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Hawke's disdain for Hightown's extravagant parties had dwindled since her mother's brutal passing.
She still didn't like them, exactly, and she doubted she ever would. The food and drinks were too rich, the incessant small talk was tiring, and nobility's penchant for upholding the illusion that all was well with Kirkwall provoked impolite brow lifts and audible scoffs on more than one occasion.
But Hawke was beginning to appreciate the art of self-deceit.
Lost in vapid, wine-tinged chatter about nothing of real significance, she could forget about the tragic punch-line that had become her life. She could forget the way her Carver's body snapped in that ogre's clawed grip. She could forget Bethany's eyes, cloudy and bloodshot, watching her sister fade and seeing only the Blight staring back at her. She could forget that anathema with her mother's face lumbering towards her. She could forget Isabela's deception, forget the way her heart sank when she read her parting words, scribbled on a blood-stained parchment, left on a body Hawke might not have ever inspected.
If nobles wanted to fawn over her romanticized defeat of the Arishok and serve her overpriced liquor and lie about how they always adored the Amell family, Hawke was more than willing to comply.
Eventually, what she came to hate more than the pretension of her peers was the late-night returns to her estate. Big. Elegantly decorated. And entirely empty.
Hawke stumbled out of her heeled slippers, catching herself against the wall and realizing she most certainly had too much wine. As she steadied herself and then nearly tripped on the hem of her long gown, she suspected it might have been that Antivan brandy that did her in. Hawke sighed and pressed her hands and forehead to the wooden panel, lowering her lids and focusing on the dull, budding pulse behind her eyes.
She'd regret her indulgences in the morning.
"Lady Hawke?"
She squinted one eye open and saw Sebastian, clad in his red and gold Chantry robes. He was posed near the fireplace in the main hall, with her mabari poised next to him. Hawke pushed clumsily off the wall and smiled. She always liked the way her name caught in the back of his throat.
"What are you doing here?" Hawke asked. She made an obvious effort to keep her gait smooth as she walked towards him.
"Returning your hound," Sebastian replied, rubbing the mabari's head. The hound barked an affirmative and wagged his tail, slapping caked dirt onto the stone floor. "I'm afraid he found his way into the Chantry garden again. He made quite a mess of the flowers our sisters recently planted."
"Of course he did," Hawke muttered. Apparently her pet sought escape with as much fervor as she did. She rubbed her forehead. "I'm so sorry."
Sebastian smiled. "I'm not here to lecture. I understand mabari hounds are more accustomed to large fields than a confined, urban life."
"I'll increase this month's tithe anyway," Hawke promised. Aside from Sebsatian, she cared little for Kirkwall's Chantry or its keepers, but Mother would have offered the same apology.
"I'm sure the Grand Cleric will appreciate it," Sebastian replied.
She forced a smile, and then sighed at herself for the fake effort.
"I'm sorry--I was at Messere Beaumont's party, and..." Hawke trailed off and sank into the sofa opposite the hearth. She heard a soft chuckle from Sebastian.
"I think I understand. Messere Beaumont is very..."
"Chatty," Hawke finished. "She must have told me about her new Antivan leather investment eight times."
"I offered to hear her confession once," Sebastian said, "and ended up listening to her talk for an hour about all her children and grandchildren. All twelve of them. I don't believe she ever confessed anything."
"It's exhausting." She picked at the embroidery on her dress, struggling to focus on an errant thread, and sighed again. "And there was too much dancing. I spent most of my time standing near the refreshments."
"You don't enjoy dancing?" He sounded surprised.
"I... don't really know how to," Hawke confessed. "Mother was going to hire an instructor, but I always made excuses that I was busy and then..."
"Of course." Sebastian allowed a solemn moment before offering her his hand. "I could teach you."
Hawke snorted and covered her mouth, embarrassed by the sound. "Sorry... I just... You dance? Do they teach you how to dance in the Chantry?"
"No, but royal families do teach young princes." His fingers twitched, a faint beckoning. "And I attended my share of noble soirees in my youth."
She bit her lip in hazy contemplation, letting her hand hover over his. Her feet were sore. Her waist was pinched by the corset and gluttony. Her head was starting to hurt. Water and bed were the smart choices, but the thought of laying in the cold Orlesian silks felt lonely. She slipped her hand into his and he guided her to her feet.
"There's no music," Hawke pointed out as he rested his fingers on her waist, his touch light and chaste even as he pulled her closer to him.
"We'll make do," Sebastian assured her. "Place your other hand on my shoulder."
Hawke obliged and suppressed an tipsy giggle, feeling a school-girl bashfulness bubble up at the realization that the handsome Starkhaven prince was holding her. She remembered the cover on one of Bethany's romance books she tried to hide from her older sister: a dashingly handsome nobleman passionately holding his dashingly beautiful noblewoman. Hawke wondered if they could compare. Then she thought about her bare, blistered feet, smeared make-up, and tousled hair. Probably not, she decided.
Sebastian began to hum a tune, and the laugh did come out. He smiled but stayed the course, the low vibration melodic and in-key. Hawke had always thought Varric's moniker had been completely in jest, but apparently Sebastian did have some musical talent.
Hawke let him control the pace, slowly rocking them back and forth, ceasing the humming to offer gentle instructions on what foot to move and to where. She stepped on his feet a few times and moved the wrong leg once, almost knocking them over, but they found a comfortable rhythm, a slow rocking that eventually ended up with Hawke resting her head against his shoulder.
He went silent and tensed, and Hawke almost pulled away until she felt his hand move up her back, holding her just a little closer and tighter. She closed her eyes, relishing his warmth and touch, realizing that she couldn't remember the last time anyone had just held her. The stark epiphany jarred her, and Hawke suddenly sniffled, feeling the heat of tears behind her eyes. Sebastian gently pushed her away, his hands on her shoulders and bright eyes worried, but she quickly turned and wiped the tears.
"Oh, Maker," she whispered. She laughed, sad and self-deprecating, before looking back at him. "I'm sorry. Too much wine, I think."
"There's no need to keep apologizing, Lady Hawke," Sebastian promised her. He rubbed his thumb on the top of her cheek, wiping away the damp smudge of kohl.
She caught his hand and pressed her lips to his knuckles.
"Marian," he said, soft and warm, but with a warning. His brows lowered, and with his other hand, brushed some of the hair out of her face.
"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry," she said again.
"You know." Hawke swallowed and forced a smile. "I'm a slow learner. Could you show me again?"
Sebastian nodded and smiled back. "Of course."
He took her hand in his once more, but she instead wrapped both her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his chest. There was no hesitation in Sebastian's response, and he ran his palms against her back, holding her tightly as she stifled another sob. He began swaying gently, softly humming again as he stroked her hair.
"Anything for you, Lady Hawke."