These Ties That Bind Us - Dragon Age 2 Fanfiction

[silentstephi]

I posted this over on LJ and wanted to share because I'm a total nerd and bored and should probably be doing homework ashgjhsdaf. This is me dipping my toe into the fanfiction 'verse of Dragon Age so... be gentle? ^.^

Title: These Ties That Bind Us
Chapter: One - Spectres
Author: silentstephi
Rating: T to start, M in later chapters for themes and violence
Warnings: This chapter is more of the set up, so not many warnings so far...
Word Count: 2,333
Pairing: F!Warrior Hawke/Sebastian, hints of F!Hawke/Anders
Summary: It's been four months since the events at Kirkwall and the world is changing at a rapid rate. Sebastian, last of his line, is determined to get Starkhaven back but Sorcha Hawke isn't going to make it easy. The abomination haunts them still.

Note: Super awesome mega thanks to la_libertine for beta reading this for me. You rule!

Spectres -

 

The candle on the desk flickered as Sebastian, last of the royal Vael family, sat and thought of how to phrase his next missive.  His grandfather’s bow was resting causally next to the fire place, just within reach in case unwanted company were to burst through the door.

The Resari family was an old friend to the Vaels and the head of their line, Shelia Resari, was more than happy to lend him their spring home while Sebastian made his bid to reclaim a throne that was rightfully his. 

The reclamation was slow going though.  With the Circles rebelling all over Thedas the Chantry was in disarray, and the people of Starkhaven with their crumbling Circle and Templar order were starting to fear the coming change.

A change that she could have prevented.  He looked out the elaborately curtained window, but the sky was clouded, dark and grey.  The letter on his desk, half written and meant for Aveline, Captain of the Guard in Kirkwall, waited for him.  The night, with its restless specters of the past coming to remind him what he was fighting for, kept him from finishing. 

His face flushed with the memory of searing heat and ashes falling like gritty snowflakes at the site of the former Chantry.  Elthina had stayed to tend her flock and just like that, she and everyone inside were gone.  Sharp gravel had dug into his knees as they gave out, grief overcoming him.  Why hadn’t she listened!  A good woman dead and all because of one mage.

His fingers twitched as his memory played out the scene.  He had watched the Champion of Kirkwall approach the murdering son of bitch, dagger drawn.  He had sat on the crate, awaiting her judgment.  That damn mage… Sebastian knew he was trouble from the start. 

Sebastian expected her to be quick, merciful even.  He knew Hawke; she was a compassionate woman, sometimes to a fault when it came to the subject of mages.  He had felt at first satisfied and then surprised that instead of a quick slice to Anders’ throat, her hand instead lashed out and grabbed at the hair on the back of the abomination’s head while her other hand had sliced down and shorn the knot of hair from his skull .

Sebastian had barely made out her hissed words, but the last, “Run,” was all he needed to hear.

He closed his eyes but he could still see her green eyes as they held Sebastian’s as he protested her letting the murderer live.  He yelled at her, swore to her that he would bring all the armies of Starkhaven to bear against her to kill that man.  And yet, she let him live.  The stab of betrayal made his chest ache.

There was a scratch at the door which lifted him from the fog of memory and he cleared his throat, “Enter.”

A tall, broad shouldered figure entered.  Roan Ternris, Captain of the Bear Snatchers, was a beast of a man.  One would never have guessed the thick fingered man could kill you in your sleep.  The man was practically a ghost during the day and a shadow by night.  He kept Sebastian appraised of important information regarding Starkhaven while Sebastian  moved what support he had gathered from hamlet to hamlet.  It had made them harder to track down, for which Sebastian was grateful.  He did not have the numbers yet to take back what was his by right. 

Following behind Roan was a shorter woman with braided blonde hair and dusky skin that reminded him of Isabela.  Light blue eyes sparkled at Sebastian as Noël, second in command of the rest of the rabble he had hired, closed the door behind her and Roan.  She was easy on the eyes and had an accent he couldn’t quite place, but she was good at her job, and had a knack for rooting out excellent deals with local merchants when it came time to resupply.  Paying for this small army was an art in and of itself but luckily his noble birthright was holding out.  The luck wouldn’t last.  They needed to make their move soon.

The fact that both were here to report meant things were about to get interesting.

Sebastian looked directly at Roan, “You have a report for me I take it?”

Roan nodded once and walked over to the fireplace to put his rough hands out to get some warmth on this chilly night.  Both Noël and Roan looked like they’d been out in the rain; their clothing dripped small puddles while Noël’s braids looked plastered to her neck. 

“It was as you thought,” Roan said, “four more mercenary companies have hired on, but it will take the Shirvahs at least a week before they can get here.  The Brass Company, Reinde’s Romp and Sidhe Devils will be here in three days time.”  He didn’t look over his shoulder at Sebastian as Noël piped in.  Her lyrical voice was a soothing counterpoint to Roan’s rough accented Antivan.  “Goran’s allies in the city are polarized.  He’s been making poor decisions, and the farmers have suffered the most because of it.  With the unrest in the Chantry and former Circle mages still running rampant in the city and outside it, he is losing noble and merchant favor.  Guard Captain Leras is ever faithful, but there are some in the ranks who doubt he can keep it together.  There have been more abomination attacks and with the news coming in from Orlais, more Templars seem to be defecting by the day.  Kirkwall’s madness looks to be infectious.”  She eyed him steadily, her gaze intent on Sebastian’s reaction to the news.  Sebastian had always found this habit of hers an interesting quirk.  When the woman focused on a person, you were either knew or were dead.

Sebastian nodded and the three discussed plans to meet up with the newest recruits.  Roan had been a very good gauge of character and he was happy with the skill of these new groups.  Sebastian had known the man for almost four years now, and after fighting by his side he was confident in the Antivan’s judgment.

After he dismissed them, Sebastian looked at the water clock.  It was a little past midnight.  His feet were feeling restless and his soul was tattered, especially after the unpleasant visit down memory lane.   Maker, Starkhaven’s problems wouldn’t be so complicated if she had just stuck with the Templars.  He shook his head and grabbed his bow and cloak.  He needed to clear his head.  He needed to pray in the Maker’s house.

The Chantry of Starkhaven was across the city and too dangerous to walk to on such a cold night, but there was a small chapel nearby that he had become a regular sight at during the late nights.  He always found that a few moments in prayer in the Maker’s house helped ease his thoughts.  Lately they had been mired in doubt and rage.  Grief over the loss of his mentor.  Resentment that her murderer still walked among the living and righteous, an abomination in every sense of the term.  Anger at Sorcha and feelings of betrayal.  He thought he knew her.  But she had thrown in her lot with the mages, even after what that monster had done.  How could she?

He slipped inside the unlocked door to the chapel and lifted his hood to nod at Sister Cynthia.  Her hair was bound in a simple bun and the shocking white of it caused a halo effect around her face as she graced him with a shallow smile at seeing Sebastian.  “Your Highness.  Another late night?”

He winced inwardly at the title, but he forced a smile at the priestess and nodded.  “Yes, Sister.  I won’t be long, unless you have need of me?” 

She shook her head, their ritual greeting complete, “Thank you, but we are fine.  May the Maker watch over you this night, Your Highness.”  He watched her retreating figure disappear into the chapel and his shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch.  He wasn’t sure why, but the woman’s smile never seemed to reach her frosty grey eyes.  He had never known her when he was young, having only met her recently, but he suspected that she was unhappy about his vows to the Brotherhood and how he had not renewed them.  Sister Cynthia struck him as the conservative type.

But that was a worry for another time.  Right now, he needed to clear his mind, refresh his thoughts, renew his purpose within himself as well with the rest of the world.

Kneeling at one of the pews was another cloaked figure, dripping from the persistent rain outside.  He couldn’t tell exactly, but he suspected they had fallen asleep.  Soft snores were coming from that direction, and Sebastian smiled.  At least someone had found a bit of peace.

He began his prayer when a clicking of claws distracted him.  They echoed solidly, and he lifted his head up in time to get a face full of wet dog.  Steading himself before he fell out of the pew, he looked down at the dog that had barreled its way into the praying princeling.  The dog, a mabari, whined at him, and slowly recognition hit Sebastian. 

“Fergus?  What are you doing here?”  The dog whined louder and licked Sebastian’s face.  He could see the war paint on the dog’s fur, though it looked washed out.  He could barely make out the Amell crest on the dog’s back before Fergus butted his head against Sebastian’s chest.

Mabari were loyal beasts, intelligent and more than just simple war dogs to their owners.  If Fergus was here…

Sebastian’s hands froze and his heart leapt to his mouth.  Sorcha had to be here.  Mabari loyalty was legendary and his memory took hold of him again.

Sorcha sat across from him at the Hanged Man.  She was on her third round and was regaling him with stories of the famous war hounds, the mabari, from her childhood.  Her laughter was genuine, carefree even, and her green eyes were focused on his every question.  Her hand strayed across his during the night and it sent his pulse racing… 

Fergus tugged at his armor, which snapped Sebastian back to the present.  The chill night, the sight of her mabari.  He stood up from the pew abruptly, which startled Fergus into backing up.  The hound was instantly alert to the archer’s movements, but Sebastian didn’t look down, but instead to the sleeping individual in the pews. 

“Maker’s breath, what are you … doing… here,” the angry whisper died on his lips as he shoved the person’s cloak back and the smell of booze wafted up from the sleeping man.  With a snort, the man woke up and banged his knees into the pew in front of him, causing him to yelp in pain.  Sebastian calmed his face and apologized profusely to the man, backing away slowly. 

He tossed his bow over his shoulder and looked down at Fergus.  “Where is she?”  The hound woofed at him, satisfied that the archer was finally thinking straight, and made his way to the front door.  Putting his hood back over his head, Sebastian slipped out into the night.  The rain had picked up in pace, and a numb, cold hard feeling was starting to sink into his stomach.

The Champion of Kirkwall was a wanted fugitive.  Sorcha was a smart woman.  Considering his final words to her, he did not think she would come to Starkhaven.  Not after what she had done.  But here was Fergus, leading him out of the city proper and towards the Minanter River. 

It could have been a trap, but something told Sebastian that it wasn’t.  It was irrational, but he hadn’t seen a mabari, let alone this one in particular, since Kirkwall.  He had to know why the hound was here, leading him through the woods to the river bank.

The Prince also knew that he would have help if he needed it.  He had caught a shadowy figure more than once trailing him and by now knew that either Roan or one of his lieutenants was there to watch out for him. 

Fergus’ pace increased the farther they got from the city and the closer to one of the smaller branches of the river that snaked its way inland.  Having grown up in these woods, Sebastian moved through them like a natural woodsman.  The natural coverage from the rain the forest normally gave was hampered by the lack of foliage of the early spring so both the mabari and Sebastian were soaked through pretty quickly.  But they finally made it to the river’s edge.  Fergus whimpered as he nudged a dark mound, licking at an ungloved hand.

The closer Sebastian got, the faster his own pace increased.  The river bank was empty save a small skiff grounded on the shore and the mass of canvas and armor.

He cautiously stepped towards it, but when the lick of the hound’s tongue on exposed fingers elicited no response, he threw caution to the wind and knelt down beside the half drowned woman.  He moved the canvas from her face, and there she was.  The Champion of Kirkwall, pale skin clammy to the touch, red hair soaked with river water and rain, dirt and blood on her face, marring the tattoo on the side of her face.  She didn’t even moan when he moved her.  She still wore most of her armor and while he couldn’t immediately assess the extent of her injuries, he knew it was bad. 

Her helmet was gone, as was her glove, but her Blade of Mercy lay next to her.  He didn’t have time to think of the irony in that blade.  Fergus whined again and Sebastian brought his head down close enough to her face to hear her ragged breaths.  She lived.  Barely.  

 

 

LJ here and on dreamwidth here.
cross posted to swooping_is_bad, dragon_age, and muhrduhr