#anyway my headcanon is that sebastian 100% waxes poetic in his head all the damn time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

persephoneggsy · 1 year

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trying to force myself to write more so here’s a little sebhawke fic i wrote:

The first time Sebastian saw Marian Hawke, he remembered her as striking; like a flash of lightning streaking across an overcast sky, she stood vivid and dangerous, and his eyes had been drawn to her immediately.

She looked comically out of place in the chantry, with its robed sisters and quiet solemnity; she wore a low-cut tunic that drew a side-eye from many, the fur around her collar betraying her Ferelden origins. A large halberd was strapped to her back, candlelight glinting off its fine blade. Her hair, cut short and choppy, framed her petite face, looking for all the world like she’d shorn it off herself in a hurry. A slash of red across her pointed nose matched the shade of her lips.

But what he remembered most were her eyes. The brightest shade of blue, he’d been immediately reminded of the Minanter River in the summer. Instead of its tranquil waters, however, her eyes were more akin to a raging torrent, wild and ravenous. Like she was a flood that would devour everything in her path, and anything less would not satisfy her. He had a feeling she could’ve laid waste to everyone and everything in the city, had she the inclination.

Yet, despite the power and tension that radiated off her in equal measure, this mysterious woman did not disrupt the service she’d unceremoniously walked in the middle of. Instead she waited by the door, ignoring the looks of concern that some of the other sisters were giving her. Sebastian, from his place up by the altar, saw Sister Lorena approach the wild stranger, speaking in low tones so as not to disrupt the service.

He couldn’t hear them, but he’d guessed that Lorena was attempting to persuade her to leave, her presence distracting the chantry’s patrons. But her attempts failed as the woman shook her head, and she said something that made Lorena frown. Then, the sister looked up, her bony fingers pointed towards the altar. The woman’s eyes followed, those stormy blue depths suddenly focused on him.

For the rest of the service, though Sebastian tried to pay attention, he couldn’t shake the feeling of those eyes on him. Finally, as the grand cleric drew things to a close and the patrons began to filter out, Sister Lorena approached him, informing him that a woman was here to see him. From the wary look on her face, she probably believed her to be some kind of lady caller, a remnant of his womanizing days that everyone in the Kirkwall chantry seemed to know about. Lorena was one of the few who didn’t believe he’d truly changed his ways. Spoiled types like him never did, according to her.

Eager to be away from her scrutiny, and curious about the stranger, he thanked her for the information and quickly walked away. The woman was still standing by the front doors, her narrowed eyes trained on him. He felt like she was sizing him up. As he approached, he realized she was much shorter than him, reaching not much higher than his shoulders; that did not serve to make her any less intimidating.

When he was within earshot, she wasted no time.

Her voice was surprisingly delicate. “Prince Sebastian Vael?”

At his formal title, Sebastian tensed. “Er, yes? How may I help you?”

The woman dug into a pouch that hung low off her hip, then held out her closed fist towards him. He raised a brow but extended his own hand, and let her drop whatever it was into his palm. They were still safely in the chantry, so he wasn’t afraid; after all, who would attempt brazen violence in the home of the Maker?

The clink of metal was heard, and when Sebastian pulled his hand back to get a closer look, his breath caught in his throat. Nestled in his palm was a familiar gold chain and locket. Its surface was engraved with the three encircling dragons that made up the Vael family crest.

He knew this locket. Trembling, he closed his fingers around it and looked up at the woman. Her expression remained intense, but somehow, he thought her eyes had softened.

“Where…?” His voice was a rasp.

“The mercenaries who killed your family are all dead,” she informed him. “I found that on one of them.”

“The mercenaries…?”

At once, the memory came rushing back to him. Spurred by anger and grief, the notice he’d pinned to the chanter’s board was a cry for blood. Completely understandable for a bereaved man, suddenly the last of his line, but absolutely unacceptable for a brother of the faith. Elthina’s disappointed face haunted him nearly as much as the ghosts of his slain family.

And apparently, this woman had avenged them.

He remembered speaking more with the woman — Marian Hawke, as he’d learned — and paying her the amount she was due for her hard work. It was a pittance, not nearly worth his brothers’ and parents’ lives, not to mention the niece and nephews he never got to meet. But when he promised her more, she shook her head, and finally, he saw her red lips tilt up in a smile.

“Live well for them,” was all she had said, before turning and marching out of the chantry. Sebastian stared after her, utterly transfixed.

That night, as he sat on his threadbare bed in his tiny little room at the chantry, he’d taken the locket out and stared at it. The last time he’d seen it, it sat at the hollow of his grandmother’s throat. She regaled a younger Sebastian with stories from her youth, speaking of how his grandfather won her heart with his roguish, yet sincere ways, of how he’d commissioned the locket for her as a wedding gift. She promised Sebastian, her little dove, that the locket would be his, one day.

Then she died, and the locket sat in his father’s study for months… until his oldest brother’s bride-to-be demanded it for her wedding attire. By that point, Sebastian had exhausted his parents’ goodwill, and he found himself shipped off to Kirkwall, so he couldn’t protest the decision. He was the chantry’s now, he had no claim to earthly possessions, no matter how long ago they’d been promised to him.

And now, despite everything, it sat there, in his hands.

Fingers still trembling, he pried open the locket. On one side, protected by a thin pane of glass, was a single dried thistle. The plant was a symbol of Starkhaven, apparently, even though Sebastian had always found it harsh and unattractive. Then his grandmother told him what the thistle represented; devotion, strength, overcoming adversity.

He brushed his thumb against the glass, and looked at the other side. Engraved in an elegant script, meant to evoke his grandfather’s handwriting, was a quote from the Canticle of Trials.

“In the long hours of the night

When hope has abandoned me,

I will see the stars and know

Your Light remains.”

Rereading those words, Sebastian felt his eyes burn. For the first time in months since he’d learned of their deaths, he wept for his family. He fell asleep clutching the locket to his chest, and spent every day after wearing it underneath his armor, his determination to reclaim his family’s legacy now stronger than ever.

And when he met with Marian Hawke again and again, with increasing familiarity, he could swear the locket radiated warmth against his chest.

#my fic #sebhawke #i really like this one actually but it feels too short to post to ao3 lol #sebastian vael #marian hawke #female hawke #spoilers he gives marian the locket as his proposal uwu #anyway my headcanon is that sebastian 100% waxes poetic in his head all the damn time #and it he ever wrote a book of love poems he'd outsell varric in a day #also it's dumb but i really like the idea that seb's childhood nickname was little dove shgjksf #be...because his wife is a hawke #get it

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