AN - Gift for Epiphany Sola Gatia as part of the Secret Santa Exchange of CMDA. Again, Merry Christmas, Lady. Sorry to the first people who tried reading this, lost the format on the upload.

The more mature side of himself tells Carver he was rather lucky. There was no time to be afraid of the Joining. As soon as he arrived to camp, not strong enough to curse or complain, not attentive enough to realize there were more people around him, someone placed a cup to his lips and told him to drink. No preparation. Just drink and be done with it. While others shook in fear, he simply passed out in bliss, almost not noticing the pain the poison caused because, suddenly, he could breathe right again and everything seemed better. Everything is better than that limbo he had been stuck in. Half dying, half alive.

When he opens his eyes, there is an elven woman in front of him; attentive, solemn and armored. She waits until he is sure of his surroundings – wooden ceiling and stone floors, a warm blanket underneath his chilled skin – before explaining exactly what a Warden is all about. All the dos and don'ts, everything he is now and everything he will never be. It breaks him apart, little by little, makes him react in the only way he knows how.

Harsh words are flung at her at some point and the brunette takes it all stoically. It speaks of vast experience on her part and plain immaturity on his. Unfortunately, in the middle of his rant, Carver forgets to remember he lays in some kind of barracks, surrounded by silver and blue clad people. Wardens. All of them Wardens. Some of them make no effort to hide glares from the newcomer; probably (just maybe) because he is insulting their leader non-stop.

It's a smart way to start his new life. Really.

A couple of minutes pass without his awareness and nothing breaks whatever he is spewing out; not even he knows what it. Nothing but a shadow, suddenly sitting in front of him and all he can notice is a pair of bright blue eyes before she slaps him. Just like that. Slap. Blunt and dry, the bored expression of someone facing a particularly slow child. It is no wonder that Carver's words stop, wide eyes staring up at the newly-arrived. A woman. A dwarf. A petite female in light armor, an abrupt cheeky smile and more visible blades than Isabella would dare to carry.

"You lived and probably will live more thirty years," the dwarven woman comments just as her two hands slap his cheeks again. "Better than I. I'm already dead!"

"Sigrun!"

The dwarf pretends not to notice how the Commander's tone isn't exactly pleased, grinning over her shoulder to the older woman in an attitude that in words would say 'who me?'; so blasé over the whole thing that it feels like she has said 'good morning' instead of assaulting him.

"It was just a little slap." Three. "It's not like you usually complain when I slap others."

"They haven't just gone through a Joining, Sigrun," the Warden explains patiently. "And this one hasn't sexually harassed you yet. At least, let him understand what's going on before turning mother on him." She stands, a hand reaching out to rest on the dwarf's shoulder. There's an unspoken question being done somewhere in their feminine minds and he's so not enjoying being left out of the loop. Or have they forgotten he was just poisoned?

Apparently they have. Sigrun nods, always with that slight smile; the one that reminds him of Bethany getting ready for a prank. So reassuring. Only not.

"Let me handle him, Commander. Bet I can make him do tricks after a week."

Well, that's not insulting at all.

xxxXXXxxx

The life of a Warden isn't the easiest thing but Carver finds himself adapting. They don't hide, they chase. They are respected and looked upon with curiosity and, for someone who spent half his life in self-imposed obscurity, he sort of revels in it. There are the downsides, of course, because fighting through the thirty years he still has left isn't comfortable but they fade into the background most of the time.

His brother's not there either, Sigrun is instead. And unlike the male, she's more than happy to let him pick up the slack and gather some honors at the end of the day.

Mostly.

"Did you just try to protect me? Really? What's wrong with you?"

For some reason, every time he tries to act a little more like a man – just like his mother would like – Sigrun takes it a personal offense. Like now, blood covered and injured still, she yells in his face when all he wanted was to keep her safe. The dwarf doesn't really need it, he knows but, sometimes, in the middle of the fight, he forgets she's not like Bethany.

"I was trying to help!"

"No, you were trying to play the big man. Now listen to me here." Poke. She's poking his chest. Poking. Yes, he's definitely taking all four inches of her seriously now. "I'm a Warden. I'm Legion of the Dead. I eat little boys like you for breakfast and." His brain tunes out for a moment because her words are fast, her lips keep moving and those words just sounded. So. Very. Wrong. He is but a man, after all, it's not like he can stop himself from thinking odd things. Even if she's a dwarf and small and short and kind of pretty in this cute, dangerous way... "Are you even listening to me?"

No. He was wondering if he should tell her she shouldn't go around saying she eats little boys.

Perhaps no is a bad answer. Carver thinks of Bethany and her long acquired habit of shoving her staff around when in this situation.

"Yes."

Her ability to do a 180 shows right then, her anger shifting into sadness, even disappointment. Her lower lip doesn't quite tremble but it is there, if he looks closely. Which he isn't.

"You need to stop doing this, Carver," Sigrun continues almost gently, patting his arm before moving along. "Because next time, I'll just beat you out of the way. Or stab you, I can do that, you know? No one would blame me."

Yes, there she is again. Carver can't help but smile at the petite woman, rushing forward to walk by her side as they prepare themselves to join the rest of the group; which wisely, had walked away once he was in trouble.

"We're sort of friends, aren't we, dwarf?"

The woman scoffs, nearly as politely as a bronto."You kidding me? My friends don't watch my back. And they smell better."

Yes. They are.

xxxXXXxxx

The letter is read again and again, crumpled and opened again to the point where it is half destroyed. Carver doesn't notice. His eyes are bloodshot and pained; he cannot force himself to concentrate on the words anymore. What does it matter anyway? As much as he reads, as much as he tries to change them in his mind, they're still there and they're still the same. His mother is dead. No. Gone. Just gone. If he says gone, he can pretend for just a little while.

The door was locked so it's really no wonder when something jingles, the key is pushed out and the door opens. Slowly. Her presence is also no wonder.

"I heard," Sigrun says simply.

"Yeah."

"Why aren't you going? Bet if you asked the Commander, she wouldn't mind? I could tell her for you or." He begins shaking his head, her words dying in her throat. It would be possible. The Commander would understand.

"If I go," he begins slowly, eyes downcast, fists closed so tightly on his knees that the bones seem ready to give in at any moment. "I'll just blame him. And it's not his fault. I bet he tried hard. I know he went up and down that blasted city searching for her. I know he killed the guy slowly like I would. I know. But."

He would do it anyway. It's easier to blame his older brother: his strong, protective brother who hovered over her like she would disappear in an instant (which she did) than blaming himself who just wasn't there (when he should have).

He doesn't raise his head. If anything, Carver can't stand the pity in her face, the way she would commiserate, say everything will be all right. Because it isn't and it won't. He shouldn't blame his brother because he was there and he wasn't. And he shouldn't whine and cry and mourn just because Leandra isn't there anymore, her letters won't arrive, her gifts won't come every now and then to be opened in the morning in the middle of his new family and you're so bloody lucky, you bastard. Momma looking after you for this long.

"Come here."

He doesn't react in any way, Sigrun's words registering somewhere in the back, somewhere away out of the world where his mother still lives and he's going home with his father by the door, Bethany holding a staff, look, isn't it lovelyand Gerard right behind her, indulgent and mocking and loving with Leandra right by him.

Her armor rustles, occupies his entire line of sight when her small arms entwine behind his neck and force his head against her chest. Fingers, gentle fingers comb his hair slowly and she doesn't say one single word. Not even the obligatory I'm sorry.

"You're growing up. I'm so proud."

Carver chokes on his laughter, bitter and painful, before closing his eyes and just letting go.

And Sigrun stays the entire night, running rough fingers through his hair, whispering words he doesn't understand nor needs to.

The bloody idiot.

xxxXXXxxx

There is no real reason to dislike the male dwarf. The sense of humor is there, accompanied by some of the bawdiest songs Carver has ever heard, even after spending half his time in the Hanging man with Isabela and her pretenders (slash bed partners). He can go as far as to say he likes the man. Most of the time. Because in that moment, Carver can't bother to remember he does. The small group has been walking for the past half an hour and the Keep still shines in the distance in all its morning glory.

And his patience is slowly but steadily being chipped away by each innuendo and sex joke sent at Sigrun.

It's understandable that he's protective. Sigrun is his first friend in the Wardens. She looked after him after the Joining, she helped him get used to the Deep Roads, she scolds him and laughs with him and Maker, so many other little things. She deserves better than being asked to grease the skinned bronto or do the horizontal dance or, Carver doesn't remember all of them so sue him. Sigrun deserves more. That's why he's angry. Upset. That's it, nothing more.

Hi, this is your conscience. Those words? Amazing amount of denial, my son.

Maker help him, he isn't even allowed to dwell on his anger in peace.

"Oghren," he isn't hissing, he isn't; he is being polite and calm and perfectly himself, don't doubt it for a second. "Shut up."

The group shifts its attention to the two males with the resolution of old maids; the dwarf revels in it, Carver is too damned pissed to even notice.

"Eh?"

Breathe in, one more time, it's not like it was a bloody crime. But Oghren still stares at Sigrun in that way which makes his blood boil, the woman says nothing in return except a disgusted sound every now and then (perhaps she doesn't mind it. But he does, he really does).

"You shouldn't treat her like that," it makes him want to stab things; "She is your companion in the Wardens. And she does more than her share. It's not like she's just here for eye candy and."

"Come on, little Hawke." And just Carver thought he couldn't hate Varric more for daring to visit and say those two words in the dwarf's vicinity. "Tell me just why am I supposed to stop again? Seen you be all meddlesome yourself with Betta? Bella? Breta? That chick with the big." Oghren places his hands on his chest and moves them forwards. Yes, the gesture doesn't need an explanatory drawing attached. "Why aren't we all big boys allowed to play around?"

Because it's Sigrun he's playing with.

"Because. Because damnit!"

His brain shuts down. His body doesn't. In a gesture that speaks less of challenge and more of claiming, Carver grabs Sigrun's arm – tries to ignore how comically confused she looks – before pushing her against his body. And what he does next virtually sends the entire world around them into silence.

There are no fireworks, there are no amazing sudden understandings or the certainty of how right that is. Maybe that last one. There is warmth though, Maker, feels like a furnace, soft flesh against his own, skin far smoother underneath his fingers, between the coarse belts of her armor. And strawberries, he realizes with a silent snicker (he is rather busy after all and Andraste help him if she thinks he's laughing at her right then). Sigrun tastes like strawberries, the same ones whose disappearance the cook had been complaining the whole morning, fresh against his lips and lingering on his tongue.

Someone clears its throat. Rather loudly, now that he thinks about it and he doesn't want to think about it since Sigrun isn't stabbing him at the moment. Strong fingers on his shirt, curled like a cat in front of the fireplace, a little sound that's half a whimper, half a sigh, a bit of laughter. She kisses like she lives, all of it joy and energy leaving him to catch up as much as possible; he finds that it's even easier than catching up to her in battle. More rewarding too. The person coughs more loudly; it half sounds like a lung disease to his distracted mind.

Very distracted. It takes him a while to understand Sigrun has stopped groaning and is now growlingand that growl isn't happy. She pulls back (probably to kill him) but instead of stabbing him a couple (hundred) times, she glares at Nathaniel, standing right behind them, a contrite, almost embarrassed expression on his face. Carver doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to put a reign on the rest of his anger at Oghren which feels suspiciously like another feeling starting with a 'J' and whatever's running through his veins which is everything but anger.

"And you," she says bluntly, returning all her attention back to him. "You're too bloody tall."

That's her first thought?

"You're too bloody short."

That's his reply? What's wrong with the two of them?

"I'm a dwarf! What's your excuse?"

"Well, my neck hurts."

"You need to stop whining, I swear. Am I whining over you biting me?"

"I didn't bite." At least he thinks he didn't. "Why are we arguing, damnit?"

Carver has no idea. They sound silly, childish and just themselves, really. And he is having fun. He's having fun.

"Because you just kissed me out of the blue, called me short, complained and aren't doing it again. That's a lot of reasons to keep bugging you."

She takes the whole subject in her hands (lips, actually) and pushes him right back to where his face is supposed to be. And now it's sweet, languid, with no anger and the knowledge that her companion's whispers matters nothing, less than nothing even. Not even Nathaniel would be able to stop them.

"Now that's just hot."

Oghren, that's a whole new barrel of wine. The couple literally jumps away from each other, not because of embarrassment but because of the unspoken wish not to be part of the other dwarf's perverted fantasies.

Though Carver makes sure to get him good and drunk later that night. Not because he's grateful or anything. Just because.

Oh, stop judging.

xxxXXXxxx

Sigrun refuses to sleep in her room anymore. According to her, he doesn't snore all that much. And when he does, it's not like she refuses to let him know; a firm kick jots him right back into blessed consciousness. There's also the fact that he's warm, she details carefully, soft, not so bad as a pillow and while he's silent? Dear ancestors, he might just be the best thing since warmed water. Only she adds shame you're never quiet, ehand his ego takes a nosedive into non-existence. But this is nice, to have her nearby, skin against skin and her breath ghosting over him with every word.

"What are you brooding about now?"

"Thinking of what my mother would think of this. Or Bethany."

"And what would they think?"

"We would be married by Sunday."

"Ah. …and is it that bad?"

"Not really."

"Then why not on Saturday?"

"Due on Denerim. Friday?"

"Out to Amaranthine. How about Thursday?"

"Taking the new recruits on their first outing."

At some point, jokes aren't jokes anymore, feeling real and serious instead. They look at each other and, not for the first time, Carver notices how beautiful she is. To his eyes, at least. Laughing and happy, seeing the light where he sees nothing but nightmares and danger, light blue eyes and tanned skin marred by her people's prejudice. And he wonders what does she manage to see in him, even now that he knows to have grown. A little. A small little piece.

Sigrun smiles, a young kid turning someone's world upside down and enjoying every moment of it.

He rolls his eyes. But when she rises from the bed and extends her hand to him, he follows.

xxxXXXxxx

"This better be urgent." The Commander sticks her head out of the room, brown hair falling all around in disarray while holding a robe a little too close to her chest. "What do you two want?"

He's not wondering. Sigrun makes sure he doesn't, stepping on his foot ever so innocently before grinning at their scowling Commander. A very bad humored Commander. Oddly bad humored considering she was supposed to be just sleeping.

Oh, how he wonders.

"Would you just speak?" She hisses slowly (and he makes an extra note never to annoy her during her extracurricular activities because this elf is dangerous, killed a dragon and sure looks like one when deprived of things). "Now."

Then Carver stops because she is there, staring at up at him, wondering if this is right and whether or not he was serious and so many other little details. He knows she is, he knows her after all and it's not like his thoughts are any different. Only, for once, Carver also holds the answer to their questions and it makes that dread somewhere on his stomach recede before it, slowly, fades into nothing. With a slight smile, he reaches for her hand, carefully enfolding it in his own as if it needs protection.

"We kind of need a favor, Commander."

And it is he who voices it, noticing just how the little dwarf brightens at each word he utters, her hand slowly maneuvering until it is holding his in return.

xxxXXXxxx

Dear Carver,

You married what and whom?

Amazed love,

Gerard

Gerard,

Shut up, asshole. You married a male elf who harps on against mages constantly.

No love whatsoever,

Carver

Note – Sigrun wants to you to come over for dinner. She does. And bring your staff, we're attacked every week.