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stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage · 10 months

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[half agony, half hope] ch3: the memories linger

ch1 | ch2 | ch3 | ch4 Read on AO3

Pairings: Warden!Carver/Merrill; some side M!Hawke/Anders Rating: M Chapter Summary: The news of Warden Carver's impending arrival spreads throughout Kirkwall, reaching new ears and leaving Hawke busier than ever. Speculation, new bedding, the long-standing feud between Aveline and Hawke, some tenderness, and... wait, has anyone heard from Merrill lately?

Note: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter so I hope y'all have fun reading it!

-x-

A week passed since Hawke’s announcement.

Just barely afternoon, a lull ran through the Hanged Man. Only a handful of patrons occupied the tables and bar, with one man passed out in the corner in a pool of ale. Or maybe piss. Hard to tell.

Corff practiced his poetic prose on Norah, whose critique nearly shattered any hope the man had of abandoning bartending to pursue a career in writing. Usually he tried it with Isabela, but she ran off to visit some hat shop she found in Hightown. As if she needed another hat.

Amongst the dull, Varric sat by the hearth alone with a full glass of wine in his hand. Not that he had any intention of actually drinking the stuff, but the weight kept his hand occupied as he lost himself in thought.

He didn’t usually care to keep track of the days, not unless he needed to or when something was wrong, and indeed: something’s wrong with Daisy.

Maybe it was as she said, and the piss-poor ale of this place got to her the last time she joined in for cards, but Varric had his doubts. The first ale she barely touched, and the second she didn’t finish. Now, Daisy could be a lightweight but not that much.

They all played a couple rounds of Wicked Grace with no problem. Nothing outta the ordinary with her usual bright, cheery self.

But then Hawke told them about Junior, and barely a word outta her. That alone could raise an eyebrow, but now she doesn’t show up for cards and drinks for a whole week?

She’s done this before, and Varric would bet you a whole shiny sovereign that Daisy’s locked herself away with that creepy ass mirror again. Shit.

But now? Of all times? That can’t be coincidence.

“Hawke!” A muted echo of slurred patrons announced the arrival of the man himself, raising their glasses to him and drawing Varric’s eye to the doorway. Hawke and Fenris entered the tavern in the midst of conversation.

Heh, no cane. Must’ve snuck out before Blondie could shove the thing in his hand. Hawke walked well enough, though the limp remained noticeable.

Varric raised his glass to greet the duo as they approached.

“Look, when you and Donnic play cards next, will you just have him tell her?”

“You’re plenty capable of going to the barracks. Tell her yourself.”

Hawke’s shoulders slumped. “I would, but that’d require talking to her. And hobbling up all those steps. Everyone there will want to stop and talk. They’ll all ask me about my leg, and heap praise upon me for the whole Champion thing, I’ll tell them about Carver, and I’ll be there forever! By the time I make it to Aveline’s office, I’ll be far too tired to deal with her. There’s too much to do, I simply can’t be bothered.”

The elf studied Hawke for a moment, then deadpanned, “Your stubbornness is only rival to hers.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

Hawke waved that off, turning his attention to the dwarf.

“Haven’t seen Isabela around, have you?”

Varric shrugged. “Hat shop.”

“Hat shop? What does she need another hat for?” asked Hawke. “She barely wears the ones she owns. Or is ‘hat shop’ code for something?”

The dwarf ignored that question; Isabela’s unnecessary hat collection didn’t interest him, but Hawke and Aveline’s recent spat—yeah, right, “recent” as if it hasn’t been over a year—did. He offered the untouched wine to Fenris, who knew Varric’s taste didn’t include any of the Hanged Man’s swallow and accepted, and asked Hawke, “So, you still haven’t told Aveline?”

The man crossed his arms over his chest, almost defiantly. “Anders forgot to remind me.”

Fenris gulped down the wine with a grunt. “I fail to see how the fault is his and not yours.”

“Defending him, are you?” Hawke placed a hand over his heart. “He’ll never believe me when I tell him.”

“Don’t distract from the point, Ed.” The elf tilted his head back with a sigh, looking like he was searching for some bit of patience left hiding up on the tavern ceiling. “The very least you could do would be to send a note.”

“A note,” Hawke grimaced as if the word itself was bitter, rubbing at his brow. “And why should I? She’s never sent me a note. I’d like a note for once.”

Right, like Hawke didn’t get a plethora of letters every day from every self-important prick in Kirkwall looking to leech off his influence.

“Because it’s not about you.”

“You say that as if Carver’s thrilled with her.”

The elf shot Varric an irritated look, one that said, “Do you want to tell Hawke he’s a pigheaded ass, or should I?”

That’s the tricky thing. Aveline and Hawke were two wild rams butting heads on the same cliff, snarling and kicking up dust. Neither were willing to back down and talk it out, perhaps too intimidated by the amount of shit to sort through. Eventually they’ll tumble off that cliff, and Varric had no idea if they’d be able to climb back up.

Then to throw Junior in the mix… oh boy.

“Look, I don’t have time to go argue with her today,” Hawke sighed. “I’ve still got to visit Gamlen and let him know; that’s more than enough fun for me. Then I need to go pick out new bedding for Carver’s room. Isabela said she’d help but alas, she’s nowhere to be found. The whole room needs to be cleaned, and the other guest room—Oh, right, hey—” Hawke pointed at Fenris. “Remind me to stop by the Chantry to talk to Sebastian when we get back to Hightown.”

“…I take it your mage also forgot to remind you to tell him, as well?”

“Perhaps.”

The elf gave a firm nod, then turned on his heel and strode toward the door. “I’m going home.”

“What? Hey, no, no, nooo—We still have to go see Arianni in the alienage—"

“You may disturb me when you’ve finally dislodged your head from your ass.”

“Ha!” Hawke trailed behind the elf, loudly proclaiming, “My head is comfortable where it is, thank you!”

“Ugh.”

Varric cracked a smile despite himself. He considered joining them; Hawke would need another tag-along if the elf was serious about returning home, but the dying fire in the hearth begged him to stay. He had other shit to mull over.

“Kirkwall’s a mess,” he muttered. “Hawke and Aveline can’t get their shit together, Blondie’s overworking himself, Junior’s coming home… and then there’s Daisy.”

Varric waved for Norah to bring him an ale, one he might actually drink this time as his mind grew plagued with worry over his other elven friend.

Of all the people at the table when Hawke told them about Junior, he expected Daisy to bounce with just as much glee as Hawke. If anything, she should be running around with him to prepare, yet nothing.

Carver and Merrill were real buddy-buddy before they lost him to the Grey Wardens. An odd match, one Varric never would’ve guessed, but didn’t disapprove of. Sometimes he worried that Daisy got too lonely in that alienage, and Junior was… well, the kid was an ass, frankly.

But she mellowed him out, and according to her, he made for a good friend.

He’s less of an ass now, to be fair. Being with the Grey Wardens did some good, even if the way he joined was less than ideal. Varric could hold a conversation with him during their time in the Vimmark Wastelands without wanting to kick him in the shin, and he could actually take a joke now! Could’ja believe it?

He and Hawke got along in a way that Varric never did with Bartrand, the bastard. He’s confident neither of the Hawke brothers ever needed to worry about the other leaving them to face a slow, agonizing death over greed.

A pouty brat he could be, but Varric once watched Junior threaten Fenris, who they all knew could use those markings of his to brutally tear the hearts out of men. All for questioning Hawke’s intentions as a mage.

“If you have a problem with my brother, you have a problem with me.”

Ah well… maybe they were a little rough on him before. Easy to forget Carver was so young.

But after they all came back from the Deep Roads without him, Daisy spent most of her time in front of that mirror of hers, doing… whatever weird shit mages do to make their magic work on things. Was a real pain in the ass getting her to go outside, get some fresh air, and especially to visit the Hanged Man for drinks and cards.

And she’s doing it again.

Varric drummed his fingers on the table.

Daisy didn’t want to go with them to the Vimmark Wastelands to confront the Carta for attacking Hawke, either. Even after she heard Junior would meet them there. Something about being busy with that mirror. Again.

Now that he thought about it… when she heard they ran into him and other Grey Wardens during the qunari attack, she acted… well, weird about it, too. Varric figured she was just sad she didn’t get to see him.

Actually… Junior sure had no interest in talking about her the last time Varric saw him, either…

“Well… shit.”

-x-

A new stack of applications was piled neatly at the center of Guard-Captain Aveline’s desk, among the other mounds of paperwork she opted to ignore after an entire morning and afternoon of it.

Most of the applications were easily declined due to histories of criminal activity, or obvious lies to cover up such pasts, or being generally unsuited for recruitment. A handful of men from wealthy, noble families put in applications, and only two survived the wastebin.

Some may call her picky or unfair, but Aveline preferred to think of herself as overly cautious. After the qunari invasion, and all events leading up to it, mistakes were unacceptable. She needed men and women in her guard who could be trusted, who wanted to protect their city wholeheartedly no matter the danger.

But one application stood out amongst the rest, one sent in with a familiar name. Aveline pondered over it thoroughly, taking in every bit of detail to memory.

Yes, she remembered Lia. Aveline once encountered the young elven girl while out with Hawke. Magistrate Vanard lied to them about his son, Kelder, in order to keep him from facing justice for his crimes. Lia was Kelder’s last victim before Hawke killed him.

Now she wanted to join the guard, and made a damn good case for it, too.

Only two things held Aveline back from approving her application, and to the surprise of no one, one of those things involved Hawke.

“Always bloody Edgar Hawke…”

The two of them hadn’t spoken in months, not since her last visit to the Hawke Estate. Still on bedrest for recovery, he refused to speak to her. It’s an odd thing to get the silent treatment from someone who never knew when to shut up. It’s understandable that they needed a break from each other after Leandra passed, and while Hawke recovered from his injuries, but now it’s just become childish.

If hard pressed, she might admit that part of her missed Edgar and his bullshit. She might even be willing to sit down and work things out between them. Maker knows she had plenty to say after bottling it all up for so long.

The other part remained obstinate and insisted good riddance.

So, to see Lia’s note about how Hawke inspired her to take up a sword, and to defend the other elves so they might never experience what she had with Kelder, was simultaneously admirable and worrisome.

And that led to Aveline’s other reason for hesitating; an elven woman in the guard would definitely put a target on Lia’s back. All of her guardsmen knew the risks of duty, and if Lia’s application told her anything, it told her that the elven woman understood just as well.

In fact, not only understood, but accepted fearlessly and with great determination.

But…

With a disgruntled sigh, Aveline rolled her stiff shoulders and rested back in the chair, application still held firm in her grip. She eyed the wastebin full of other discarded applications, but her gut told her that wasn’t right.

No, Lia’s application rattled her with the realization that, if accepted, she would be the first elven guard recruited since Aveline’s joining five years ago. Knowing this city’s history, she may even be the first elven guardsmen.

She wondered if there was a reason elves never joined before, aside from typical prejudices. Maybe if they had more elven guards patrolling, then…

“Is it true?”

“There… have been rumors—"

“What!?”

But was this particular girl the solution? If this were an elf like Fenris whom she knew the skill of, she might not hesitate—

The door swung open without a knock, hitting back against the wall and breaking Guard-Captain of her concentration. She didn’t bother standing or offering more than a glare as a greeting; none of her guardsmen were defiant enough to enter her office in such a manner.

“Oh, Captain~” Isabela cooed as she sauntered in. Aveline might’ve laughed at the obnoxiously gaudy hat she wore; damn, those feathers were hideous. “I’d like to report a missing person! A woman about this tall; mannish, a goodie good ball-crushing prig. Ginger hair, terribly awkward. Haven’t seen her in weeks, we’re all starting to worry!”

Ah, there’s the headache.

Unfazed by scowl she received, Isabela hopped up to sit on the desk, comfortably crossing one leg over the other. If she weren’t the bigger person, she might’ve kicked the pirate off with the pointy end of her boot, but that’d only egg her on.

“Oh wait, I think I’ve found her buried under all that paperwork.” Isabela stuck out her bottom lip in a sad pout. “I’m afraid I was too late. I always knew she’d have such a lackluster demise.”

Then came the shit-eating grin.

On second thought, forget being the bigger person.

“Shut up, whore.”

Isabela threw her head back in a laugh, the ugly hat nearly toppling off. “There’s my girl! You had me worried.”

Aveline set Lia’s application down and stood from her desk, arms folded over her chest. “Alright, why are you here?”

“What, I can’t just stop in for a friendly hello?”

“No.”

“Maybe I’m here to show you this—” Fingertips ran over the silky, red brim. “—lovely piece of art I found.”

Aveline eyed the black and brown feathers and golden accents. “I’m surprised you fit through the door with that… thing. But if that’s all you came here to do… It’s horrendous.”

“Horrendously beautiful?”

“Terribly criminal.”

Isabela cracked a frisky smile. “Then arrest me, big girl.”

Ugh. Maybe if she threw a pocketful of coins outside, the pirate would dive for them, and she could effectively lock her out. That might cause a scene, though. And Isabela would make up some unsavory explanation. Or pick the lock.

That’s all she needed.

With a hard look, she said, “Goodbye, Isabela,” and started going through her paperwork again.

“Oh, come now.” Isabela plucked the papers from her hands and set them aside, only for Aveline to pick up the next stack. “Fine, I admit it. I didn’t just come here so you could admire my hat.” To the Guard-Captain’s alarm, Isabela’s voice lost all teasing. “Has Hawke come by to talk to you, by chance?”

Aveline paused her shuffling, gaze unmoved.

Of course.

Why was she even surprised? Of course Isabela’s here to talk about Hawke. While she didn’t expect the pirate to barge into her office to inquire about Kirkwall’s recovery from the qunari—an attack she’s arguably responsible for, by the way—Aveline at least hoped there was a greater reason than to talk about Hawke. But when was anything not about Edgar bloody Hawke?

“No,” she said sharper than a fine blade. “What’s he done now?”

He couldn’t have caused that much trouble given the state he’s in, but Aveline learned early on that Edgar didn’t need much to make a mess.

“He’s done plenty, but that’s not the point.”

The headache continued to spread, intermingling with the irritation building in the back of Aveline’s neck. She steeled herself, and impatiently said, “You know what? I don’t care what he’s done. I don’t want to hear about it.”

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Isabela slid off the desk with graceful ease, dragging her hand across the wooden edge as she circled around. “He forgave me, you know.”

Aveline ignored her, picking up Lia’s application for what felt like the hundredth time, but the words bled together meaninglessly now.

“For running off with the relic,” Isabela stressed, resting a hip against the edge. “He could’ve just handed me over to the qunari. Would’ve been easier, and he wouldn’t be…” She chewed on her lip, head lowered. “Well, he wouldn’t need a cane now, would he?”

An uncomfortable sensation prickled at her insides. She’d heard about the cane. That Edgar could walk again. He could even engage in light combat, though whispers said Anders ensured that was a rare occurrence.

A question rest at the tip of her tongue, but Aveline remained guarded, committed to silence.

“Point is,” Isabela prattled on. “If he can forgive me, he can forgive you, too.”

Forgive her?

Hang his forgiveness.

There’s nothing Aveline could say to Edgar that he’d accept. He only wished to needle her and take advantage of her position as Guard-Captain, then lash out when she didn’t bend to him.

Leandra’s death wasn’t her fault. He could spin it however he liked, but it wasn’t. Just as it wasn’t…

“Did you even try to look into it? At all?”

“I knew him, Edgar. Every guard here could attest that he was an honorable man.”

“I’m sure he was! Except for when he preyed on the elves, right? Or are we overlooking that bit?”

“There was no concrete evidence—”

“Ahh, just like how there was no evidence linking that ‘random’ string of murders to Quentin or Gascard, right?”

A glance at Lia’s application. Gritted teeth.

Aveline already jeopardized too much for him and his antics, either because she felt he was in the right or purely out of loyalty, and look where it got them all.

“Why should I seek his forgiveness?” Aveline finally snapped. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Isabela gave a sigh that managed to sound condescending. “Oh, sweet thing...”

“Don’t.”

She fully expected Isabela to quarrel with her, even if just to entertain herself. The silence proved her wrong, but Aveline felt the other woman’s golden stare fixated on her, studying and debating.

Weariness overtook her, voice hushed. “I have nothing more to say to him.”

“I don’t know how aware of this you are, Aveline,” Isabela started, frowning. “But mothers aren’t like lovers or husbands—Eddie can’t just pick out a new one.” Before Aveline could argue, the pirate silenced her with a gesture. “Look, normally I wouldn’t give a tit about this whole… mess of yours. Not my business to interfere, no coin in it, and it’s not even an amusing squabble to watch. By all accounts I shouldn’t even be here.” The woman pushed away from the desk, readjusting her hat, exasperated. “But here I am because it’s you two, and you’re both being stupid. And… Oh, I don’t know.”

“So you thought you’d come here in your hideous hat and, what? Talk me into conceding to Hawke as if I haven’t already tried to talk to him?”

“Scolding him while he’s bed-ridden and delirious hardly counts as trying, man-hands.”

A step toward the pirate. “Shut up, you poxy tart.”

“Griffon-lips.”

“Scurvy tramp.”

“Ooh, that’s a new one,” Isabela smirked with a step forward, leaving the two dangerously close. “Frigid bear-sow.”

“Just—” Aveline pointed at the door. “Get. Out.”

As fun as it was to spit insults at each other, her limit’s surpassed. Work needed to be done, and any thoughts of Edgar demanded to be put out of mind.

Isabela boldly held her stare, thin brows knitted, and lips pressed into a firm line.

“…Fine.”

The feathers of the hat hit Aveline’s nose with a swift turn, and Isabela headed to leave. About damn time.

Except she hesitated in the doorway.

A beat of contemplation.

“By the way…” A glance over her shoulder. “I did come here for a different reason.”

And what could that possibly be? Other than to be a thorn in her side?

“Little Hawke’s coming home.”

And just like that, all tension within Aveline melted away, replaced with disbelief. Her features softened, eyes wide.

“What?”

“He’s taken a month of leave from the Grey Wardens,” said Isabela. “Don’t know when he’s coming, exactly. Eddie’s all over the place about it.”

“He didn’t tell me.” The realization dawned on her. “And he had no intention of telling me.”

Isabela gave a half-hearted shrug. “I… thought you’d like to know.”

“…Right.”

The last time Aveline saw Carver was fleeting.

Somehow the Grey Wardens got caught up in the qunari fight, too. The Hawke’s always did have absurd timing.

Carver was damn near unrecognizable until he approached the group; equipped in Grey Warden issued armor, hair unkempt, and with a full beard. She could’ve mistaken him for Edgar if the height difference was disregarded.

A tired demeanor. A reluctance to leave his brother again, who struggled to tell him about their mother…

He looked like a man. Not that he was a child before, just… young.

“That’s not the best part, though. Carver won’t be alone.” She wiggled her brows suggestively. “He’s possibly bringing a lover with him.”

“Is he?” Well, somehow that’s a strange surprise. Before thinking, Aveline asked, “How’s Ed handling that one?”

“As well as expected,” Isabela snickered. “Don’t know anything about her, but the imagination does wonders.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Already concocted an entire story, have you?”

“Mmhmmm~”

“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment, you know.”

“So little faith in Little Hawke’s tastes? Shame on you.”

“I mean…” Look at who his brother moved into the Hawke Estate, and where he found him. Not to mention Carver’s previous infatuation with Merrill, of all people. The Hawke brothers had questionable taste at best. As long as this new woman in Carver’s life wasn’t another foolish or selfish mage, Aveline would wish him happiness.

Assuming she saw him at all.

“Speaking of Little Hawke and his lover~” Isabela drawled. “I better go. I have new bedding to pick out for their room. They’ll need something comfortable and a little… silky, but strong and flexible; have to account for all that warden stamina.” She winked. “We all want them both to enjoy their visit to the fullest.”

Aveline wrinkled her nose. Maker, she didn’t want to think about Carver doing… ugh.

“If you’d like some suggestions for you and Donnic—”

“I don’t.”

“Prude.”

“Whore.”

With a toothy grin, Isabela did a fluid, sarcastic bow, and waved goodbye. “Don’t be a stranger, and at least consider talking with Eddie. If you can’t find your big girl pants, I’m sure Donnic would hold your hand through it. Just hold tight—Eddie might charm those mutton chops right off.”

Aveline didn’t dignify that with an answer.

At least the pirate had the consideration to shut the door behind her.

Once again, the Guard-Captain was left alone in her office amongst a mountain of paperwork.

“So…” she mumbled. “Carver’s coming back to Kirkwall.”

And she’s the last to know.

Unbelievable.

To think, she thought better of Edgar. They were in an argument, yes, but to withhold that from her? Did he think she wouldn’t care to see Carver again? That’s nonsense. Of course Aveline cared, she cared a great deal! And he knew that!

“I shouldn’t have brought him.”

“No. You shouldn’t have. But he knew the risks.”

“It was either bring him, or lose him… but what did it matter? I lost him either way, didn’t I? …Shit. Shit!”

“Hawke…”

“He just… collapsed. Aveline, he collapsed, and he was so pale—I’ve never seen him that pale, it was—and his eyes, and his breathing—”

“I know. I know, Edgar. I’m sorry. At least… at least you found the Grey Wardens. Maybe they can save him. That’s more hope than Wesley had.”

“Oh, Maker…”

Aveline dropped back into her chair with a huff, yanking her gauntlet off to rub at her face.

For the briefest moment, she considered storming out of the Viscount’s Keep and marching down to the Hawke Estate. She wouldn’t bother knocking or having Bodahn fetch him; Edgar would damn well know it’s her by the stomping and bellowing of his name.

Then… what? They’d talk it out like mature adults? Edgar Hawke was incapable of such behavior.

No. Perish the thought.

Now that she knew, Aveline could keep an ear and eye out for any Grey Wardens arriving in the city. When Carver arrived, she’d know, and then…

“Flames.”

The paperwork living on her desk was messed up thanks to Isabela’s visit, but Lia’s application still occupied the forefront of it all. Hard eyes darted over its entirety, resoaking in the passionate penmanship and dedicated promise.

With an incensed groan, Guard-Captain Aveline tossed the application in the bin with the other denials.

-x-

So much to do, oh so much to do!

Already too much wasted time! Edgar has yet to prepare everything for Carver’s arrival, which he still had no exact date for, and resorted to being a busy body that tottered all over the Hawke Estate. The cane he used for support remained in the bedroom, despite Anders’ insistence that he still needed it. Bah! He had no time to think of his leg, not when his dear baby brother’s room was in shambles! He meant to clean it up sooner, but too many things required his attention.

He demanded a free evening. Edgar told Bodahn to send away all visitors, save any of his companions, so he could have the entire evening to himself to get things done. The only visitor so far was Isabela, whom he’d already spent a good portion of the afternoon searching for. He would’ve scolded her, but she brought the new bedding they were supposed to pick out together, and he shooed her away before she could make any more warden stamina jokes.

Edgar didn’t need to think about his dear brother and this companion of his “mastering each other’s taints.” Did he not hear enough of those when he and Anders first got together?

“So, Eddie, have you explored his Deep Roads yet? Did he thrust his mighty sword at your archdemon? How about cup your Joining? Did Anders serve his justice all over you?”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know~”

Oh, Maker help him.

Dust covered every surface of the bedroom, and spiders build cities of webs in every corner. The old bedding hadn’t been touched in Maker knows how long, the armoire had a missing door, and the fireplace overflowed with ash.

Crates stuffed with Carver’s belongings sat on the musty bed, all things Edgar packed himself when they departed Gamlen’s home. Mother couldn’t bare to do it, like she couldn’t bare to do a lot of things.

It fell to him to fold every piece of clothing, to stack every book, to gather every small trinket Carver collected in his pockets and forgot about. He bound every letter he received with twine, wrapped a nearly empty cologne bottle in protective cloth, tucked away with a knife passed down to Carver after Father died. Edgar had to sort through everything of Bethany’s that Carver kept close. All of it to be put in crates and hidden away in a bedroom that his brother never even saw.

Well, no longer would that be the case! This time, Edgar could take the time to unpack and sort through things with delight instead of grief.

Though after Bodahn delivered a stack of letters to his desk this morning, he considered making a sign to hang outside the estate; ‘I AM BUSY. CARVER’S COMING HOME. WILL BE UNAVAILABLE FOR AT LEAST TWO MONTHS. POSSIBLY LONGER. SOLVE YOUR OWN PROBLEMS.’

Too many requests, too many dinner party invites, and far too many letters from nobles looking to court him.

“Hawke this, Hawke that,” Edgar grumbled from where he knelt down before the dresser, shoving Carver’s old clothes in. “’Hawke, raiders stole my cargo, get it back for me!’ ‘Hawke, my wife’s sister’s cat ran away, can you find him?’ ‘Oh no, Hawke, my baby’s stuck in a tree again and the guard won’t help! Please get him down for me!’ ‘Knight-Captain Cullen looked at me funny! Do something, Hawke!’” Edgar scoffed, closing the drawer with a strong thud. “What do you expect me to do? Cullen looks at everyone funny!”

A soft chuckle from the doorway.

“Making fun of imaginary people again, love?” Anders asked, leaning up against the frame. A lovely sight he was, except for the damn cane in his grip. With the usual robes discarded, the exhaustion of a day’s work in the clinic clung to him like the blood stains on his shirt, and fatigue shone in those handsome, warm brown eyes of his.

“It’s never-ending.” Edgar used the wooden dresser as leverage to stand back up. “Don’t they know I’m busy? Surely all of Kirkwall has heard by now that—" A sharp pain shot through the back of his thigh. “—mmph—that Carver could be here any day now?” He stumbled, hip hitting the knob of the top drawer.

Ouch.

Anders probably didn’t notice that.

Except he absolutely did, waving the rune-decorated cane with a knowing look. “I don’t think they care about Carver or that you’re busy, just as they don’t care that you’re still in recovery.” Anders approached, handing him the cane before smoothing out the front of Edgar’s maroon robes. “And you don’t seem to care either.”

“I’m recovered well enough.” Edgar gripped his shoulders and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “There’s too much to do to not be.” The cane was tossed onto the bed, and Anders’ displeased sigh was ignored as Edgar continued to rummage through crates. “I wish Rose had given me a proper date, or that Carver would write—which we both know he won’t, especially if he’s sore about my letter. It’d make all this planning much easier on me, but we’ll make do.”

“There’s no rush,” Anders said.

“No? What if he shows up tomorrow?”

“Then he can tell you there’s no rush.” The heat of his lover’s hand smoothed out over Edgar’s shoulders before settling at his lower back. “If you don’t slow down, you’ll hurt yourself again, and then where will you be?”

With a quick, dismissive wave, Edgar sorted through the rest of Carver’s old books, letters, and other small baubles. He’d need to wipe down the bookcase in the corner before displaying all of this.

What did he do with his cleaning rag?

“I need to draw up a list for Bodahn, we’ll need extra groceries,” Edgar said, twisting around to search the room. “If his appetite is as great as yours, you’ll both eat us out of house if we don’t plan ahead. And I need to go downstairs and look through the wine in the cellar. Carver’s not one for the stuff but there was this one he liked—what was it called? Something, something burst?"

“Burst?”

“Yes… oh, what was it?”

Wonderful, now that would bother him until he thought of it. It’s the same wine he once caught Carver and Merrill drinking together shortly after the Great and Absolutely Necessary Viscount Garden Break-In of 9:31. Edgar had gone to visit Merrill only to find her and Carver on the floor, drunk, in a fit of giggles, and almost finished with their second bottle. Strong stuff, whatever it was.

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“Are you talking to me or her?”

“Both of you. It’s only noon!”

“Don’t look at me. Wasn’t my idea.”

“Merrill…”

“Hehe~”

The rag sat discarded on the floor, picked up to hastily wipe down the bookcase as Edgar continued, “Oh, just add it to the list. Orana’s washing the new bedding—Isabela brought it over. It’s rather shiny, and I don’t know how he’ll feel about red.” Another ache stretched through his muscles as he knelt down to get the bottom shelves. “Sandal’s supposed to come in and do something about the fireplace—logs, we need to bring logs up, remind me to remind him—"

“Ed—”

“—and Bodahn needs the grocery lists, and I should start a guest list for the dinner party. And how is the clinic’s stock? You’ve everything you need?”

Anders, who stood almost a head taller, came around behind his lover to wrap his arms around his waist in an effort to keep him still, though Edgar just wiggled about anyway.

“Love, you’re stressing yourself.”

“I’m not stressing,” he insisted, holding the rag out of reach when Anders tried to take it from him. “I’m planning. He’s only here for a month, and that’s so little time to do everything, and there’s still so much to do and…” he trailed off, leaning back against Anders’ chest. It felt dangerously nice to be held, but the distraction tactic wouldn’t work. Smoothing out his beard with a frown, he admitted, “…Alright, maybe I’m stressing, but only a little.”

“You think?” Anders smiled, brushing the long, dark locks away from Edgar’s face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

What was there to talk about? Aside from everything?

Actually, one thing did weigh on him...

“Who do you think Carver’s bringing?” he asked, turning in the embrace. “You served there, too.”

“Years ago.” Anders shrugged. “And things have changed. The only women in the Grey Wardens at the time were Velanna and Sigrun. And Rose, but given she’s practically married, I doubt it’s her. Unless other women have joined, or she’s not a warden at all, those two are the only ones I know of.”

Well, that narrowed it down, except those names meant nothing to him. Did Anders ever mention either of them before? He didn’t care to speak on Grey Warden matters when pressed to begin with, what with all the secrets of the order. The most he ever got out of him, and Carver for that matter, was when they all went to the Deep Roads for the second time to find Corypheus, everything he learned disturbing at best.

Then a wince twisted at Anders’ mouth, and his shoulders tensed. “But if they’re our options, we should probably cross our fingers for Sigrun.”

“Why?” asked Edgar. “What’s wrong with Velanna?”

A beat of silence.

That didn’t settle any unease nagging at Edgar’s insides.

And neither did the explanation of, “When we first met her, she killed a bunch of merchants and then brought trees to life to kill us. And she once told me she found human’s repulsive. Then there was the time she stashed slugs in Alistair’s socks. Overall, just an unpleasant woman. She used to make fun of my fireballs.”

Oh no, not his fireballs.

“…So, she’s a mage, I take it?”

“And Dalish.”

“Oh.” …Oh.

Would Carver… no—Well, if she were kind to him—

“But…” Anders hesitated, as if debating on if he should continue. “…she and Rose had a, let’s say, disagreement on human-elf relations when Velanna found out she and Alistair were more than just Commander and Lieutenant… among other things.”

“Well, last I checked, Carver’s human.”

“So we may have nothing to worry about.”

“And Sigrun?”

“Ah, she’s a lovely little thing,” Anders said. “Dead, though. Kind of. She had a funeral before joining the Legion of the Dead.”

“The what of what?”

“Legion of the Dead. It’s a dwarf thing.”

Oh well, that explained everything. Except not at all.

Edgar took all that in the best he could, decided he didn’t want to think on it any longer as the anxiety of it made his stomach upset, and cleared his throat.

“Well, regardless. Whoever this ‘beloved companion’ is, how am I supposed to know what she likes? What if she doesn’t like the wine? Or the food? Or the bedroom or the sheets?” he huffed, turning with his hands on his hips. “Maker, what if she doesn’t like me?” Oh, no. Oh, no. “What if she’s terrible and I hate her, Anders? Then what?”

The laughter of his lover was usually contagious, but Edgar thought nothing funny of the matter!

“You say that as if Carver doesn’t hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“He doesn’t,” Edgar insisted, gripping his lover’s shoulders. “If he truly hated you, you’d know it.”

Anders rose a brow. “You mean like when he said, ‘I hate you, mage’ directly to me?”

“…Well, he left you unstabbed, didn’t he?”

Alright, fine, Carver may have disapproved of Edgar’s affection for Anders from the start, and he may still. He never worried about that; Anders had no intentions of coming between them.

But who knew what this companion’s intentions were? Was it that silly to worry?

“Edgar,” Anders coaxed him to meet his eye. “What’s really bothering you?”

Where did he begin?

“I worry that…” He faltered. “…that if something goes terribly wrong, or he doesn’t enjoy his time here, or if this companion of his doesn’t like me, Carver will never want to come back.”

“Oh, Ed...”

“I know he’s dedicated himself to the wardens,” said Edgar. “He’s always wanted to strike out on his own and forge his own path and have a life that wasn’t about hiding or worrying himself sick about me or—or Bethany. I’ve always wanted that for him, too, but—” Anders’ forehead came to rest against his. “—but I still want a part in his life.”

“Some wardens completely cut ties with their other lives. Give up their names, their families, all for the order,” said Anders. “He still writes to you, and still wears the Hawke name with pride.”

“I know.”

With only letters tying them together now, he felt as though he simultaneously did and didn’t know his brother. Some things never change, but the rest always do.

Neither of them would’ve chosen this, though. The Grey Wardens lived with the looming presence of their hourglasses draining, more aware of it all than everyone else. Carver had a calling, just as Anders did, and Edgar knew one day he’d lose them both to the bloody Deep Roads and the darkspawn… because losing Bethany to them wasn’t enough.

They both lived with the consequences of the Deep Roads expedition, and sometimes when Edgar was left alone with his thoughts for too long, he’d wonder how different things would be if he hadn’t brought Carver.

“I’m going. I have to, Ed. It’s just as much my expedition as it is yours! This is our only chance, and I won’t let you do it alone. If you make me stay, I—I will never forgive you.”

With everyone else gone—Bethany, Father, and now Mother—Carver’s all Edgar had now.

Well, and Gamlen, but he’d rather not count his uncle unless he absolutely had to.

He also had Anders, who grounded and loved him more than any other man Edgar’s been with. He was well-known in the city even before he was titled Champion of Kirkwall, and that status kept Knight-Commander Meredith from dragging him to the Gallows by his ear. He had the Hawke Estate, and enough money to live comfortably. He had Varric, Merrill, Isabela, Fenris, Seb--

“Anders!” Edgar gasped, jerking away from his lover and to point an accusatory finger at him. “Sebastian! I forgot—Fenris didn’t—You were supposed to remind me to go talk to Sebastian!”

“I was?” the mage asked, startled. “Since when?”

“Since… since when I last asked you to remind me!”

“Oh,” Anders said, thoughtfully, then shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t forget to go talk to Sebastian. I hear he really wants to meet Carver.”

Edgar adored Anders dearly. Loved him to the moon and back. Would fight an endless pit of darkspawn for him if he asked.

But sometimes, he really knew all the wrong buttons to press.

Oh well. At least Edgar wasn’t above finding the humor in stressful situations, so he snorted a laugh.

“Right, thank you.”

“Always happy to help.”

“In that case,” he tossed him the rag, “enough mushy talk. Clean the windows, would you?” Using the break of the moment to compose himself, Edgar imposed a return to his usual charm and upbeat attitude. “We can’t mope about! Carver could show up tomorrow! Or the day after!”

While Anders went to the window with a shake of his head but also a fond grin, Edgar took to placing books on the shelves. There weren’t a whole lot, and all of the titles were ones he recognized. He made a mental note to make a trip to the bookshop in town; Carver might appreciate some new ones to take back with him, if he even had time to read anymore with all the world saving he’s apparently doing.

But an old, worn novel gave him pause; The Adventures of Prince Briaron Ambrose, written by an author whose name was nearly rubbed away from the cover, leaving only “Bo” behind.

Bethany’s favorite.

It’s one of the few things Carver brought with him from Lothering. Before he got sick, Father used to read to them every night before bed. Whenever Bethany’s turn to pick the story came, she always picked this one.

Prince Briaron’s grand quest to find his true love, but every woman he met who he thought could be this true love usually turned out not to be. Until the ending where it turned out this true love of his was right under his nose the entire time—a serving girl the prince knew his whole life who was revealed to be of noble blood. Bethany knew the story by heart, and Father had far more patience for the tale than he or Carver did. Too much mushy, gushy kissing, not enough dragon battles.

Edgar flipped through the yellowing pages with care to where a dried, pressed daisy marked the page Carver last left off.

A pinprick in his heart.

…and as Briaron stands atop the hill overlooking the wilderness of dark and vibrant greens that surround his kingdom, he admires the spring flowers in full bloom. Wild rose bushes of blushing pinks and scarlet scatter about. Elfroot grows in thick patches, the occasional wildflower flourishing alongside them. Butterflies and fat bumblebees thrive here, just as Briaron himself does. In this moment of bliss, he grins from ear to ear, and with ever flutter of his heart, he knows. There’s a love that only happens once in a lifetime, and he’s finally found her; the wish he whispered for on a dandelion all those years ago.

Sappy, gagging, and too flowery—literally. Edgar could practically hear his own eyeroll, yet his grin remained at the thought of his dear brother reading it of his own accord. Carver, who wielded a great sword and towered over most who met him, reading about blushing roses and ooey-gooey romance with a straight face.

Whether he actually enjoyed it, or only read it in honor of their sister, he didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter.

Running his thumb over the delicate petals of the daisy…

“Have you heard from Merrill at all?” Edgar asked, distantly.

“No,” Anders replied. “Not since cards last week. I’m surprised she’s not here helping you.”

“Yes…” Edgar tucked the daisy back into the book, and shelved it. “She said she’d stop by when she could. Wonder if I should go see her.”

“She’s probably fussing over that bloody mirror of hers. Be careful if you do,” said Anders, then added, “And call on Sebastian while you’re at it.”

Edgar nodded absently.

He had no worries about anything happening at Merrill’s place, other than maybe a piece of her roof nearly falling on his head, or another rat gnawing its way through the floorboards to scurry across his foot. He trusted Merrill more than he trusted the eluvian, and any concern he had was over her well-being.

He’d been so preoccupied with everything that he hadn’t taken notice of her absence until now. How… bizarre.

He never said it out loud—surprising, yes—but Edgar always thought… or rather, he always hoped that there was something more between his brother and Merrill.

“So… Merrill.”

“What about her? …Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You two have spent an awful lot of time together recently.”

“So? What of it?”

“It’s just an observation. She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?”

“Shove off.”

“You should show her your tattoo.”

“We’re not talking about this. Stop looking at me and go—go away!”

Though now those chances seemed slim. Not only because of the passage of time and the Grey Wardens keeping his brother and Merrill apart, but it sounds like Carver’s moved on.

Oh, Maker…

Weariness weighed on his eyelids, and a distant ache thrummed in Edgar’s hip down to his leg as a swell of hurt overshadowed his heart. The afternoon sun hit the window just right, the light seeping into the warm bedroom.

He shouldn’t dwell. Nothing will get done.

So much to do… oh so much to do.

-x-

Evening came with clear skies and only a sliver of the moon’s light, the dark seeping over Kirkwall. A wistful, restless night with too much noise inside her.

But Merrill had grown quite good at clearing her mind when she had something else to pour her focus into—the eluvian.

She lost count when the days began to bleed together. That tended to happen when she didn’t leave her house and spent hours upon hours trying to make the eluvian work. She hadn’t attended any of the gatherings at the Hanged Man, and no one called upon her, not even Edgar.

Everything’s fine, of course. Nothing to worry about. Merrill was perfectly fine—happy, even! Completely thrilled to spend all her time staring into a mirror that held no reflection, didn’t do anything no matter what she tried, and was frustrating beyond belief.

It remained in the same corner it always had since she reconstructed the beautiful frame. But even with the Arulin'Holm Edgar helped her get from the Keeper, the mirror remained still and reflectionless. Nothing Audacity told her helped, the Arulin'Holm didn’t work, nothing she’s done has made much of a difference.

“I’m missing something,” she murmured. “Always missing something.”

A cup of tea chilled in her hands, barely sipped, as Merrill stood before the eluvian, staring into the nothing.

But determination held strong within her; she’s lost far too much to let this go, and a small part of her—a bitter wound left on her pride and soul—that desired to refute the Keeper’s claims about her, to prove to the clan that all she’s done was to help them.

Merrill left to devote years of her life to the People through the meticulous restoration of something ancient, a connection to the past they all lost… and all the Keeper could do was inflict fear and paranoia in the hearts of those Merrill once called family.

All the ire in the eyes that watched her through the clan’s camp, Keeper Marethari’s condescending voice as she handed Edgar the Arulin'Holm instead of her. The way Pol looked at her when they found him outside the Varterral's lair…

Merrill spent days with the eluvian until her eyes burned and stomach groaned. Mana drained. Exhaustion overpowering focus.

Then the thought struck her; she may have no choice but to go back to Sundermount and speak directly to Audacity once more. The demon’s grown silent recently, and that was… troublesome, to say the least. Usually, she could communicate with him through the Fade, but nothing.

Merrill knew the risks, always had, but Audacity told her years ago that he witnessed the creation of the eluvian during the days of Arlathan. If he could help her then the risk would be worth it, even if it cost her everything. It’s a keeper’s job to remember.

Remember. Seemed like all Merrill did was remember.

Remember. Remember. Remember…

“Merrill…?”

His top lip, feather-light, grazed hers…

“By the Dread Wolf,” she groaned, stirring a new mug of steeping tea far more harshly than necessary. “Why must I be like this?”

While she managed to put Carver and his impending arrival out of thought for the sake of her nerves and dedication to the eluvian, he always found his way from the back of her mind to the forefront. It’s not that this self-confinement was a means of avoiding Edgar and everything related to Carver—Really! She swears!—it’s just…

The tea abandoned to the table, Merrill wandered into her bedroom, lingering in the doorway.

Maybe she shouldn’t—but why not? If there was ever a time for it, this would be it, right? If these thoughts and feelings could resurface, why couldn’t everything else?

That’s what led to her digging under the bed for a blanket wrapped box hidden in the shadows.

How foolish it was that her heart raced.

After Merrill found out what had happened to Carver, the little reminders of him around her home became unbearable to pass by every day. Those things found themselves tucked away in a small, wooden box wrapped in an all-too-familiar blue blanket. Dust settled into the folds of the heavy fabric from years as a closely kept secret.

Sat upon her bed, Merrill dumped the contents out before her.

Bittersweet melancholy struck her nerves.

Two stones. One a tiger’s eye, smooth to the touch, found while pilfering through a barrel by the docks. Too excited when she held it up beside Carver’s face.

“Uh… Merrill?”

“I knew it, it’s a perfect match! For your eyes, I mean.”

“Oh. I guess it is?”

The other stone was rough to touch, deep green in color with a thin vein of red jasper that ran through it.

“Here.”

“Ooh, that’s a pretty one!”

“It’s the only one I could find to match.”

She once kept them displayed together on her shelf, along with a small, black button from one of Carver’s shirts that she always intended to mend for him.

A small bouquet of dried flowers tied together with twine. All from the Viscount’s Garden. The thorns of the yellow rose still pricked against the pad of her thumb. Some daisies, baby’s breath, and a pink carnation. Once it hung on the wall above her bed.

They hadn’t intended to break in there, honestly, and she’s surprised Carver even agreed to it. Merrill had wanted to see the garden in the evening time, but didn’t fancy getting arrested after Aveline scolded her the last time, and Varric paid off the guards the time before.

“Can I borrow your knife?”

“Oh, is someone coming? Are you going to shiv them?”

“What? No, I’m not—just, can I please see your knife?”

The last thing in the box was a book she borrowed, and never had the chance to return; “The Dane and the Werewolf.” The cover didn’t look very interesting, but she’d watched him single it out in the bookshop they once visited.

“’The wolf pack circled, ever closer, and he who felled boars and bears with his bright blade knew fear. They spoke his name in roars, like gravestones, offering a beast's bargain—’ …What?”

“I like the way you read it.”

“I—thank you.”

“You make it sound so exciting! Have you read this one before?”

“A few times.”

“I should get you to read Varric’s tales aloud, too. I bet you do a great Donnen voice. ‘Hnngg, I’m a gruzzled, old guard, one week from retirement, grrr!’”

“’Sure would be a shame if someone got murdered on my watch—oops!’”

“Yes! Exactly like that!”

Merrill flipped through the pages, stopping when she saw the underlined passage, “But some things cannot be repent, some coinage cannot be unspent, when hearts are wagered, a fissure rent.” Carver left no explanation as to why he marked it. She never had the chance to ask him.

But now she would. Get the chance, that is.

Heat stung behind Merrill’s eyes.

Carver’s coming home.

Too many things she’d like to ask him; How have you been? Is it nice to live in Fereldan again? Are the griffons really extinct? What do you like to do when you're not stabbing darkspawn? Do you ever think of me?

Can we start again?

Is it too late for us now?

#carver hawke #da2 merrill #carver/merrill #carver x merrill #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age fanfiction #hawke/anders #edgar hawke

3 notes · View notes

wildercrow · 3 years

Note

"cramming into a small room, or a king-sized bed when one of them has been through something traumatic and is in need of support" for the kirkwall crew?

You seem to give me a lot of prompts that I get wildly carried away with, because wow I sure did take one look at this and immediately spend the next 8 hours writing a BEHEMOTH of a fic about Anders and Justice getting snuggle-piled.

for @dadrunkwriting

~*~*~

Rating: Mature Characters: Mo Hawke, Individuality (Spirit OC), Anders, Justice, Fenris, Varric, Cole, The Rest of the Kirkwall Crew Main Relationships: Anders & The Kirkwall Crew, Justice & The Kirkwall Crew, Hawke & The Kirkwall Crew, Anders/Justice/Fenris Background Ships: Hawke/Merrill/Isabela, Aveline/Donnic Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Fluff (but mostly Fluff) Word Count: 2771 Content Warnings: Non-graphic descriptions of arson/fire-related injuries, Innuendo/sex jokes, Strong language, Spoilers for Dragon Age II AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34811041

~*~*~

The second Anders walks in the door, Mo knows something is wrong. His hair and robes are singed and his expression is… empty. Devoid of the passion he carried when he left the estate that morning.

Individuality – Indie – stirs restlessly at the back of their shared head. >>I don’t like seeing them like this! Where is their spark?<<

“I take it your second day at the new clinic didn’t go according to plan? You look like someone went through and kicked every cat in the city of Kirkwall,” Mo says from the couch.

Anders just silently shakes his head and makes his way upstairs to his room.

>>Get Fenris!<< Indie urges.

>>Euuuggh, why?<< Mo whines internally. At this point, her rivalry with Fenris is more of a formality than anything with real malice. A petty game they play at, despite being on mostly good terms.

>>He knows how to find Justice’s spark.<< The spirit

Mo snorts out loud. >>You know that sounds sexual, right?<<

>>Oh, absolutely.<< They confirm smugly. >>But in all seriousness, Fenris brings Justice and Anders’ true selves out. Go get him.<<

>>Fiiine.<<

But before she has the chance to do so, she hears knocking at her front door. It’s loud and steady. Indie immediately recognizes it as Aveline’s knocking.

She sighs and ambles over to open the door, mildly surprised to find not just Aveline but also Donnic, Varric, and… Cole? All standing outside her door looking worried. Donnic looks singed in much the same way as Anders. “Can I… help you?” she asks.

Indie prickles at the sight of Cole, but Mo shushes them. >>We have enough to deal with tonight, we don’t need you trying to pick fights with Cole.<<

>>Oh, so you’re allowed to have petty rivalries, but I’m not?<< Indie sulks.

>>At least my petty rivalry with Fenris is mutual! Cole likes you just fine.<<

>>He is wearing someone else’s identity!<< The spirit insists, utterly indignant.

>>You literally share a body with me, so you’re not exactly one to talk.<<

>>That’s different.<<

>>Is it, though?<<

“If you want me to go, I’ll leave,” Cole offers timidly.

“Nobody wants you to go, kid,” Varric places a reassuring hand on Cole’s back, then pins a stern look on Mo, “right, Prickles?”

Before Mo can answer, Cole darts away from the door and around the corner to… who knows where.

“See what you did?” Varric says.

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t make a habit of controlling other people’s actions,” Mo retorts flatly.

“I’m sure he’ll be—” Aveline begins, but is interrupted by Cole returning with three cats in his arms, “—back… soon?”

“Soren, Aly, and Splotches the Magnificent wanted the fresh air,” Cole announces, stepping through the door, “but they forgot for a moment that home is safe and cozy.”

>>Alright, fine, he remembers the cats’ names. He’s not all bad.<< Indie admits.

“I’m impressed you could tell Soren and Shini apart after only meeting them once,” Mo says.

“Maybe we should come in before any more cats decide to go on an adventure?” Varric suggests, nudging Ser Scratchy-Pants and Ariwen the fennec back into the house, “Or… honorary cats.”

“Alright, everybody in,” Mo waves them in. Once everyone is in and the door is closed, Mo places her hands on her hips and asks again, “So, why are you all here, exactly?”

“Did you hear what happened?” Aveline asks, worry written across her face.

“I obviously have not, or else I wouldn’t be asking you why you’re here?” Mo retorts.

“Blondie’s clinic got burned down on day two,” Varric says.

“So much smoke…” Cole murmurs from the floor, where he has sat himself down to pet the cats and fox. “Couldn’t breathe before, then the air… suffocating… barely got out alive. And the flames... exploding potions, red-hot droplets on tender skin… so many hurt… they just came to get better.”

“Everyone got out alive, thank the Maker,” Aveline says, “but there were a lot of injuries.”

“I was there,” Donnic confirms. “It was bad. The clinic is… he’ll have to start over from scratch.”

“If he bothers to reopen at all,” Aveline adds. “It might be time for him to pass the healing torch on to someone with less of a… reputation.”

“Revolution ended in flames, now healing has ended the same way… hard to find a path when the whole forest is on fire,” Cole says solemnly as he pets between Ariwen’s gigantic ears.

“Holy shit,” Mo murmurs under her breath.

“Anyways, that’s what’s going on and why we all showed up on your doorstep,” Varric says, trying without much success to keep his voice casual. “We just figured Blondie could use some support, is all.”

“And hugs,” Cole adds.

>>I need to talk to them!<< Indie announces.

Mo rolls her eyes fondly, “Message from Indie incoming.”

She relinquishes control of her body and lets the spirit take over, an eerie lavender glow emanating from their eyes. “Justice doesn’t need hugs,” the spirit announces. “He needs a cause!” They flourish dramatically with an arm. “You can’t help them if you don’t treat them as individuals!”

“Prickles has a poi—” Varric begins before being cut off by Indie.

“Not Prickles,” Indie says, hurt seeping into their voice. “We’re not the same.”

“Sorry. Still getting used to that. Sparky has a good point,” Varric corrects himself. “If we don’t give Justice a cause, they’ll both fall apart.”

“The manifesto,” Cole says.

“Kid, that’s old news. We need a new cause, not one from before the Inquisition.”

“Not that one,” Cole insists. “So many lost years as a slave… Never let that happen again. Not to anyone.”

“Fenris’ manifesto!” Indie blurts out. “They’ve been working on it together. Yes, that’s perfect.”

“See, this is why you all need to come see me more often! This is all news to me,” Varric says, a bit hurt.

“Well, you are a bit busy these days,” Donnic points out.

“Never too busy for my family,” the dwarf says with a grin. “Speaking of family, how about we gather the rest of the gang and surprise Blondie with some hugs? I can get Broody.”

“Why doesn’t Justice have a nickname?” Indie asks.

“Can’t they both be Blondie?” asks Varric. “They have the same hair.”

“They’re different people!” Indie insists. “You should come up with a nickname for Justice.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. It will affirm his sense of self,” Indie insists. “He needs that more than ever today.”

“Okay, uhhh…” Varric thinks hard, “Shiny? Glowy? Uh… Glowworm?”

“Oh, he’ll hate being called a worm,” Aveline snorts.

“Worms are nice,” Cole adds. “They deserve justice just as much as everyone else.”

“Alright, fine. Nightlight?” the dwarf proposes.

“Better,” Indie says.

“I think we have a winner!” Varric puffs out his chest proudly.

“Alright, back on task,” Aveline pipes up. “Donnic and I can get Carver while Varric gets Fenris. Mo, can you—”

“Not Mo,” Indie interjects.

Aveline lets out a beleaguered sigh, “Spirit – Individuality – can you and Mo go get Merrill and Isabela? I assume they’re upstairs.”

“Yes, we can!” Indie beams. Aveline is still adjusting to calling them by name, so when she succeeds it feels good.

“I’ll get the cats,” Cole announces. “And Ariwen. She’s not a cat, she just thinks she is.”

“Good call, kid. Anders will like that,” Varric says, patting his shoulder.

And with that, they all split up to retrieve the rest of their little family. Indie returns the body to Mo so she can retrieve Merrill and Isabela, since they are, after all, her girlfriends. She finds them both hanging out in their shared bedroom on the top floor and quickly explains the situation to them before leading them downstairs to Anders and Justice’s bedroom, where the rest of the group is already waiting (minus Cole, who is apparently still herding cats around the house).

“Is that everyone?” whispers Fenris, whose own cat, a tiny black cat named Shadow, is perched across his shoulders. He’s also clutching a thick book to his chest.

“Minus Cole and the rest of the cats? I think so,” Varric whispers back.

Fenris nods and turns to knock on the door, “Anders? Justice? Can we come in?”

A moment later, Anders pokes his head out of his door, looking like he’s been crying. Once he sees just how many people “we” is, his eyes widen to the size of saucers.

“We heard you had a bad day,” Carver says.

“Who the fuck sets a free clinic on fire just because they don’t like the guy running it?” Isabela says.

“Some people are just so mean!” Merrill adds.

At that moment, Cole shows up with Ariwen in his arms, Siren the Accursed standing on his shoulders wailing at the top of her weird little cat lungs, and the other nine cats trotting along behind him. “Cats make you to feel better.”

Anders lets out a tired laugh and scoops Siren off of Cole’s shoulders to cradle her in his arms like a baby before Cole herds the rest of the cats into his bedroom and sits down on the floor with them. “You’re all here just to make me feel better?”

“Both of you,” Fenris corrects. “I brought my manifesto, in case working on that will help Justice.”

“How big’s your bed, Blondie?” asks Varric. “Can it fit a proper cuddle pile?”

“Uhh…” he glances back at his bed, then into the hallway, “with this many people and animals? Not a chance.”

“We could put two mattresses together on the floor,” Carver proposes.

Anders shrugs, “Sure, if you want?”

“Easiest option is Anders and Fenr—” Carver begins.

“No one. Is touching. My bed,” Fenris growls.

“I will go get my mattress from downstairs!” Carver declares, jogging down the stairs.

“I’ll… help,” Fenris sets Shadow in Anders’ bedroom and hands his manifesto to Isabela before hurrying after Carver.

“Anders, can Donnic and I move your mattress to the floor?” Aveline asks.

“Go for it,” Anders shrugs listlessly and steps aside for them to slip into his room. “Careful with the cats.”

“I’ll keep them safe!” Cole pipes up from Anders’ floor.

As Aveline and Donnic relocate his mattress, Anders steps out into the hallway and slides down the wall to slump on the floor, releasing Siren to go yowl at Cole in the bedroom.

Mo makes her way over and sits next to him. She’s not sure what to say, but she and Indie feel like the right people for the job somehow. Maybe because they know how it feels to be infamous. Maybe because they know what it’s like to be called an abomination.

“Thanks,” he whispers, even though she hasn’t said a word. They wait together in a haze as the warriors move around mattresses and gather pillows and blankets. Merrill and Isabela continue the conversation they’d been having upstairs (something about Isabela’s travels). Varric cracks a few awkward jokes. Mo tries to think of the right comfort words but never quite finds them. Indie isn’t much help.

Thankfully, the warriors work fast, so before long they’re called into the bedroom where a cushioned nest of pillows and blankets awaits them. Fenris motions for Anders to sit down in the middle and then tucks himself under the mage’s arm and rests his head on his chest. Isabela sets Fenris’ manifesto in Anders’ lap, then takes a seat near Fenris. Merrill and Mo snuggle in near her. Aveline sits on Anders’ opposite side, Donnic and Carver tucking themselves in near her. Varric sits down near them with Cole using his lap as a pillow. Ariwen and Shadow find their way into Merrill and Fenris’ laps, and the remaining cats tuck themselves in wherever they can fit. Siren trots up and yells at Anders until he picks her up.

“Okay everybody, scoot in closer! This isn’t a proper snuggle pile until everyone is touching Blondie,” Varric declares. Everybody complies, leaning in and reaching out (careful not to disturb any cats or foxes who think they’re cats) until Anders is surrounded in a protective bubble of comforting touch.

He immediately dissolves into tears, clutching both Fenris and Siren to his chest until the cat gets irritated and leaves him to sob into his partner’s hair. Merrill bursts into tears with him, earning her gentle pats from Mo and Isabela.

Eventually, Anders’ tears fade (and Merrill’s fade with them), and he touches the cover of Fenris’ manifesto in progress and looks around at his friends – his family – and says, “I don’t know why we thought we could just… walk right back into Kirkwall and restart our old life as if nothing ever happened. I… just wanted my old life back. I guess that was too much to ask.”

“You’ve got us, Blondie,” Varric pats his knee.

“In your old life, we couldn’t stand each other,” Fenris points out.

“Yes, I enjoy your company far more now,” Merrill agrees.

“And you have a lot more cats, now!” Mo adds.

“We can’t bring back the past, Anders,” Aveline squeezes his shoulder, “but we can make the future just as good, if not better.”

Anders sniffles and forces a smile, “Thanks. You’re all so good to me. I can’t… I can’t believe how lucky I am.” He hugs Fenris close and melts into the cuddle pile. “I think Justice is having an even worse time than I am, so I’m gonna let him get some hugs, even if he thinks he doesn’t need them.” He relinquishes control of his body and Justice’s familiar blue glow emanates from his eyes.

“Hello, Justice,” Fenris kisses his cheek.

“We hear you’ve been having a rough time,” says Merrill.

“Sparky says you need a nickname, so hey Nightlight!” Varric greets.

“I do not need a nickname,” Justice declares, though his body language seems more flustered than genuinely offended.

“Too bad. Take it up with Sparky. You’re Nightlight, now,” the dwarf laughs.

“I suppose I could get used to a nickname. Nightlight…” he mulls over the nickname, a faint smile on his lips.

>>I knew he’d like it!<< Indie preens proudly to Mo.

“Did you want to work on our manifesto with me, darling?” Fenris asks, his voice soft and sultry.

“Our?” Justice asks.

“That’s what it is, is it not?” Fenris asks. “You do a lot more than just transcribe for me. You’re helping me write it. It’s ours.”

Justice practically beams, “Our manifesto… Yes. I would love to work on that.”

Isabela snickers, “This is beginning to sound suspiciously like foreplay. Do you want us to stay, or…?”

“I… would appreciate the extra company, tonight,” Justice says, blushing furiously. “Platonic… company.”

“We promise not to make things weird,” Fenris laughs.

“Can I help?” Cole asks, sitting up to peer curiously at the book.

“I, for one, would welcome your input,” Justice says, then looks to Fenris.

“I don’t see why not,” the elf agrees.

“I’ll make tea!” Merrill stands up and claps excitedly.

“Anybody care for a game of cuddle pile Wicked Grace?” asks Isabela. “It’s like regular Wicked Grace, except we have to whisper so we don’t disturb the manifesto-writing.”

“And we’re not in a circle, so everyone can see each other’s cards?” Mo quirks an eyebrow.

“Added challenge! You just have to be really good at hiding your cards,” Isabela winks.

“Sounds terrible, I’m in!” Varric laughs.

“I’ll get some cards while the tea steeps!” Merrill offers before bouncing off towards the kitchen.

“You’re all ridiculous,” Aveline shakes her head fondly.

“Come on, join us!” Donnic urges. “You’ve got nothing better to do.”

Aveline lets out something between a sigh and a chuckle, “Alright, I suppose you’re right.”

Justice looks around at them all gathered around him, tears gathering in his eyes. “You’re all staying here for… me?” he asks. “Not just Anders? Me?”

“Course we are, Nightlight,” Varric shoots him a grin. “You’ve been with us as long as Anders has, haven’t you?”

“It just took us longer to get to know you because you spent most of that time hiding in the back of Anders’ head and only coming out to have the occasional meltdown,” Mo points out.

“But you’ve really grown on us,” Isabela drapes herself across the pillow pile he’s leaning against. “Especially after you pulled that giant stick out of your ass during our adventures in Rivain with your Warden friends.”

“We’re not going anywhere until you’re ready for us to leave,” Aveline assures. “You’re family.”

“Well then,” Justice takes a deep breath and blinks back tears, “I am honored to be a part of such a good family. You all have my thanks.”

#anders #justice #hawke #justfenders #fenris #varric #cole #mo hawke #individuality the spirit #merrihawkebela #aveline x donnic #and everybody else #nuri writes #da drunk writing circle

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