Brown Bottle Flu
There was a bitter taste in Carver's mouth, something he could not completely attribute to the ale he had been guzzling all night, even if it was the Hanged Man's cheapest brew. Every time the feeling began be abate, all he had to do was remember what had happened that afternoon and it all came rushing back, usually accompanied by another pint or two.
His sister was gone, off to the Deep Roads. And, at the merest threat of tears from their mother, Marian had decided to leave him behind.
He really should have seen it coming. While this last year had forced them to live and work closer than ever before, there was always something between them. At first, he'd thought it was Bethany but, while that certainly didn't help, it went further than that, back to Father and beyond. So really, this was just another thing. But after everything they had done – together – this felt like a whole broadsword skewering him in the back.
And so he'd come here, ripping his arm away from his mother's tight, needy grasp. He might not be going to the Deep Roads but he sure as hell wasn't going to be led back home like a good little boy. Andraste's ass, he was a grown man, no matter what his family thought they saw.
By the time last call came, the world was blurred and rocking, like the ship that had first brought him to this miserable city. He staggered toward the door, stumbling into a chair.
"Careful now, the chairs here have been known to fight back."
"I can take them," he said – or at least he thought he did, it was getting hard to tell.
Isabella laughed. "Of course you can. But why don't we let them off with a warning this time and see if we can't get you home."
"Leave me alone, I don't need any help."
She didn't answer but a moment later an arm was wrapped around his waist. "Maybe not but why don't you humour me," she whispered into his ear in that low, promising tone that usually made him hard in a moment. Not tonight but he didn't protest her aid any further; he still had enough sense to know he needed it, especially as they navigated the twists and turns of Lowtown and his stomach began to protest.
They made it almost all the way to his uncle's house before he had to stop and vomit in an alleyway. Isabella stood by him the whole time, albeit at a safe distance away.
"Why are you here?" he asked once he righted himself again, with her help.
"I think you know why, Little Hawke."
He spat out some of the vile, acidic taste in his mouth. "She left you here, too."
She laughed again. "Of course she did. Why on earth would I want to go underground. It's about the furthest thing from a ship that I can think of."
Carver just shook his head. "I hate her," he murmured.
"I know you do right now, but you won't always."
"How do you know?"
"I just do. Would I lie to you?"
"Why not, everyone else does."
Isabella shrugged but didn't say anything, and soon the stairs to Gamlen's little hovel stood before them. "Here you go," she said, letting him go. Carver immediately tumbled to the ground, only barely getting his arms out in time to break the fall. "Sorry," she told him, though she didn't sound sorry at all. "See you around, little Hawke."
His fingers clenched as he managed to get upright and, with great effort, climbed up the stairs.
There was a light on inside, as he expected, and, as he also expected, his mother quickly got up, rushing toward him.
"Carver, where have you been? It's so late."
He didn't answer her, instead focusing on heading into the right bedroom – a room that was private now, the sole silver lining to the day's joke at his expense.
"Carver, talk to me, please!" Mother cried out, her hands grasping at his arm.
"Go to hell," he said before pushing her away. As she cried out, he turned his head, looking anywhere but at her face. Using every bit of strength and sobriety he had left to get himself standing upright and walking straight, he went into his bedroom and locked the door behind him.
The walls weren't even close to thick enough to more than muffle the sound of Leandra's tears but a pillow wrapped around Carver's head helped with that at least. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and prayed for oblivion.
"That wasn't very nice."
Carver sat up, his head suddenly clear as he faced his sister, sitting beside him in that field in Lothering that they had played in for so many hours. He'd seen this place so many times this past year – almost every night – that it had become familiar to him all over again.
"What do you want, Bethany?"
"Do I have to want something?" she asked.
"Everyone else does."
"Well, I'm not everyone else," she told him as her dark curls danced gently in the wind. He remembered nailing her hair to her bed and smiled, despite himself.
"No," he agreed, "you're not. You're dead."
He regretted those last words as soon as they left his lips and even more as he saw the look on Bethany's face. But before he could apologize, she beat him to it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I always seem to be causing you trouble, even after I'm gone."
He shifted into a kneeling position, leaning forwards and staring straight into her eyes. "You never caused me any trouble that I didn't deserve."
She stared at him for a moment, then smiled. "You say that now."
"I mean it."
Bethany reached over, resting a warm hand on his. "I'm sorry that you keep getting left behind."
Neither of them said anything else and, a moment later, it was morning.
The next days and nights blended together in a swiftly emerging pattern. Carver would lay in bed for hours in the morning, his head feeling as those it had been throttled by a thousand Qunari. When he did rise, he headed for the door as soon as his armour was fastened, seeking refuge from his mother and as many ways to forget himself as possible. Many hours later, he would stumble home – sometimes aided, sometimes not – drunk and bloodied from fighting ruffians or thugs or anyone who looked at him the wrong way. And then he would dream of Bethany, conversing all night with the only family member whose presence he could stand for longer than a handful of seconds.
One afternoon, almost a fortnight has passed since Marian and the others left, he found himself needing to get out of this rat's nest of a city. It was foolhardy to go to the Wounded Coast alone, even during daylight, but trouble didn't scare him now. In fact, trouble sounded like just what he needed.
He should have known it wouldn't have been that easy. Not for him.
He saw the glint of armour a moment too late. He went to draw his sword but quickly released it as he recognized not only the breastplate of the city guard but also the face of the woman who wore it.
"Aveline."
"Carver," she said as came to stand before him. "What are you doing out here?"
He shrugged. "Walking. Why, is that a crime now?"
"It usually is when you're the one doing it."
"I think you're confusing me with my sister," he said, turning to walk away.
"These days, all the stories I hear are about you,"
"Well," he called back as he began to put distance between him and Aveline, "I suppose it's tough to cause trouble in Kirkwall when you aren't actually in Kirkwall."
"Carver."
He paused and half turned, looking at her over his shoulder.
"I'm worried about you."
He scoffed. "I wish people would stop worry about me and start worrying about their own lives. I'm perfectly capable of managing mine."
"Are you?"
He turned back and walked away. He didn't stop walking until he reached the bar at the Hanged Man.
"No," he said to his beer stein, containing his third – or maybe fourth ... or tenth – drink of the night, "not right now I'm not." Then, with one long gulp, he drained it contents.
Carver stretched out on the grass, watching the clouds go by. It was another beautiful day in Lothering, just like it always was in this little world of his.
"Do you remember the day the mummers came to town?"
He turned his head to look over at Bethany. "No, were there mummers that came to town?"
She looked at him for a moment, then threw the small bouquet of wild flowers she had picked at his head. "Of course you remember. I think that's the first time Peaches ever talked to you."
"Mmm, Peaches. Yes, I suppose I do remember that part, at least. What else was there?"
"All sorts of people and animals, too. Jugglers and clowns. And, of course, the most beautiful dancers in the whole world." Bethany spun around at the memory, arms outstretched and a grin on her face.
Carver sat up. "And how would you know that? You haven't seen every dancer in the whole world."
She clucked her tongue at him, still spinning. "Some things, brother, you don't need to see in order to know that they are true. One day, maybe you'll learn that."
He shook his head but he was smiling all the same. "Maybe some day."
"I am the prince of Ferelden, I'm telling you!"
"Pathetic."
"Really?" Isabella asked from across the table. "You don't think he reminds you of anyone?"
Carver squinted at the drunk, grasping at memory. "I suppose he might look a little bit like King Cailan, but not enough to prove anything."
Isabella stared at him, raising an eyebrow.
"Fine, I know, that's not what you meant." He stared down at the table, fingers tracing the woodgrain. "Maybe I do sound a little like him but I at least actually have cause."
She only shook her head as she looked at both men. "Maybe both of you do ... and don't.
He didn't even try to make sense of what she meant by that.
Carver woke the next morning sorer than usual, with little recollection as to why. Something about princes and lies and ... Andraste, if his head had been pounding before, now it was ready to tear itself asunder. In vain he struggled to sit up slowly, only to fall back down on his thin cot with a cry, his right shoulder protesting the entire time.
There was a tentative knock on the door. Mother.
"Carver, are you awake? Is everything alright?"
He planned response about leaving him alone was lost in a gasp of pain as he tried to get up again.
"I'm coming in," Leandra called out as she opened the door. She froze in the doorway but only for the moment it took to survey her son and realize how badly off he was.
"Oh Carver!" she cried out, rushing to his side. "What happened?"
After a moment, he was forced to admit, "I think my shoulder's been dislocated."
"Let me see ... "she murmured, pushing back the sleeve of his shirt. Carver wasn't quite sure what had happened to his armour but it was good thing that it was already off, however it had happened. "Yes," Leandra said, "it's definitely dislocated. Let me call the healer."
Anders, he thought for a moment, before remembering that Marian had taken the man with her. A deranged, ex-Warden apostate was good enough for company but not her own brother. Then he realized exactly what his mother intended to do and so, just as she was about to leave the room, he called out sharply, "Wait. Don't waste coin on that. Just come and –" he paused with a grimace, "and pop it back into place. It isn't hard.
Or at least, he dearly hoped it wasn't. He'd been lucky not to suffer any serious wounds at Ostagar – he never would have escaped otherwise – but he'd heard enough about this particular injury to have an idea of what to do. Maybe for once knowing and doing wouldn't have too much of a gap between them; though, given it was him, he didn't have high expectations.
Leandra looked hesitant but, after another moan, returned to kneel beside him. "What do I do?"
"Help me sit up first."
It wasn't pretty or comfortable, but somehow they did manage that much. A thin layer of sweat had by now appeared on Carver's forehead and he knew the worst was yet to come.
"Now you need to push it back into the proper position," he said, gritting his teeth.
"Don't you need something for the pain?"
"All I need is for you to do it already!"
He closed his eyes, sparing himself from the guilt seeing the effects of his words would no doubt have caused. After a long moment, and another shuddering sigh, Leandra carefully put her hands on his arms.
"Alright, on three. One, two –"
Carver cried out, more in surprise than pain, as his arm suddenly shifted beneath the steady pressure of his mother's hands. Bone and muscle were pushed together and then ... his arm was back where it was supposed to be.
"What happened to three?" he asked when he finally found his voice again.
Leandra didn't answer right away, as she rummaged about his clothing. She pulled out an old shirt that had seen many better days and ripped it in half. "Anticipation is half of anything," she told him as she wrapped the cloth around his arm, doing her best to immobilize it. "Try having children and then you'll know it's true."
And there was the guilt after all, knocking into him with full force. He took an unsteady breath, trying to let both it and the physical pain wash over him, with limited effect.
"There," she said after a moment, "that should do you for now. You should go see a healer though, we'll find the money somehow. Perhaps the viscount ..."
"Thank you," he said softly. "I think I should rest for a bit."
"All right." She helped him lie back down, pulling a blanket up over him. "Let me know if you need anything."
He nodded and she stood up, heading for the door. She paused there once again, looking back at him. "Carver, you do know that I only want you to be happy, don't you?"
"Yes, yes, of course I know."
Bethany looked at him, raising her eyebrows. "Why are you telling me this and not her?"
He sighed in exasperation. "Because I'm not ready to stop being angry at her."
She leaned over and poked him right between the eyes. "Are you ever going to be ready?"
"Yes!"
"Right," she replied, shaking her head, "I'll believe that when I see it." She walked away a few steps, looking into the distance at something Carver couldn't see.
"Are you ever going to take my side?"
She spun around to look at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"Exactly what I said," he replied. "We're twins, right? So how come you always teaming up against me, either with mother right now or, usually, with Marian."
"Carver, that's not –"
"It is true!" He stood up, arms outstretched before him, hands clenched into fights. "It's always been true and don't try and deny it. We may have come into the world together but you spent much more of it with her than me. It was always the Hawke sisters, mages fighting against the world. If I was lucky, you maybe remembered that I was there, poor, boring, unmagical me. Usually, I was just watching while you took on things I could never imagine, let alone be a part of. You and Father and the whole god damned world!"
She stared at him in silence, until his arms feel to rest along his sides. "Are you done?"
"Yes," he muttered.
"Very well." She took a step forward, closing the gap between them. "I can't say that some of that isn't true. Marian and I have always been very close but I always thought it was because we were sisters, not because of being mages. Maybe that was shortsighted of me but it's still how I felt." She took another step and wrapped her arms around him. "But I will always love you and I'm always on your side, even if you can't see it."
By the end another week had passed since the expedition left when Carver found his coin purse growing light and the Hanged Man's barkeep unwilling to start a tab. His blood boiled as he thought of all the gold he'd help raised, money he might never see again. It made him want a drink that much more but instead he found himself heading for a familiar corner of Lowtown, for a meeting with an even more familiar man.
"No."
Carver stared at Meeran. "What do you mean no?"
The mercenary gave him a quick once over, eyes cold in judgement. "I mean that I've heard the stories about you've been doing since your sister left and they tell me that you're a loose cannon. And you should know by now that I don't waste my time or my coin on liabilities."
Carver moved to draw his sword but, before his hands were even on the hilt, there was a dagger at his throat and a crossbow pointed at his groin. With a half scowl, half snarl, he raised his hands. "Fine," he spat out, "I don't need you anyway. Coming here was just a courtesy, one I won't be repeating." He spun around, mindful of the naked steel before him, and stormed off the opposite direction.
"You could have handled that better."
"I know. I should have moved fast enough to cut off his damn head."
Bethany sighed. "You know that's not what I meant."
Carver looked down at the ground, digging his fingers into the dirt. "Yes, I know. Just like we both know how useless it is for you to tell me that now."
"Trust me, brother dear, if I could have told you then, I would have."
He pushed himself off the ground. "Why are you telling me anything at all? Why are you here? Are you even my sister at all, or just some demon sent here to torment me?"
Bethany remained seated and shrugged, a ghost of a smile on her face. "I wish I knew."
Carver stared down at the gold coin in his hand, the last one that he had. All day he had been looking at it, holding it, thinking about it and how he was going to spend it. There were a few options he had considered: buying a lot of the cheap stuff, even more of the cheaper stuff, or saving it for one big, last hurrah.
Finally he made his decision and walked up to the bar. He was just about to order a bottle of the Hanged Man's homemade rotgut when –
"Hold it, boy."
Given everything that had happened to him these last couple of years – Darkspawn, dragons who turned into women, and ghostly visions – it took quite a bit to surprise him. However, his uncle walking up to him in the Hanged Man, a serious expression on his face, was definitely a surprise.
"What are you doing here?" Carver asked him, putting the coin back into his pocket, at least for now.
"I should be the one asking that," Gamlen told him. "Course, the whole of Kirkwall knows to find you here, or at least the unsavoury part does."
"Which would explain you," Carver replied with a scowl, an expression that was echoed almost immediately on his uncle's face.
"Look here, you ungrateful brat, I've come to help you, whether you believe me or not.
"You, help me? I sure as hell hope I haven't fallen that far."
Gamlen glared at him. "Are you about to spend your last coin on a bottle of booze that'll more likely than note burn a hole in your stomach?"
Carver didn't reply but his silence was answer enough.
"That's what I thought. Right, then why don't you sit down and listen what I have to say. If you're a good boy, the drinks might even be on me."
With an offer like that, Carver found himself reluctant to say now and so, against all odds, he found himself sitting across the table from his uncle, about to have their first real conversation since ... ever.
There were a few long, awkward, silent moments before Gamlen finally began."Growing up, all my life seemed to be Leandra this, Leandra that. Sometimes I wondered why my parents even had me at all, given how much then went on about my perfect older sister. I suspect you know a thing or two about what that's like."
Carver stared down at the table, unable to deny but unwilling to confirm.
"Well, I thought it would change after she ran off. I thought I could finally do something to make them proud, or at least make them care."
"Did it work?"
Gamlen snorted. "Do you think it worked?"
Carver shook his head.
"That's right. Ever after all those years, I still don't think they even saw me most of the time. Meanwhile they had this huge portrait of Leandra hanging on the wall. Sometimes, I even heard Mother talking to it, telling her long-gone daughter things she sure as hell wasn't saying to me." He paused, his fist pounding lightly on the table once. "It was almost a relief when they died and I didn't have to live with the ghost anymore. Not until she came back."
Carver frowned. "And what does any of this have to do with anything?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"A lot, if you're not careful," Gamlen replied. "I know what you think of me, what everyone thinks of me, and I can't truthfully say that you're wrong. But just make sure you know that right now, you're looking to be just as bad as me, if not worse. Now, how about that drink?"
"Save your money," Carver said as he stood up. "I'm getting out of here."
The next afternoon, Bartrand returned. Carver was home, cleaning the house, when his mother rushed in with the news. Moments later they were both out the door and heading for the Hightown market, to discover what had happened.
A huge crowd was gathered around the group, too many people talking at once. But even amid the noise, Carver was able to make out the dwarf's voice.
"It was amazing, a find beyond even our wildest hopes," Bartrand told the onlookers. "The moment I laid my eyes on that old thaig, I knew I had found something special. If only the area was not so unstable."
Carver had been scanning the crowd since they arrived and there was one thing he'd noticed – or not noticed: his sister and those she'd brought instead of him were nowhere to be seen.
"Do you see her?" Leandra asked, as she reached out and grasped his hand tight.
He just shook his head and pressed on through the crowd, pushing people aside until he reached the front. Bartrand saw him right away and an odd look passed over his face for a moment, until someone asked another question about this great find.
"Where's my sister, dwarf?" Carver demanded. "Or your brother, for that matter."
Bartrand turned back to him. "I ... well, as I said, the area isn't stable. And there are Darkspawn too. In the end, it was more dangerous than expected and, unfortunately, not everyone came back."
"No, no!" Leandra cried out, collapsing against Carver's arm. "Not my baby, not again."
"I'm sorry for your loss," the dwarf muttered, before moving away as fast as his short legs could carry him.
The crowd seemed to share his sentiment, as suddenly he and his mother had a lot more personal space available to them. Leandra was weeping now and Carver quickly reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulders.
"Let's go home, Mother," he said softly. He felt the slightest movement, which he took to be a nod, and carefully he began to bring her back to the little hovel, which suddenly seemed larger and emptier than ever before.
Bethany didn't say anything and neither did he. Together they sat on the hill, hands clasped together, as storm clouds passed by overhead, all thunder and lightning but no rain.
He managed for a few days but eventually Carver found himself needing to get out of the house and away from his mother's tears. While he was focused on Leandra's grief, he hardly had any time to figure out his own. Not that he was sure he wanted to.
The only thing he was sure of right now was that he needed to stop moping and drinking and step up to take care of his family. He was the only one left who could.
He went to Aveline first, even though after their last meeting he had a pretty good idea of what her answer would be. And he was right, naturally. Although she shook her head sympathetically, she turned him away all the same.
"I'm sorry, Carver. I just don't think you're cut out for this sort of life."
He could have argued with her, pointed out that they'd served together before, albeit unknowingly, so why shouldn't they serve together again, but he realized there wasn't any point. She knew him too well and not well enough to change her mind.
As he was leaving, a templar came charging in the building, heading to the Viscount's office. Carver was going to walk past, until he heard the seneschal refer to her as the Knight-Commander. He froze, staring at the woman he had heard so much about.
"You tell the Viscount that I am here to speak with him now and will not be leaving," Meredith told the man, whose authority seemed to be shrinking by the minute.
"Yes, uh ... I will, Knight-Commander," Bran said, before hurrying off and away from her. Carver had to move aside to let him through and, when he looked back at Meredith, her eyes were fixed on him.
"Excuse me," he said softly, going to walk past.
"I know you."
Carver froze, looking into Meredith's cool eyes. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, of course not, but I know who you are. You're that Hawke boy, aren't you? The one who is always travelling around the city with ... his sister."
He couldn't think of anything to do except nod.
"Well, it was interesting to finally meet you."
"You as well, Knight-Commander."
Carver started away so fast that he almost tripped over his own feet. Thankfully the railing was within his grasp, saving him from any more awkwardness. He hurried down the stairs and was almost out the door when he heard her voice again.
"If you're ever want to actually make something of yourself, Hawke, I am always happy to have new recruits with your skill."
"You can't seriously be considering it!"
Carver sighed. He had known Bethany wouldn't understand. "I need to do something more with my life, for mother and for myself. Why not join the Order. Maybe I could do some good from within."
"Or maybe you could doom even more mages to die, at your own hands!"
"Look," he told her, "I don't need your approval. I'm still not convinced that you're not a demon, sent here to tempt me in my weakest moment. And if you are a demon, then naturally I should do whatever it is you think I shouldn't."
She made a sound of pure frustration. "Carver, you know that I wouldn't have wanted you to do this. That Marian wouldn't have wanted it. Becoming a templar means betraying everything that we stood for, everything Father ever taught us."
"And look where it got all of you? Maybe his lessons deserve to be thrown out and forgotten, for all the good they've done any of us."
They stood in silence, staring at each other. Carver hardened his heart even more when the first tears began to fall across Bethany's cheeks.
"I am going to do this," he told her. "And there's nothing anyone can do to stop me."
"Carver ..."
He turned and walked away, willing himself to wake up.
"Carver please, listen to me!"
The world around him shifted, quickly growing dark. He didn't look back and continued moving forward, one foot after the other. The last thing he heard before waking was hardly more than a whisper in the wind.
"... I hope you're happy."
With a recommendation from the Knight-Commander, Carver's acceptance came almost immediately. When the breastplate was placed in his hands, he couldn't help but stand and stare at the emblem that had meant terror for so long.
No more.
He strapped it on, along with the rest of his new armour, and headed home. When he reached it, he found that Leandra and Gamlen were both out. He headed to his room, standing there before the small mirror Marian had scavenged somewhere, looking at himself. A templar.
A spot of blue caught he attention to the left of the mirror. Bethany's scarf, brought here from Kirkwall in his breastplate, washed until it was almost free of blood. He reached for it, holding it in his hand and staring at this piece of cloth.
And then he walked toward the fire and tossed it in.
"Goodbye, Bethany."
That night, for the first time since they arrived, his dreams were uninterrupted.