: X :

He looks like Isabella - that's the first thought. Light brown eyes ringed by kohl and a long tumble of black hair held up in a warrior's pleat - there's gold on him, too, much like Isabela, foreign stuff in foreign stamp, hoops in his pointed ears and a collective of thin chains flashing under the open collar of his sailor's tunic. His skin, like Isabela's, is warm and dark.

At least, you assume it's warm. You can't quite tell by the glancing blow of his fist, if the skin that covers it is warm or not, and then you notice the size of those hands and the scars on them and try to guess the age of the man who at first glance you had assumed was a cabin-boy (and now knew as an elf, because of course).

Merrill voices a protest in a tone you had never before heard from her - commanding and austere and urgent. The tavern stills to hear the commotion, crowd spreading as you are borne to the sandy floorboards in the scuffle. He is remarkably strong, and the second thought to your head is small. Not elvish-small, no; for an elf he seemed on the large side (the way you were maybe on the large side for a shem, tall, broader than most magi were ever assumed to be). But he was small the way a crossbow bolt was - that while a longer arrow could travel a greater distance - that a shorter, more stout bolt would carry a greater punch. The man was small the way a lightning bolt was thin - and maybe here you mean compact, or powerful, or otherwise overwhelming for what size he could hold to his name.

A name that you wish you had, before you started swinging back.

And by the time, by the time you found it necessary to use a bit of the old quick blue in your defense (the man was full of an impossible amount of rage and seemed to be fighting to kill) - it was by this time that Carver's voice joined the fracas, that the fight had spilled out into the balmy Kirkwall night, that it dawned on you that this man, who had startled up from his seat to launch himself at you in three quick strides, who unarmored and without weapon seemed set to kill you with his bare hands -

It might have crossed your mind that the man could be Dalish, by Merrill's acquaintance, or Grey Warden, by the familiarity of Carver's protests - but not that he could be both, because the only Dalishman who had ever joined the ranks of the Grey had done so unwillingly, and become the Hero of Ferelden, and that couldn't have been the same man you were fighting because a hero would need much better use of his time than picking tavern brawls over who-knew-what.

It then crossed your mind, after the whump of the Smite rattled the very bones within you, that a Dalishman had no business knowing Templar commands, and that the man had no tattoos across his face besides, and that the man could then have been a Templar, instead, perhaps interrogating Merrill, perhaps following Carver's return visit (and wouldn't THAT betrayal have been a long time coming), on the hunt for Anders, or you, or you AND Anders AND Merrill. You fight back in earnest.

There is blood. There is shaking and mana and the deaf struggle through the reverb of the Templarate casts. You are separated by the crowd just as your vision begins to swim in the grip of the steely (warm) choke-hold - and the last you see of the man that night is obscured by Carver's broad back, by the jerk of Carver's armored shoulder and elbow, the flash of Carver's reproachful blue eyes before the crowd fills in between the two of you and drags you to some designated bench of safety.

You are already healing yourself, chugging the slick oil of the mana vial pressed to your weak fingers.

Merrill is pale at your elbow. "Hawke," she wavers, in that crooning Dalish lilt. "I didn't tell him. It's all my fault and I didn't get the chance to explain. He - he heard it from those who survi - " a hitched breath. "Who had survived." Resolve hardening, "Who had survived their attack against us."

Rubbing the ache out of your jaw, feeling your face stitch back to something less mauled, "He didn't look Dalish. Didn't have the finesse of an assassin. Lemme guess; old boyfriend?"

Merrill's smile is fleeting, but kind. "Mathain left Sabrae long before I did. It wasn't his right to try and claim vengeance like that, having so thoroughly renounced us."

You ease somewhat under the name. Not Mahariel, then, but Matha-een. A nightmare. You wonder how he knows Carver, wonder if there weren't a few unlauded Dalish recruits in the Wardens after all, or if perhaps the man was an acquaintance of Isabela's - some pretty whoreson for Carver to get all huffy and defensive and swoony over (this is an unfair accusation, but you are in no mood for reasonable investigation and Merrill offers nothing more than a stilted apology).

: x :

It is by the next night that you ever get a second glance of the man, and here again you nearly mistake him for Isabela as you reach forward to knock on her door, door barking open and the man passing quite easily under the reach of your arm. On recognizing the pierced ears, you flinch back to grab at the pommel of your field-dagger.

Mathain glances at you the way a disinterested alley-cat might in passing the many drunks populating its alley, throwing a rude hand-sign over his shoulder as he stalks down the cluttered hallway into the tavern proper and is lost from view. You breathe in deep, sheathing your weapon. You exhale in a sigh, but the noise is choked off as you meet the contents of Isabela's room. Carver sits on the side of Isabela's plushly decorated bed quite nude - and you don't hardly recognize him at first either, tattoed and grizzled and aged the way six years of mercenary work somehow never managed to make him.

"Carver," you greet, eyebrows up, hand on the door. "Warden life suits you, then? Getting proper elven tail and everything; I'm so proud."

Carver's mouth twists behind his neatly cropped beard, black and thick just like yours. "And why are you so sure I'm getting 'elven tail'?"

The banter is easy and familiar and you are visibly grateful for it, though you haven't moved from the door. "Because Isabela promised me she would never fuck my baby brother, and your friend back there has a love-bite the size of Starkhaven."

Carver's chest jumps with the silent laugh, and he leans with a palm braced on a knee to retrieve his trousers from the floor. "And why would you think it weren't Isabela who put that bite there?"

"Because Isabela isn't here, and you're naked."

Carver puts both feet in the trousers, standing, tugging himself into some state of decency. "You know I sleep in the nude."

"If Isabela fucked you both, I will owe her such a pinch."

The protest is quiet, and lacks the much-expected nasal whine, "Nobody got fucked, Rett. That mark you saw is most probably a bruise you had put on him yourself."

There is nothing to say to this, so you cross your arms and lean in the doorway. "Where is ol' bonnie Bella this evening, to so generously lend her rooms to two misplaced Wardens?"

"Docks," Carver grunts from under the trappings of his tunic, pulling himself free of the neck to lace up the sleeves.

"Are you going to hug me once you're dressed, or do I have to buy you an ale first?"

Carver drops his thick arms, exasperated. "You killed his entire clan, Garrett!"

"Well... not the entire -"

"It was a massacre he didn't even know about until yesterday morning -"

"We were under attack, I couldn't have very well -"

"I had to talk him out of killing Merrill! Do you have any idea what that's like, trying to reason with Mad -"

And here you interrupt the next word, and prolong your ignorance, and the bickering is in full swing by the time Fenris interrupts, also seeking to have a word with Isabela, also uncomfortably surprised to find Carver there.

Fenris glances between the two of you, having so easily allowed himself past you into the room only to prop his hands on his hips and scowl. "Is she under the bed, drunk, again?"

"Docks," Carver grunts, sitting to the bed to pull stockings and boots on.

Fenris deliberates, his pretty elven eyes moving under the fringe of white hair. "You look hale, Hawke." You know it is Carver who Fenris addresses - you both do, Carver and yourself, because Fenris does not say the name with the same inflection he might use when addressing you.

You answer sarcastically, regardless, "Thanks. Nearly beaten to death last night, but I managed to restitch my hyde."

Fenris' brooding attention flickers back over you, a shade of apprehension. "Templars?"

Carver scoffs from the bed. "Nearly."

You clear your throat, pulling yourself away from the support of the jamb. "Fellow that passed not too long ago, you might have seen him. Eyes like two gold coins under particularly angry black caterpillars. Pretty dark hair? Gold beads in it? Pierced along the ears? No?" You frown at Fenris' confusion. "Hm. Knows Templar ... stuff. Looks like something off the boats, talks like a Dalishman. Keep an eye out, for me - I owe him a broken molar."

Carver casts a look over his shoulder, shaking his head. "Answers to Matha'in, if you're curious."

Fenris shifts from foot to foot, expression fronted by that high Tevinter nose of his in its usual wrinkle. "I'm not."

Carver stands, a heavy motion. He dusts his knees, his thighs, his shirtfront, then smiles at Fenris. It is a patient look. A kind look. "And maybe I wasn't talking to you, whom I'd know better to not give two rats buggering."

Fenris grunts a laugh, jerking his chin up to clear his eyes of hairfall, grinning the way you hardly ever saw him grin those days.

You don't recognize the grown man in plain leather breeks walking towards you, not as he punches you gently in the center of the chest to get you out of the way so he can pass from the room, and not as you follow to watch him journey down the hall to the tavern proper. You can't quite reconcile the bearded Warden in the warrior's pleat and the tattoos and the wide-neck tunic with the fresh-faced whiny young brother you once knew. The moment is fleeting, though, and you know that Carver is still Carver - that he'd maybe just found somebody else to follow, somebody who gave a better example of it, somebody he'd actually want to learn from, to mimic.

Fenris has settled to the bed with a skein of wine. "What's all this about you beaten near to death?"

You look sidelong over your shoulder. "Only that I'm surprised I wasn't. Death'd. If he'd a weapon, this Mathain fellow would have ended me on merit of surprise alone." You spin in place slowly, searching, finding no wine of your own to soothe the memory of how thoroughly you'd been robbed of your ego last night. The door closes behind you on some unseen draft.

Fenris is ever-indulgent of the conversation, though there is a resignation there you've begun to resent. "And why had he no weapon?"

"I don't know. Maybe Carver stole it away before letting him anywhere near Merrill."

"And why has Carver no weapon?"

"He had one last night, I think."

"And armor?"

You rub at your beard, sitting to the nearest divan to have a think. "Aye."

"So they'd have this gear stashed in the place in which they might sleep."

You raise your eyebrows, then look about Isabela's room - in which there seemed to be no armor, or weapons. You grunt an approval, nodding. "My baby brother is fucking a crazy Dalish man. Never would have seen that coming." You cast the bed a doubtful glance. "I wouldn't rest there."

Fenris' reply is immediate and sardonic, "I've sat in worse." He drinks from the skein, resolute, kicking a leg out to bunch the furs away from himself. "What are you going to do, that your brother's intended means to kill you?"

You wave the concern away. "Oh, I doubt he still means that. Moment of temper, very obviously so, else he'd have had a good long think and assassinated me proper."

"What makes you so certain that needn't be a future concern?"

Your voice warms in your throat, "Why Fenris, you're worried. And here I thought you ready to stab me through on principle."

Low, furious, "I wouldn't."

"Don't growl. It does things to me. Things below the belt, things you don't approve of." A quick amend - "So much, anymore, anyway."

Fenris looks lost, and more than anything you wish Carver were here, crass and full of challenge, just so you could linger a little while more in a life where Fenris isn't sad and angry. "Hawke -" And ah, there it is, that tone, that sound in the word that lets you and anyone within earshot know that it's the name that belongs to you, that it's the name Fenris calls the Hawke brother that is his. "Latch the door properly on your way out, will you?"