I'll be sure to hand-deliver it." Hawke tilted her head. "Have you spoken to the Grand Cleric?"
"I have." Her voice gave no sign of her opinon of that conversation.
"I see," Hawke said. "You might find a discussion with the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter enlightening."
"You said he was no better--" Sister Nightingale began.
"That is not a conversation for here, or now," Hawke interrupted. She stood. "You'll have what you seek tonight, Sister."
"I appreciate it." The delicate hint of doubt lingered, like a faded perfume. "A good day to you, Champion." She rose and left the room on silent feet.
The curse Hawke uttered under her breath was pungent enough that Sebastian flinched. He'd said worse, in his time, but never in the Chantry itself, even in his wildest days.
"I am very tired of being the subject of powerful people's interest," Hawke muttered.
"You told her a lot," Fenris observed. He'd been silent for the whole conversation, but hardly inattentive.
"I expect she already knew most of it," Hawke said, "since I believe she already talked to Cullen."
"What?" Sebastian asked, startled, and then realized. "She didn't ask you who he was, and she wasn't surprised by anything you said."
"She's a spy," Fenris said, "she would only show her surprise if she wanted to."
"And all walls have ears," Hawke reminded them. She shoved herself to her feet. "I have some copies to make."
Sebastian bade them farewell, then went to his meeting with Flora Harriman, where he paid much less attention than he ought.