ankle deep

by wren and alma

Solving the problem of Ferelden, one civil disagreement at a time. — Elissa/Cailan, Alistair/Bethany.

1. am i a black stain on your perfect life

disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: look, sometimes you just gotta write an au of your au so that you don't crawl into a hole and die, and that's what we did
notes: we actually have this finished.

chapter title: am i the black stain on your perfect life
summary: Solving the problem of Ferelden, one civil disagreement at a time. — Elissa/Cailan, Alistair/Bethany.

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The message comes at the worst possible time.

Cailan runs his hands over his face, and rereads it again.

Effective immediately, Highever no longer stands with Ferelden—

Maker, he can't even look at the words. Highever, attacked? Highever, fallen? Teryn Cousland, dead in an attempted coup? He'd known the tensions were getting out of hand, but he never thought…

He has no idea what he's going to do.

The royal enclave isn't really set up for privacy. Tent walls are thin. There's something screaming in his chest, and any other day he'd let the sound tear out of his lungs, but right now he can't, because on the other side of the gorge are an army of darkspawn. The Korcari Wilds are teeming with the things, and the Wardens have come out of the woodwork. The word Archdemon's left a bitter taste in the King's mouth.

Ostagar was meant to be his tomb.

And now—now it can't be. Because on top of everything else, on top of the darkspawn, on top of Anora's letter, on top of seeing his own face mirrored back at him across the camp—now there's this.

Maker, he needs to talk to Duncan.

Cailan doesn't bother to put on his armour. There are more important things to worry about, right now.

Duncan chose the location of his fire well. He can see most entrances into the camp, and has a good line of sight on the kennels, the mages, and most importantly, the royal enclave. Which is why he is the first to notice a very disheveled King Cailan marching out of his tent with a letter in his hand and a violent storm brewing in his body.

And things were going so well.

"Your Majesty, what's happened?" Duncan says. There's no reason to dress it up with politeness, nothing more than the title offers. If the nug shit is about to go everywhere, best get it over with. "Should I wake Teryn Loghain?"

"I—yes, no, wait, hold on," Cailan shakes a little, holds the missive out. "Read this, first."

The dark green crest of Highever glares up from the letterhead. This is going to be bad, that much he knows. The journey from the Brecillian to Orzammar and back to Ostagar revealed so many fractures in Ferelden's foundations. In all honesty, Duncan's surprised the country has survived this long post-occupation.

Effective immediately, Highever no longer stands with Ferelden. Our men prepared to join yours at Ostagar, and while they prepared to leave, someone dared betray that trust. My father, Teryn Bryce, lays dead. We have patiently dealt with problems in the Bannorn and in Gwaren both in the wake of their abandonment by Ferelden, despite neither being under our control. Denerim's incompetence can no longer be tolerated. Highever hereby severs her ties with Ferelden. We stand a Free City once more.

The signature at the bottom is an angry flourish that reads Elissa Cousland.

"This isn't from Teryna Eleanor," but it's a pointless observation. That's the right letterhead, and the seal at the bottom is correct. This letter is legitimate. Duncan sighs. "So it's to be a civil war, then?"

"I don't—how did it get to this?" Cailan asks, very quietly. "I've made a mess of it, the whole thing. What… what do I do?"

"You can start by not thinking this is your fault," Duncan says, still staring at the letter. "This started with the end of the occupation. It's your father's fault for not clearing it up when there was still a chance to."

"I should have been able to, I let Anora deal with it, and now even she's—" Cailan stops, clenches his jaw, breathes out. "But it doesn't matter."

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, Your Majesty, but Queen Anora is part of the problem," he sighs, heaviness in his bones. He promised Fiona he'd keep an eye on Alistair, but he never made any such deal for this one. And this is the one who had to deal with Maric, poor boy. Not for the first time, Duncan thinks it should have been Maric who faded to the sickness, not Queen Rowan. "If you wanted to avoid this, you would have had to remove Teryn Loghain from power and never married his daughter. Even then, I cannot guarantee you wouldn't be facing similar issues. Highever has always been more powerful than Denerim."

Cailan's shoulders slump. He knows that marrying Anora was a bad idea; he knew it when they first got married, and it's been a steady decline ever since. They used to be friends—he can't say they're friends, anymore. And he doesn't want to say that Duncan's right, but of course Duncan's right. This has been brewing for a very long time, and he'd gotten so good at pretending it wasn't there, he'd almost thought it would have gone away entirely.

"I have to go," Cailan says, "don't I."

"Yes, you do," Duncan says. "I can have a party arranged for first light, unless you would like to leave sooner."

"I should go on my own," he mutters, but it's petulant and he knows it's pointless because Duncan's always seen right through his dramatics. And so, a little louder, Cailan says, "First light is fine. Duncan… thank you."

"If you go alone, you will die and Ferelden will perish with you," Duncan says, dryly. "You'll need a Grey Warden, and good soldiers who know the countryside."

Cailan looks up, sharp. "You don't mean—?"

"I would prefer it if you took Alistair, yes."

"He must hate me," Cailan says, humourless. "And you don't really mean prefer, you mean I'm going to. Does he even—does he even know? Or was he like me, and only found a month ago?"

"Yes, I do mean you're going to," Duncan says, "and as far as I know, he has always been aware of who he is and what his connection to you is. You would have to ask either him or Arl Eamon if you wanted to know for certain."

"Oh, yes, I'll do that," Cailan says, bites every word off. "Right as soon as I manage to repair two decades of damage to my relationship with my younger brother. I—shit. Sorry. I need to get my head together. First light."

"First light," Duncan confirms, "and do not worry about Alistair. He does not harbour ill will towards you, Cailan. Merely a curiosity."

Cailan grins. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Curiosity killed the cat, Warden-Commander. I'll go pack."

Duncan watches him go. If he didn't think it would offend, he would point out how much like Maric the young King truly is. He sighs. Fiona's introduction into that bloodline has to be the best thing that ever happened to it.

(There are days he sees how much of her is really in Alistair, regrets taking the boy into the Wardens and effectively ending any chance of that blood passing on to a new generation. And then he thinks of how Fiona overcame the taint, how Maric survived two trips into the Deep Roads, and that if anyone can overcome the taint, it will be Alistair. Time will tell.)

He'll need to go tell the lad. There will be an argument, of course. Alistair wants to be here with the other Wardens, regardless of knowing how slim their chance of success is. If anything, knowing how much the boy is like his parents makes this easy.

Because Alistair is just enough like his parents that if the rest of the party is decided on, he will fall in line with little argument.

So, soldiers who know their way across the countryside? Duncan can think of many of them. The Ash Warriors will never go, and…

...and there is only one choice.

Someday, he will track down Warden-Commander Larius in the afterlife and give the man what for.

He turns, footsteps light. It's an old habit, one he never bothered to break. But it's going to be best, as he slips between the two tents in the royal enclave, if he does not wake Loghain, does not disturb the young King. There's been enough misery tonight.

Which is why he can't quite stop the smile when he sees the young soldier he's looking for sparring with one of his recruits, both laughing. It's more play than sparring, and it sends a painful knife through his heart to think of breaking it up.

The dwarven girl has not smiled at all since leaving the Deep Roads, her countenance bitter and dark. King Cailan knows nothing of rage, he thinks, because this fallen princess has a kind of fury that could destroy all of Orzammar if she so chooses. Someday, that anger will come to a head, and by all the gods Duncan hopes he's there to see it.

But for now, she is smiling, laughing, happy after a fashion, just like a young woman should be.

"Sereda," he says, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow your friend here."

Her face closes off like a candle being blown out. Her spine goes straight, her shoulders go back, and for a moment, it's like she's not lost everything she's ever known. "Of course, Warden-Commander. Hey, Hawke—" she breaks off, and for the barest hint of a second, the ghost of a smile graces her lips, "—thanks. Let's do it again, sometime, yes?"

"You'll only lose, I don't see why you want to face the humiliation a second time," the other woman calls after her, but Sereda's already walking away, long blonde hair swaying in her wake.

Marian Hawke runs a hand through sweat-damp hair, grinning horribly to herself, before she turns and looks at Duncan. "Hello, Warden-Commander, who've I offended this time?"

"No one," he says, bitterly thinks of all the lost potential. This woman would have made an amazing Warden, and with her and the other two he's recruited? Oh yes, someday, he will find Larius's spirit and there will be words. "I actually have a job for you. Your brother too, if you're interested."

"Oh, so instead of getting yelled at, I might get paid?" Hawke says cheerfully. "Excellent. And here I was, expecting darkspawn."

"Do this well and you could get a title," he mutters. Ferelden does have so few nobles, these days, and even fewer on good terms with the Wardens. Then, louder, "There is an emergency in the north. His Majesty will be leaving at first light. He requires skilled soldiers with knowledge of how to traverse the countryside safely. I was hoping you and your brother would be willing."

"The king?" Hawke arches an eyebrow at him. "...Are you sure I'm not in trouble? It sounds like I'm in trouble, you're making the same face my mother makes when I've managed to burn water again."

"You are not in trouble, but this will not be an easy assignment," Duncan sighs heavily, thinks of Cailan's reaction to seeing Alistair, of Alistair's reaction to seeing Cailan. "I would prefer you take it because of your brother, and your family's history. You've been up and down the road between here and Highever more times than anyone else in this camp. You know the path."

"Have you met Carver?" Hawke asks dryly.

"Have you met the youngest of the Wardens with me? Alistair?"

"The one with the nose?" she squints, thinking about it. "It's a very weird nose."

It's his mother's nose, he doesn't say, and he has her temper too.

What he does say, is, "The one who looks like His Majesty, yes. The rumours are true and with the two of them both going to Highever, I would like a functioning set of siblings to accompany them. If only to help keep them from potentially killing each other."

Hawke pops her hip out, taps her foot as she thinks about it. Clearly the man has no idea how much of a pain Carver is—calling their relationship functional is, at best, a stretch—but that's not the real point of contention. "You know we'll need a mage," she says, voice light. "Can't have someone dying on us, blood and guts are so passé."

"Oh good," he says, "you spared me from having to avoid admitting that I knew there was a third sibling. If she has any healing skills at all, please pick her up as soon as possible. Lothering, correct?"

"Will the king object?" she asks. Bethany is sunlight and sweetness and if this puts her in the Templars' sight, Hawke will kill everyone and everything in her path. No one can witness something if there are no witnesses left alive! And Hawke swore a long time ago that her sister would never go to the Circle, not as long as she breathes.

"If he does, you are free to slap him," Duncan smiles grimly. "He could probably use it, though I suspect Alistair may do it before you could," he stops, briefly, to think of what putting Alistair and an apostate in the same party might result in. "You should be aware that prior to joining the Wardens, Alistair was trained as a Templar. For the most part, he doesn't care, but the training does show itself from time to time."

"Will he have a problem with my sister?"

"No," he says, firm. No, Alistair will not have a problem. He will see to that himself. "Will you take the job?"

"Sure," Hawke says, lips splitting into a smirk. She flops her shoulder up and down. "An adventure, what fun! Now, to find my little brother and dunk his head in a pond until he agrees to come with us."

"I see why Sereda likes you," he says, a laugh echoing in the words. "Be at my fire before first light."

"I hope you know I think your fire is pointlessly large," she says. She waggles her fingers at him, gravel crunching beneath the heel of her boot as she turns. "First light, Warden-Commander. If you'll excuse me."

Three down, one to go.

Duncan sighs and sets off for where he knows Alistair will be. Not sleeping, of course. He's not sure Alistair has been able to sleep properly since the mages arrived, and so far there has been no conversation about it. He should probably do something about that.

Just… there's never a good time to do it?

It's slow going, making his way towards one of the few towers still standing below the Tower of Ishal. It's not much of anything, just a dais overlooking the gorge. There is an unsettling light not too far out, a raging fire spreading over the Wilds. It would be so much better if it were that, and not thousands of torches, campfires, each one burning bright amid an ever-growing horde of darkness.

King Cailan can't leave soon enough, as far as Duncan is concerned. The battle plan as it stands is an absolute death trap, and one he suspects the young King of having constructed with the sole purpose of self-destruction in mind. There's not really a polite way of saying that it's a terrible plan, and that only the worst king would willingly lead his own men to their deaths.

"Are you here to drag me off to sleep?"

Duncan blinks, looks down at the young man currently staring up at him. "No, though it would be a good idea. You've got a long journey ahead of you."

"I've just—wait, what?" Alistair frowns and for a moment, he looks so much like Fiona that Duncan just wants to laugh at the absurdity of seeing an angry elf's pinched expression on a face so like Maric's.

"There is to be a civil war," Duncan says, kneels down beside the younger man. "King Cailan will be leaving for Highever at first light to try to defuse the situation. He's going to need a Warden to accompany him."

"And you're sending me," there is a sharp edge to his voice, and Duncan thinks he may have underestimated how much bitterness existed with this brother. "Can't someone else go?"

"No," Duncan says, doesn't know how to explain all the things he should be saying. Fiona is still alive, she loves this boy more than anything. That a brother is not a thing to be wasted, that the abandonment of his own brother is one of his greatest regrets because now that his Calling is upon him, there will be no chance to ever apologize.

"I know this will not be easy," Duncan murmurs. "Right now, the acting Teryn in Highever is hurting. I do think that if you and Cailan can work together, you will stand a higher chance at getting through to Lady Elissa than Cailan alone would."

Alistair sighs, flops back against the white stone. "Is it really that bad?"

He's been doing so good. Hasn't gotten stuck in a conversation with the King even once, though there was that awkward moment by the infirmary when His Majesty had his mouth open like he was about to say something and thought better of it. Alistair isn't sure. He struck up a conversation with a cute priest and walked off before he could find out.

It's really just better if no attachment forms. Attachments are awful things, messy and covered in horse shit and all of six years old.

Long story, ignore that. The short version of it is that life is better for everyone if he and the King don't spend time together. It's just easier for everyone involved. And everyone not involved. That's the thing about royal families. Their issues tend to affect more than just them.

"Unfortunately," Duncan says. "There is a brother and sister pair within the army who will be accompanying you, and you will be picking up their sister in Lothering. It will be a five-man party in total, sadly warrior heavy. You will have one rogue and one mage."

Alistair closes his eyes. If the brother and sister are in the army, then that means the sister they're picking up… "You're sending us with an apostate?"

"You will need a mage, and there is no one these soldiers trust more."

"But an apostate?"

Duncan looks at him sternly, Fiona's name on the tip of his tongue. "Alistair, stop being a child. You know as well as I do that just because a mage is not under Templar control does not mean they are inherently evil."

"I know," he says, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I do. It's just—do you think that's wise? We're going to have to pass by the Circle Tower to get to Highever. That region is always crawling with Templars."

"Then you will have to do what you can to protect her," Duncan says flatly. "You are a Warden now. We do not care where a mage comes from, or what they can do. If they are useful, then they are to be respected and protected, just like any other comrade we may encounter."

"I know that," he says. Maker's breath, if he'd known it would be this hard to get away from that instinct… the Templars should come with a warning about that. Join up and get stuck with really terrible habits regarding perfectly pleasant people. It's guaranteed to ruin ninety percent of all social interactions!

(The other ten percent is ruined by your own awkwardness.)

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No."

"Great," Alistair says, pushes himself up to his feet. "I should get some sleep then. First light?"

Duncan nods. "If you want, you can sleep next to the fire tonight."

"And be that close to the brother I'm about to have to deal with non-stop?" there's a crick in his neck that won't go away, probably will be there until the moment he finally says goodbye to the King. Then he sees Duncan's stern expression, and he deflates. "Thanks, yeah, that wouldn't be a bad idea."

Alistair wanders off. After a moment, Duncan follows.

The burning fury in the valley below does not leave him, and it is still there when he closes his eyes.

—

First light comes too soon, and Hawke surveys her charges like the battle-seasoned general she deserves to be.

They're a motley crew: Carver, yawning around his breakfast and looking intensely like he'd rather still be in his bedroll, his hair sticking up at the back; the Grey Warden Alistair, who is also yawning around his breakfast and looking intensely like he'd also rather still be in his bedroll; and His Majesty, King Cailan himself, who looks entirely like he hasn't slept at all.

Obviously, Hawke is going to be the only one with any sense, here.

(And possibly the comic relief. It'll depend on the day, most probably, and how homicidal she's feeling towards Carver.)

She looks up, gauging—the sunrise bleeds red, streaking across the sky in vicious enflamed tendrils; there are no clouds, just an endless wash of crimson-red reaching down into the valley. The horizon is an infected wound, and she grimaces.

Sailor's warning, Hawke thinks, the weather's going to turn.

"Right," she says, "if we're going, we need to go now. Let's not let our little civil disagreement get any bigger than it is, hm?"

"There are horses and supplies waiting at the gate," Duncan makes only very little noise walking over the dew-stained grass. Last night this had seemed like the perfect group, but looking at them now he's not so sure. They could use more people actually capable of functioning this early. "Is there anything else you will need?"

Hawke stretches, enjoying the pop-stretch of her spine. "No, I think we're alright. If our sleepy princesses are ready, anyway. Come on, up you get, ladies, no time like the present!"

Carver yawns, flicks a bit of food her way. "Sis, please shut the hell up."

Hawke narrows her eyes at him, and then she's got an arm around his neck and her fist scrubbing at the top of his head in the most undignified noogie in the history of the world. He's almost too tall for this, but he's still too afraid of her to stop her from doing precisely what she pleases. "Want to try that again, little brother?"

This is not happening. Maker, please. Carver reaches back, tries to stop her, but there's no use. She's already gone, sauntering back to stand by the Warden-Commander like she didn't just make a complete fool of them in front of the King of Ferelden. His sister is evil incarnate, there is no other explanation. Her complete lack of regard for how difficult their lives could be if the King decides he doesn't like them…

And the weird Warden who looks like the King. Carver isn't sure he wants to know what that story is. It seems painful and awkward. Though, it looks like the guy could be a buffer between them. If anything, he thinks the King might already dislike this kid.

Poor bastard.

Oh well, not his problem.

"I'm ready," he says, stands and doesn't bother with the dew clinging to his body. "We should get going if we want to leave without notice."

Cailan pulls the hood of his travelling cloak up. Best not to make a scene, but the easy camaraderie between the two siblings clenches deep in his gut, sends a thread of intense longing and black rage up his spine. He chances a glance at Alistair, but his younger brother's face is shadowed in the pre-dawn light, and he can't parse the expression there apart.

Maker, it's going to be a long trip.

"Look at us, a bunch of arseholes standing in a circle," Hawke mutters under her breath, just to break the tension, and when the Warden-Commander makes a choking sound, her lips curve up. The King looks might be about to throw himself into the fire, and the Grey Warden boy doesn't look much better.

This is nonsense.

"What do we call you, then?" she asks, casually, loudly enough for the others to pick up on it. "I think going about bowing and tugging at our forelocks might be a bit much. People might suspect we're up to something."

Cailan blinks at her. She's very pretty, blue-eyed and shorn-haired. But Cailan's spent much of his life around beautiful women, and besides, beauty isn't always indicative of personality. And there's something about her mouth that makes him think she might bite his head off if he tries to turn on the charm—an ignoble death if there ever was one, he reflects.

So instead of grinning the way he might, normally, he shrugs. "Just my name works. Cailan's less of a mouthful than 'Your Majesty'."

"Maybe a different name in towns," Carver says, a little edge of nervousness to his voice. "Cailan isn't exactly a common name."

"That's probably a good idea," Cailan nods. "I might forget about it, though—if you want my attention, just hit me."

That shouldn't be too hard, Alistair thinks. There's a coiling in his muscles, really painful, actually. He would prefer anything else right now, because the desire to run his fist into the King's face is surprisingly strong. Huh. This is going to be a perfectly awkward journey.

It's going to be a miracle if they accomplish anything.

"Duncan, anything else we need to know?" he asks. "Any reports of monster kittens or evil trees?"

Duncan frowns, thinks this might be a bad idea. Oh well, too late to do anything about it now. "Alistair, try to be serious. This will not be a safe journey, and you will need to stay focused for any darkspawn that have moved ahead of the horde."

"I know," he says, quieter. "Let's get going."

"Warden-Commander," Cailan says, "there's one more thing."

"Yes?" Duncan watches the others wander away, leaving him alone with the young King in the bloody dawn. He tries very hard to not think of the things Cailan could say: Loghain is a traitor, there's a failure in the supply line, etc…

"Fergus Cousland is out in the Wilds, scouting. Someone needs to find him and tell him about—about what's happened," Cailan says, and swallows hard. The other man had been sent out just yesterday morning; his unit can't have gone far. "I—can you find him, for me? Please?"

"This would have been good to know sooner, but what's done is done," Duncan sighs, resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. That Dalish girl has been a little stir-crazy since arriving; perhaps sending her into the Wilds will work. Two birds, one stone. "There's a tracker among the Warden-Recruits. She should be able to lead a team after him."

"Thank you," Cailan murmurs. "Once she finds them…"

"I'll send him to Highever as quickly as possible," Duncan says.

Cailan gives him the most grateful look he can manage without actually thanking him a second time; if Duncan can get Fergus Cousland back to Highever, it will go a long way towards closing this newest injury to Ferelden's person.

"Please don't die," the King says, at last.

"Only if you don't, Your Majesty."

Cailan cracks a smile. "Too much to hope, and fine, I'm going, I'm going!"

He turns and heads to the edge of camp where Alistair and the brother-sister-pair wait. Maker, he doesn't know either of their names, he's going to have to remedy that immediately. He casts a glance over his shoulder back at Duncan, just once, but the man's already turned back to his fire to stare into the inscrutable depths.

Cailan's not as surprised as he would like to pretend.

He takes a slow breath, and goes.

—

Lothering is a perfectly miserable place.

Carver kicks a rock out of the way and looks out over the brown valley, the small village built in the shadows of a crumbling Imperial Highway. It's a miserable place for a miserable crew; Maker, this journey has been painful from the get-go. All tension and silence and someone please remind him why he agreed to this.

"Maria, are you sure this is a good idea?" he murmurs, moving closer to her so that only she can hear him. "You know we can't leave Mother alone here, not with the darkspawn so close."

"Home, sweet home," Hawke says, grinning awfully at him, but dropping her voice when she speaks again. "And don't you Maria me, you think it'll get you anywhere but it won't. We'll deal with Mother as soon as we get home—maybe we can send her to Kirkwall. Calm down, Carver, it'll be alright."

The King and the Warden both turn to blink at her, and Hawke's struck by how much they really do look alike. Huh. If she were a better person, she might give them a rest.

But she's not a better person, so that's a little moot.

"Welcome to Lothering, ladies," she says, fluttering her eyelashes at them. "Home of dirt, more dirt, and even more dirt! Aren't you excited?"

"It's dreadful," Carver says, scowling at his sister, "you're welcome to say so. The local lord doesn't give a shit what happens to it and it absolutely reflects this."

Alistair looks out over the small settlement, and thinks Carver might be on to something. Lothering is a small sprawl of a place, brown with the odd patch of green. Even the crops are brown and miserable. And livestock? None, as far as he can see. There's no way people can actually thrive here.

He casts a sideways look at the King, and wonders if he had any idea what the real state of his kingdom is.

"Where will we find your sister?" he asks. Even from here, he can see the Chantry and the shiny-bright of the Templars. Such nice armour. Shame it's so utterly useless.

Hawke goes very still for a moment, measuring. Carver has a point, though she's loathe to admit it; Beth must be kept safe at all costs, and if this Warden-boy is going to have an issue with her sister, Hawke would much rather kill him now and put them all out of their miseries.

She has a feeling the King may take issue with her cavalier attitude towards the murder of his probably-sibling, however, so that puts an end to that. What a pity.

"In the Chantry, probably," she says. "You think?"

"Probably," Carver says, squints up at the sky. "It's nice out, and Dog usually needs a walk by now."

Alistair almost falls over. "In the Chantry?"

An apostate, willingly in a Chantry surrounded by Templars. Is this girl suicidal? Would she rather have a mage's robe and big, bright sign that says 'I AM A MAGE'? Because yes, walking into the lair of the people hunting you is absolutely the behaviour of well-adjusted, rational people. He's fairly certain his heart is going to give out from stress before they ever reach Highever.

Carver shrugs. "There's a young sister who has some pretty great stories."

"And Beth's hard to resist," Hawke says. She folds her arms over her chest, gaze gone strange and sharp. "She doesn't ask for very much. Just you wait, you'll be just as arse-over-tits about her as the rest of us."

"At least we know she's brave," he says weakly.

Carver sighs, reaches out to knock the Warden on the shoulder. "Stop thinking about it. Beth's just too well-loved for anyone to sell her out. Bravery's got nothing to do with it."

"There still seem to be a high number of people who actually believe the Chantry's teachings on mages," Alistair says. "That isn't a concern for her?"

Hawke snorts. "Of course it's a concern, but it's our concern. Always has been. As long as you're wonderful-kind, and keep your nose where it belongs, Beth stays safe, and we have no problems! Everything will be just lovely, won't it."

"I've got nothing," Alistair says, hands held up in surrender. "I was never a full Templar, and there's a very good reason for that. She won't be in any danger from me, I promise."

"Were you really that bad at it?" Carver asks. Admittedly, the Warden is a bit… soft, compared to most other Templars, but he was beginning to think the Order would take anyone; it seems a bit like a join or die kind of thing. "How are the Wardens any better?"

"The Wardens don't make you chain up perfectly lovely people and treat them like monsters. It really does nothing for a man's social skills," Alistair explains, looks everywhere but at the quiet man standing close to him. There's something about the King that makes his hair stand on end, all of it alive like lightning is arcing through it.

It's unpleasant.

Slowly, he steps towards the siblings, inching away like he's trying to escape a wild animal. "And more sensible armour. That platemail the Templars wear is the worst."

"You never expect to find sense out of someone who fights darkspawn for a living," says Hawke, smirking her approval at him. Very well, the boy's got a sense of humour, she can get behind that. The King is another story entirely; he's still and silent as a grave, and Hawke knows she's going to have to prod at him later, but she'll need Beth's help for that, at the very least. Beth has a way of putting people at ease; Hawke's never gotten the hang of it. "Let's go, rebellions don't wait for the druffalo to come home, and neither do we."

"Can we at least do this without drawing attention, Mar?" Carver slips around to her other side. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not have to spend an hour listening to Old Barlin tell us everything we've missed."

"Wolves and spiders and bears, oh my!" Hawke elbows her brother gently in the ribs. When no one speaks up—not even the King, Andraste, someone needs to talk some sense into that man—she sighs theatrically, and leads the way to the Chantry.

Lothering is the same as always, but the eyes of the populace are a little more hunted than she'd been expecting. The refugee tents are still set up; they'd been here before she and Carver left for Ostagar, but there's more of them, now. They're all gaunt-cheeked, thin-boned, and she looks at her little brother, says out of the corner of her mouth, "We have to get Mother out of here."

"Think Highever will take her too?" he mutters, though he knows they can't take Mother along with them. The road they're taking to Highever is far too dangerous, even if his sister is right. "She should be able to get a ship to Kirkwall from there. We can tell her to head up the eastern side of the lake?"

"And give her the opportunity to hover anxiously between Beth and the King?" she asks, wry. "Though, you know, the King looks like he could do with some motherly hovering…"

Carver doesn't even deign to reply to that, just stares at her, expression horrified. Hawke laughs, and nearly reaches out to noogie him for the second time in as many days. "Oh alright, fine, you're probably right, Mother is a little much."

"More the bandits, beasts, and other things we'll be meeting on the western side will be too much for her," he says through gritted teeth. "I think Bethany will have to take care of the motherly hovering on her own. At least she can set things on fire with her mind."

"Yeah," Hawke says, fondly, "I love it when she does that."

She resolutely ignores the choking sound that comes from behind her. Silly Warden boy, he's going to be fine, Beth will only set him alight if he allows Hawke anywhere near the cooking supplies. But she leads their merry little band to the town center, spares only a single forlorn look towards the tavern, and then, brown-red dirt crumbling under her heel, turns the corner into the Chantry courtyard. There are sacks piled up in the corner, the thick wooden doors propped open to let in the fresh air. Sweet-smelling dried grasses line the Chantry's entrance.

And there's Beth with Dog sitting peaceably at her heels, clutching a book to her chest, and smiling at one of the Templars as brightly as the sun itself.

(Something very tight eases in Hawke's chest, and she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. There's her sister, safe and sound. She's still safe. She's still safe. But Maker, why is she wearing her flirting face? Bethany, no.)

Carver breathes out tension he didn't know was in his body. Beth is still Beth, still happy and safe and sunshine. There is a moment, though, a rush of protective anger that makes him think cracking a Templar's skull open on the Chantry floor would be—a very bad idea.

Don't kill the Templars. At least not where there are witnesses.

He also doesn't want to run up and greet Bethany. Or, well, actually he does. It was just that the last time he did that with a Templar he didn't recognize nearby, his relationship with Beth was… misidentified. He'd rather not repeat that. Sister Leliana still hasn't stopped laughing.

"Mar, you want to handle this?" he asks, uneasy. Templars are a nasty sort, and he's fairly certain that if he intervenes here, it will not end well. "Subtlety and Templars don't go well for me."

"You just don't want to have to listen to the teasing," Hawke says, snickering. "It's not my fault you look more like Mother than Beth does."

Carver makes a noise of outrage, but Hawke's off, ambling towards the Chantry doors and her sister and her sister's Templar before he can get a word in edgewise. She pops her hip out, and sighs loudly. "Darling, again? Really?"

Beth looks away from the flushing Templar, mouth falling open a little. "Mar? Is that—you're home!" And she leaves the poor boy mid-sentence, and throws herself at her sister. "Where's Carver, I thought—Ostagar, you'd be gone—!"

"Uh, Beth…?" the Templar boy says, looking a little stricken.

"Sorry," Hawke tells him, cheerful, "I've come to take my sister home. You don't mind, do you?"

"Is it always like this?" Alistair asks quietly, looking up—why does he have to look up, this is ridiculous. He'd thought it absurd that the King was so tall, but now there are two of them?—at Carver.

"Unfortunately," Carver sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "At least Marian isn't mistaken for Beth's husband."

Alistair grimaces. Yes, that would be awkward. This is why he's always been somewhat happy to not have to deal with siblings—uh, no, that's a bad line of thought. Stop thinking about that. Think about goldfinches, goldfish, gold hair, gold… well, shit.

"She can fight?" he settles on. Battle plans are good. Battle plans are not family-related in any way.

Carver shrugs and simply says, "She's a Hawke."

"That's not very specific."

"Yes, it is," Carver grins, not at Alistair but at the slip of a mage following after Marian. "Bethany, did you lose Dog again?"

"He was just here, Mar, whistle for him—are you going to hug me or not, Carver?" Beth demands, but her smile nearly splits her face it's so wide. She's reaching for him already, doesn't even register that there are other people around. She's already said hello to Mari, and now there's only her twin left.

Bethany doesn't weigh much. Carver figured that out years ago, didn't realize until later that it wasn't that she's weightless so much as it is that he's just so used to picking her up and twirling her around in lieu of a hug that he doesn't notice. This is his twin. That's logical isn't it? That she registers more as a part of him, rather than something separate?

And she does. She's still warm and alive and safe and still so light in his arms as he twirls her around. "Please don't be mad about what we've got to tell you," he whispers in her ear.

"It's you, what do I care," she murmurs in reply, clinging as tightly as she can, eyes squeezed shut. He smells like dirt and sweat and home, home in a way that not even home smells like. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again, what if you'd died?"

"You'd just drag me back to kill me yourself," he smiles, relaxing fully as the smell of lilacs and sunlit fresh air invades his senses, so familiar after years and years spent in the same house with it. He lets her go, backs away enough that she should be able to see the other two with them. The Chantry is no place for these introductions. "Mar, should we go somewhere quieter?"

"And you didn't want to make a scene," Hawke sighs at the pair of them and the way they've tucked themselves into each other like puzzle pieces. "It's no wonder people think you're married, you're more codependent than Dog is—" but neither of her younger siblings pay her any mind, and so she whistles sharply through her teeth. Her mabari comes bounding out from whatever little warren he's been investigating, chicken feathers on his muzzle. Oh, if he's been into Allison's chickens again, she's going to kill him, he knows he can't do things like that—

"Let's go home," she says, something settling at the sight of her family back together, the way they belong. "We've got plenty to talk about."

Alistair follows behind them, careful to keep some distance between the hooded King and himself. The twins—they are twins, right? He seems to remember there being a mention of twins—walk close together, hands brushing together occasionally. Hawke was onto something about easy-to-misconstrue. And Hawke herself is close by, on the mage's other side with that great beast of a Mabari beside her. There's an easiness between the four of them, a sense of belonging that just doesn't…

He shrugs, uncomfortable in his armour, and inches away from the King just a little more.

Home for the Hawke family is a little cottage tucked into the shadows near the forest, a bit of a hike outside of town. It's well hidden, quaint, surrounded by well-tended gardens. There's nothing at all to suggest a mage lives here, and he gets the sense that this house was built with the intention that it be easy to abandon if necessary. That's an awful way to live, he thinks, not being able to put down roots and call a place home because one member of the family happens to be just a little different. No one should have to live like that.

Especially not a family like the Hawkes. It dawns on him slowly, that they have built their entire existence around protecting this little slip of a mage, skipping along between her siblings. That's dedication. That's love, powerful and all-consuming, the kind of thing he was beginning to think didn't really exist at all.

"So," he says, tries not to be as painfully awkward as he feels, "what's our plan? We do have a plan, don't we?"

"Get to Highever as fast as we can," Hawke says easily. "An adventure up the Imperial Highway! Ten silver says we get attacked by bandits no less than three times, and at least once by a bear."

"No bears," Beth says, frowning. She can't help but wonder what's going on—Mar's not said who their guests are, and neither has Carver, and that is strange enough on its own to be of interest—but there will be no bears. She hates bears.

"Yes, but how are we going to get to Highever? What are we going to do when we get there?" Alistair asks, desperately does not look at the King. "Are we just going to walk up to the front gates and demand to see the acting Teryn? How do we know they're not just going to kill us on sight?"

"I was thinking we'd knock," says Hawke, "it's much more polite."

"I don't think polite and civil war go together," he says. "We'd probably have better luck negotiating with the bear."

"I can do it," Cailan says. His voice sounds strange, hoarse; he's barely spoken at all since they left Ostagar, and he thinks it may be best that he continues the habit. He's got a vague idea why they're in Lothering, and it has to with that very small girl hiding in the Hawke boy's shadow.

"Oh, what do you know, he can speak," Alistair says dryly. "So we've just got to figure out how to travel a dangerous road in under a week to get to Highever, dodging bandits, bears, darkspawn, and whatever else the Maker decides to throw at us. All this, while not getting him killed and hope that we don't all end up dead when we actually reach Highever. That's doable. Perfect. Zero chance of success. That's absolutely my idea of a good time."

"We can cross the Calenhad," Beth says, softly. "If we go to Redcliffe, we can take the ferry. It's faster than riding."

"Yes, but," and Alistair finds his voice getting stuck in his throat at the sight of her wide brown eyes, "you."

"Me," she says, and smiles.

"There will be more Templars if we go that way," he says. "They keep a close watch on the ferry after a mage decided swimming was a good escape plan. It's too risky to take you across the lake that way."

"I think I can decide what's too risky for myself, thank you very much," Beth says, and her voice has gone cool. She stares at him steadily, but there's laughter in her eyes. "And what do you know about the Templars? I doubt you've been running from them your whole life."

"Worse," he says, thinks of the Grand Cleric's imperious stare and shivers at the memory. "I was one."

"Well, that's something, isn't it," she murmurs, and turns her face away to stare into the crook of Carver's elbow. Stupid, she tells herself, you should know better! Mar's always telling you not to flirt for a reason, one of these days it's going to get you killed! "But it doesn't mean I'm wrong. It'd be faster, less dangerous, and I've spent all of my waking life avoiding getting caught. I think we have a half-decent chance of it."

"You're seriously going to agree to this?" he says, looking between the two Hawkes he hopes aren't completely insane.

"She's not wrong, is the problem," Hawke glares at her younger sister, but it's a soft thing, full of exasperated fondness. "Carver and I have fought our way out of worse."

Alistair nods, motions towards the King. "And what about the other security issue? It's going to be a lot harder to hide him on a ferry. Lots of people in a small space tend to talk."

"Can we talk about this inside?" Cailan croaks. "I think we could all do with some introductions."

Carver sighs. This is going to be a long journey. He turns towards the house, motioning for the others to follow. "This way," he says. "Beth, can you keep Mother from doing her hovering thing?"

"Nope," she pops the p. "I'm not going to deny her the chance to fuss. Maker knows she deserves to fuss over someone who isn't me for once in my life."

"No, Beth, she needs to not hover this time," Carver stops, looks back at the hooded man, then back at his sister. "Please?"

Beth tilts her head, stares at him a little skeptically. But he never says please, not unless he means it. Not unless it's important. She looks at their hooded companion again, a little closer this time, eyes passing over wide shoulders and the barest flash of blonde hair.

"I'll see what I can do," she promises. He's going to owe her for this, the next time he comes home, he gets to do the shopping with Mother. Their other companion is still watching her; he's odd, can't be much older than she is, and he doesn't look like he's seen much happiness.

Templar or not, the world can always do with a little more happiness in it.

And so she flashes him a little smile, an apology in the gesture. She can't really say sorry you were trained to hunt girls like me; I'm glad you don't, anymore without making it awkward.

Carver ducks his head as he enters the house. It's too short, he's been saying that for ages, but all anyone has to say is that they never expected him to be this tall. Usually with some joke about how his breeches are too short again.

"Welcome to our home," he says, watches with a bit of satisfaction that the King has to stoop even more than he does to get through the door.

Cailan pulls his hood off for the first time in two days, and grins a little weakly. "Thank you for having us," he says, quietly, shucks the travelling cloak off. After this is over, he's never going to wear a travelling clock again, they're hot and uncomfortable and awful. He's about to say something else, but the smallest Hawke is looking between him and Alistair, brow furrowed.

"Are you two brothers?" she asks.

If there were a list of how to make things awkward in less than ten seconds, this would be at the top. Alistair glances over at the King, and isn't sure how to answer. The obvious answer is yes, he knows that; thank you, there is a reason he keeps his hair short and it has nothing to do with the practicality of it.

"Something like that," Cailan says, very quiet. "And who are you?"

"Bethany Hawke," she says, raises her chin. There's something here that she doesn't really understand, and Carver looks like he's about to hit his head against a wall, and Mar's covered her face with a hand, shoulders shaking. Her siblings are no help, honestly. "Mage, healer, setter of things on fire with my mind. Pleased to meet you, Ser…?"

Cailan raises his eyebrows at her. Well, that was blunt.

"Alistair," the Warden says, sharp as an uneasiness sweeps over him at the something like that. Maybe it's just the no that was on the tip of his tongue. Maker, if they could just go back to the King being silent. It was so much easier. "Just Alistair. I'm a Warden, not a knight."

"It's not kind to interrupt a conversation," Beth says. There's a tiny little grin dimpling up her cheek. "You're all well and good, but I wasn't talking to you."

He shrugs. "Sorry, I was raised in a stable. Not a good place to learn manners."

"Then you can learn some, now," Beth says, prim. "And you can introduce me to your sort-of brother, since you're clearly so good at them."

"Not my brother," he says, inching away from the man that really does look too much like him. If he'd wanted a mirror, he would have packed one. "He's the King."

Beth looks across the room to where their other guest stands. He's slumped, and there's something about his face that makes her think of how Carver's face goes when someone's hurt his feelings but he doesn't want them to know that he's hurt. She almost huffs—she doesn't think there's a world where any kind of king looks like a kicked mabari puppy—and very nearly reaches out to smack at Alistair's chest to tell him not to be mean.

That might get her in trouble, though. She looks to Mar and Carver. This needs clarification, and she clearly can't rely on either of their guests for it.

"Beth," Carver says, careful of the words. Maker, walking on eggshells is going to be easier than dealing with these two, "this is His Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden."

He hopes that's the right way of introducing the King, if only because Mother will box his ears if he's mucked this up and she finds out. It probably isn't. Carver's never had a need to know how nobility works. Doesn't much care to, and why should he know anything about how to introduce a royal? He lives in a mess of a house in a backwater village where dreams go to die. Nobody noble or royal ever did anything for them, so why should he care?

"Please just call me Cailan," the King says, looking defeated. Beth has a strange urge to sit him down at the table and pour soup down his throat. He looks like he could use someone half-decent to mother at him—

"Is this why you wanted me to keep Mother from hovering?" she asks, and when her twin winces, Beth frowns in his general direction, disappointed. "Carver. You're lucky she's out, she'd never forgive us!"

"It'd just remind her of Kirkwall," he mumbles, low enough that only Beth should be able to hear. Nobility and Mother is a complicated thing, and adding a broken down young man into the mix… Carver doesn't like that shadowed expression his mother gets sometimes, when the memories are particularly bad, and he knows Mar and Beth like it even less. "Now that this is all settled, can we get going? We might be able to make Redcliffe by morning."

"I'm not leaving without saying goodbye to Mother," Beth says. "You know what she'll think if I just disappear."

"We can find her on the way out," he says, looking at their sister. Talking Mother into leaving Lothering is going to have to be her thing, he thinks. She's always had more sway than either of the twins. He should probably be more upset about that, but right now there's a very miserable king standing in their home with his equally miserable not-brother, all while a civil war brews in the north and a Blight starts in the south.

What a wonderful time to be alive.

"We're going to lose the sun, Carver," Hawke sighs. She's let this go on far too long. King Cailan needs a proper night's sleep, and Beth needs time to pack. And Mother… Mother is going to take some convincing, if they want her to leave. "It'd be safer to stay the night here, and leave tomorrow."

"I agree," Alistair says. "We're close enough to the Wilds that darkspawn are still a risk. Nighttime isn't safe, not with the chance that some of them are ahead of the horde."

Carver frowns, does his best to not think about the arguments he overheard at Ostagar. It's amazing how some people just don't notice the insignificant, even when the insignificant are as big as he is. "First light, then. Any objections?"

"Carver," Hawke says, gently, "sit down."

He sits, because he's still her little brother, and he still knows when he needs to calm down. She looks at Beth. "Supper, then?"

"Only if you sit down, too," Beth replies, voice dry. "I like my food edible."

"Uh—" Alistair stands up a little straighter, tries to find the right words that don't make him seem like a complete idiot, "—I can help? I can cook—I mean, I can help you cook, if you need it."

Well, there goes that plan. So much for not being an idiot. Good job, Alistair, good job. He forms a fist with his left hand, short nails cutting into his palm. Someday, he will learn to keep his mouth shut. Today, however, is not that day.

Beth beams at him. No one ever offers to help with supper, except for Mar, but calling Mar useless in the kitchen is a compliment. And so she beams at him, and beams at him, and beams at him again. "I'd love the help, thank you, Alistair! Here, we'll make soup, do you mind chopping onions?"

If there isn't actual sunshine pouring out of her skin, Alistair will be very surprised. He's never seen anyone quite that sunny, especially when he offers to cook.

(Mostly this is because they then ask howhe knows anything about cooking which leads to explaining that the growing-up-in-a-stables thing is actually true and that he always liked to escape to the kitchens when he could. It was warmer, and the cook was nicer than the head groom. He just learned by hanging around her, but that always seems to make people kind of sad.)

"Onions, yeah," he says, and then there's a knife in his hand and this is something he can do. Knives are familiar, and onions never bothered him much. He can do this.

Beth sets him to chopping onions, and alright, she can feel everyone else staring at her, but what do they expect? If they want to eat, someone's going to have to make it, and that's a fight Beth's not prepared to have, right now. She caught sight of the crimson nail-marks on Alistair's hands, and she knows them because she's worn them herself—cooking, at least, will give him something to do with his hands that isn't accidentally hurting himself. She does, however, turn around to glare at her siblings.

"You can help, you know," Beth tells them, hands on her hips.

Carver holds up his hands in surrender. "You banned me from cooking, same as Mar, remember?"

"I didn't ban you from making a salad, did I? And Mar, you can set the table. We're not heathens, you know, we are civilized people who use cutlery!"

"Right," Carver mumbles. Salad? Since when do they eat salad with their soup? But he sees Beth's glare and there's a promise of yelling there. "Garden, then. I'll just go do that."

"Can I help?" Cailan asks, very softly.

He still rather looks like a kicked puppy, Beth decides, but that doesn't excuse lazing about. "Yes," she says, nodding, "you can, there's a loaf of bread in the pantry, you can cut it up. Thick slicks, please, it's better to dip."

The King blinks at her, like he'd expected her to say no. A heartbreakingly small grin curls up his face, and he jumps up from the table, heads right to where she points and occupies a much larger portion of the kitchen than she'd been expecting him to require, but then, she hadn't really given a thought to the size of him, Andraste, he's taller than Carver is.

Her sister shoots her a glance, and there's approval there, in Mar's gaze. Beth turns pink, and goes back to peeling potatoes.

—

"Put this on," Hawke says, and dumps a shining pile of metal on Alistair's head.

The platemail is ungodly heavy and—Alistair knows that shiny emblem on the breastplate. It's too clean, almost sparkling in its clear state of never-seen-battle. It's offensive and really quite ugly. It does nothing for him.

"No, absolutely not," he says, pushing the armour away like it's diseased. It probably is. Damn Templars never take the stupid stuff off. "How did you even get that?"

"Well, when two people love each other very, very much—" Hawke begins, breaks off laughing at the horror on his face. "Oh, come on, I knocked a Templar out and stripped him, what do you think?"

"Are you mad?"

"Possibly," Hawke shrugs. "I thought it might come in handy one day, in case I ever needed Carver to help hide Beth."

"So make him wear it," Alistair says. How is this his life. "The Grand Cleric would probably love nothing more than to see me dead. I'd rather not encourage that."

"He got too tall for it," she says, steady. Madness is subjective. Marian Hawke's done worse things than strip a Templar out of his ceremonial vestments to keep her little sister out of the Circle. "And you, at least, would know what you're doing."

Alistair sighs, heavily. He should have known. It's Tuesday, after all. Bad things always happen on Tuesdays. "Since I apparently didn't tell you, you should probably know that I did my training in Redcliffe. If there were anywhere in Ferelden where we would run into someone who knows I am not Templar, it would be there."

"That's what the helmet is for," she tells him, pats him on the head. "And to hide the thing you call your face."

"I'll be useless if we're attacked," he says. "This stuff is impossible to fight in. Do you even have the shield?"

"Of course. Keep Beth safe," Hawke tells him. "I'll look after King Cailan, and my brother can take care of himself. But if it comes down to it, Warden, you get Beth as far away as you can. Understand?"

"Yes, I do," he frowns, tries not to think of the implications of what he's about to say. "Just promise me you won't get the King killed. Unless you haven't noticed, he doesn't have an heir."

"Are you not counting yourself, then?" she asks.

"That's exactly my point?" he shrugs. "I'd rather my heritage not come up any more than it has to, so if we could just keep him alive and avoid the possibility of my needing to leave the Wardens, that'd be great."

"Don't worry," Hawke says, grins at him exactly the way she grins at Carver when he needs someone to settle him down. She reaches out to ruffle Alistair's hair the same, too. "Our King's got a death wish. I won't let him enact it. Alright?"

"Thank you," he says, and means so much more. It's only been in recent years that the continuing lack of a legitimate heir has come to his attention. Unfortunately, it's come with the added you might have to be king that makes his stomach do weird flips and push bile up into the back of his throat. "I'll keep your sister safe, but I don't see why this is necessary."

"Course you don't, you're still a good person under all that angst," she tells him. "Think of it like this, Warden—Kirkwall's Gallows are very easy to reach from Highever. It gives you and Beth a reason to be travelling north, and any other Templars along the way will let you alone. Yes?"

"That—might actually work," he says. He'd always wondered why the Grand Cleric relented, and it never crossed his mind to ask about the other Circles. "If we're lucky, and the Templar Order was told I was transferred, rather than released. They're touchy about their secrets being anywhere but under Chantry control."

"I hope you taught yourself how to lie," Hawke says, eyes glinting. "You're going to get some practise, this week."

"I was raised in a stable," he repeats. Sometimes it doesn't always register what he means when he says that, he knows, but really. "There's quite a bit of lying there."

Hawke stares at him, waits for him to really think about what he's just said. But it looks like it's not registered, and oh, oh Maker, come on, that's not fair, you can't just set something like that up and expect her not to make a sex joke! That's too far! Foul play!

"I'm sure there was," she says, a little faint. He's as bad as Beth. He's honestly as bad as Beth. Hawke has no idea how she's going to deal with the both of them, they're going to stumble all over each other and somehow, somehow Hawke just knows that by the end of this trip, she's going to be begging the Maker to let it end.

Hawke thinks I didn't ask for this, I am a good person who does not deserve this, but it makes no difference.

"Put the armour on, Warden," she sighs, pats his shoulder. "The horses are fed, and everyone else is getting ready to go."

"I can't," he tells her, and when she looks at him like she's about to start yelling, he blushes and clarifies, "it's platemail. I can't put it on by myself. It's too heavy."

"Alright," Hawke says. "Strip."

The blush intensifies. "Can't you send in Carver to do this?"

"If you want," Hawke shrugs, doesn't tell him that Carver's far more likely to make fun of his pale pastiness than she is. "You sure?"

"Chantry influence, sorry," he sighs, stands and starts undoing the nice splintmail he's grown so attached to. Maker, someday he will root out all of the Chantry teachings that aren't useful. He's fairly certain he would have been stuck with that crazy dwarf and the creepy Dalish girl if he'd stayed behind at Ostagar, and that would have just led to similar situations eventually. "They're very particular about the modesty thing, it's a bad habit."

'You're precious," Hawke tells him solemn, and then spins to amble out to the main room. "Carver, come get our resident Warden to take his clothes off, he doesn't want my help."

"What the hell?" Carver doesn't even bother to look up from where he's fixing the laces of his boot. His sister and her ideas. "Mari, I love you, but you're batshit insane, you know that?"

"Yes, but I'm also not kidding," she tells him, pats him on the head as she passes by. "Something about platemail? I don't know, it's far too complicated for my small female brain."

"More like you just scared the shit out of him," Carver mutters, but goes off to fix whatever mess she's created this time all the same. If she's dragged out that Templar armour—and she has, hasn't she? Because his sister is bleeding mad all the way to Kirkwall and back again.

Carver steps into the back room and says, "I am so sorry. I should have warned you about her."

"It's nothing," Alistair shrugs. He gave up trying to understand women a long time ago. It seemed too dangerous. "I just can't get the cuirass on by myself."

"I don't think anyone can. Hold still, will you?"

Templar armour is the worst. Really, it is. The only reason Carver knows how it works—Maker, never let Mar find out about this, she will skin him alive—is because there was this cute girl stationed in Lothering a year or so ago. Charming young thing, clearly not cut out for the Order and sent here to get some experience before moving on to a bigger place.

And, well, Carver and cute girls… he can't really be blamed can he? This was a girl, a Templar that not even Beth with all her beauty could charm. He did what any good brother would do. That it happened to be a girl he actually liked, well, that's another story.

She'd had similar problems with the armour, after all, and hellfire on toast if he didn't prefer her out of it. So, he learned.

"There, that should do it," he tells Alistair, getting the last bit of armour in place. "Where'd she put the helmet?"

"I can get that, thank you," Alistair tries not to sound like he's choking. Maker, but he does hate this armour. "Do I even want to—"

"No," Carver says, finds the helmet and drops it over Alistair's head. "No, you don't, and that's not a question you ever asked me. Now go find out whatever harebrained scheme my sister's cooked up this time."

"I already know," Alistair says, voice muffled by the helmet. But he shuffles out, tries not to trip on that stupid skirt. Ten years, and he never mastered how to walk in this stuff. This is going to be a long, long week.

"Carver, have you seen—why are you wearing that?" Beth asks. She's got a bag and a staff slung over her shoulder, and her eyes have gone very wide, knuckles white around the leather straps.

"It's not me," Carver says, pushes his way past a very still Alistair. "The armour's too small for me now."

"Oh," Beth says, voice weird and high.

"Hey, shh, look at me," Carver says, and his hands on her cheeks, tilting her head up to look at him. "It's just Alistair, and no, I have no idea. This is one of Marian's crazy ideas, so you'll have to ask her. Okay? You're not in danger, I promise."

"I know, I know," she says, bites at her lips, and peeks over her brother's shoulder to get another look at Alistair. She can see it, now; Carver's a near half-head taller than Alistair, and she doesn't think her brother's ever been that still in his life. Oh, she's probably hurt his feelings, and after yesterday…

Beth shoos Carver away, and goes to reach up to take Alistair's helmet. She smiles weakly at him when she gets it off. "Sorry," she says, quietly, "I just—I forget. It's home, is all, and we usually don't have Templars here. Or people dressed like Templars. There's a difference. I didn't mean to… I'm sorry, is the point."

"No, it's fine, you should—of course you're not used to this," and this is why Alistair doesn't like talking to people. Words get jumbled and then usually there's Duncan or someone looking at him with disappointment in their faces. "I'm sorry, really, I am. If there was an easier way, I'd do it, but your sister's right. Maker, tell me I'm not going to be saying that a lot."

Beth catches his wrist, curls her fingers around his gloved fingers and squeezes, even though she knows he won't be able to feel it. "No one likes it when Mar's right, it's a frightening experience for everyone involved. And I'm alright—I mean it, Alistair. I know this wasn't your idea. I just… forget, sometimes. That's all."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm probably going to be saying that a lot, but I need you to know that I don't mean anything I say when I'm trying to be," and he motions towards the too-bright armour, "this. It's just until we can safely get into Highever, or hopefully once we've passed the Tower. I didn't ask."

"Honestly, if Marian could have someone follow me around in that armour all the time, I think she'd do it," Beth sighs, and ducks her head. The sun's barely risen, and it already feels like it's been the longest day of her life. She doesn't know how to explain that the only reason anyone would be wearing that armour at home would be if someone's come to take her away, and that's…

Well, it's not a possibility Beth likes to think about.

(And there are nights when she's been alone with only the sound of Mother's breathing in the other room, and she's shaken herself to pieces, wondering and wondering if maybe the fact that she's stayed free has ruined her family's life—can't help but wonder if maybe they'd have been better off if she'd long ago gone to the Circle. Mar and Carver would have no memory of her, and Mother wouldn't always be so on edge, and—

It's a bad train of thought.)

He reaches up with one gloved hand and lightly taps her cheek. "Whatever you're thinking about, stop it. It's not right to split up a family the way the Circle does. If you've stayed free all these years, then it's the Maker's will. Don't question it."

Beth bats him away, but she can't shake the smile.

"Come on," she says, still smiling. "Let's go convince my sister that whatever she's come up with this time is a bad idea. And Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"I didn't do anything?" but she's already gone off after her sister, the helmet safely in his hands. See, this is why he doesn't really do the talking-to-women thing. It has a tendency to leave his insides all squishy and tangled up. Quite uncomfortable, that.

He puts the helmet back on, if only to hide the smile.

Beth heads outside, only to find her sister systematically deconstructing Carver's packing job. The horses are bearing it with far more grace than Beth herself would have; she's glad she thought to slip carrots and a few lumps of sugar into her pack. Any creature willing to put up with Marian Hawke for longer than thirty seconds deserves treats, once in awhile.

"Mari, what are you doing?" Beth asks her.

"Making sure Carver brought enough throwing daggers," her sister says. "He forgets that not all of us have a monstrous sword to swing about their heads. It's indecent, really—"

Beth decides to leave her to it.

"I grabbed all the knives I found," Carver sighs, though only the silent-again King is near enough to maybe hear. He's not sure. Doesn't much care either. He's got one sister who will be suffering nightmares until they can get the Warden out of that damnable armour, and another sister who is… well, his other sister is Marian Hawke.

He reaches down to scratch Dog behind the ears. "You're a good boy. Why are you loyal to that crazy lady?"

Alistair finds the shield left by the door—thank goodness, too, he's going to stick out as it is. Not having the shield would just make it worse, especially since the only shield he does have, has a bloody griffon it. Then he notices the horses saddled for five riders and, still acutely aware of what he's wearing, notices the problem this presents. Maker, he's a good man, isn't he? What did he do to deserve this?

"You know I can't ride a horse while wearing this?" he calls over to the flurry of Hawke. At least he thinks that's Hawke. It could be a scavenger come to raid their packs and steal their horses. He can never tell when she's moving around like that.

Hawke looks up. "Do I need to strip you again?"

"It's just that it's too heavy," he motions towards the horses' slender legs. "None of these are actual war horses. They'll break their legs if they try to carry me in full platemail. And, well, there's also the issue of the saddle. Templar armour doesn't lend itself to horseback riding, not really."

"...So I need to strip you again, is what you're telling me," Hawke says.

"Yes?" Alistair is going to burn this armour first furnace he finds, he swears it. He ducks back inside, doesn't need help getting the Templar armour off, and finally returns in the splintmail he knows and loves.

"Can we go now?"

"We still need to bring the mail," Hawke says.

"You can go pack it up yourself, then," Alistair tells her, and marches off for the black and tan grazing closest to the garden.

"You're no fun!" she calls after him, but she's laughing, and for all her carelessness, her hands move quick and sure as she repacks Carver's bag. She tosses it to him, standing, and her knees pop sickly. "Fine, I suppose murder is much easier, anyway."

"Generally, yes," Alistair says.

"My sister is a madwoman," Carver sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Don't encourage her. Please don't encourage her."

Alistair shrugs off the hand, his foot firmly in the stirrup. Life has always been easier from horseback. He can finally look down on some people. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

"That's all I ask," Carver says, moves towards his own horse. "This is going to be a long week."

And he doesn't know how right he is. The ride to Redcliffe is miserable; the weather's gone awful, a storm rolling in from the south, and the wind comes ice cold and soaking wet. Six hours of riding through hilly country later, Hawke whips her hair back, plasters it down with rain to keep it from covering her eyes, and decides that enough is more than enough. Beth is shaking, Carver looks like he's about to pull out that ridiculous sword of his and challenge the sky to an honour duel, and both the King and Alistair huddle in their travelling cloaks.

"We need to make camp!" she shouts. "We're going to catch our death out here!"

"With no shelter?" Carver shouts back. They're following along the Imperial Highway; he can still almost make out the white structure through the silver curtain of rain. Almost. There's the occasional dark patch he thinks are trees, but suitable campsite? Not so much. "I don't see anyplace to make camp!"

Hawke swears aloud, but it's carried away on the wind. "Beth, can you do anything?!"

"If we get off the highway, maybe?" Beth calls back, wincing as an icy blast of air shakes all the way through her, sending her teeth to chattering.

"Anyone got a better idea?!" Hawke shouts.

But nothing comes, and so she grits her teeth, and jerks the reins hard as she can. She hates having to take the horses through this—the poor beasts aren't bred for rough terrain, not really—but they've not got a choice. There's no telling how long this storm is going to go on, and if Beth throws up a rough-stone building in the middle of the plains, someone is going to notice. They need to be as far away from the Imperial Highway as they can.

And then, of course, Beth falls off her horse.

Alistair hears the fall more than he sees it. Rather than potentially run his horse over it—he's actually starting to like the beast—he jumps down from the saddle, boots sinking deep into the mud. His horse is just behind him, and there's the light one the King is on, it has a hunkered down rider who looks like he'd much rather be anywhere else. Alistair will be kind this once, and not say anything about it.

Hawke is easy to pick out, and that greatsword of Carver's is nigh impossible to miss, so that last horse must be—yup, there's Bethany, struggling to her feet.

"Are you okay?" he moves over to her as quickly as possible. There is mud crawling disturbingly high up his leg. "Are you hurt?"

"Fine," she murmurs, very nearly slumping against him. "Not used to riding this long."

"It's not easy to do, but you need to stay on a little longer," he says, even knowing that she can't. Damn. He should have asked how experienced they all were before leaving. "Do you think you'll be able to make it if you're riding with someone else?"

Beth shrugs a little, eyes closing. She's so tired, and everything is so hazy. "Maybe?" she breathes. "Dunno…"

Alistair tugs on her hair. "Hey, wake up, I need you to get back into the saddle," he says. "C'mon, I'll help you up."

"Ow," she manages, wipes rainwater out of her eyes. "No, here, it'll have to be now, I don't think I can… get Mar, Alistair, please, get Mar's 'ttention."

"Hawke!" he calls. "Get over here!"

Her name over the rain is the faintest sound, but Hawke pulls up the reigns and cranes her neck backwards. Oh, shit, Beth's fallen off that stupid horse, Hawke knew she should have set her sister to ride with Carver, why did he have to grow up so big—

"Beth," she says, after dismounting and trekking back to where the Warden and her sister are. "Bethy, love, listen, are you alright?"

"Mari," Beth says, and oh, Maker, her lips are going blue, "I can't go any farther, not on my own."

Hawke slants a look at the Warden. He's tucked himself around Beth, trying to keep a little of the rain off her sister's face. And that's, well, that's something, isn't it, but right now Hawke doesn't have time to think about it.

"Any idea where we are?" she asks, very quietly.

"About an hour out from Redcliffe," he says, looking up at the Imperial Highway. There's an arch there, broken at the bottom in a manner very specific to a wyvern bumping into it. Occupation era damage, and he can just barely see it. He remembers Arl Eamon telling that story with a crooked smile, back when things were still good. "Maybe a little more, but not much."

"Then it's your call," Hawke tells him. "He's your brother."

"No, he's not," he mutters, not that it does any good. Then louder, "If we make a shelter right next to the Imperial Highway, it might be hidden enough that no one will notice."

"Then here works?" Beth asks. Her head drops back to his chest.

"It has to," Alistair answers.

"A'right," she murmurs, and struggles to stand. "Someone hold me straight, I can't do both."

Alistair sighs and picks her up, one arm settling behind her knees and the other around her back. She doesn't weigh much at all, which, in better circumstances he would be worried about. She's not much younger than he is, he doesn't think, and she's a mage. She needs more energy than the rest of them do. He looks pointedly at her sister. "Lead on, Hawke."

Nope, not touching that, Hawke thinks, and leads the Warden boy to what seems to be relatively stable mud. Her foot only sinks in an inch before it hits solid rock, and that's likely as good as they're going to get it.

"Beth, here."

"Alistair, put me down, please?"

He sets her down, pushes her to her sister. "I'll go get the others?"

"No," Hawke says, mouth going tight, "there's no telling where they've got to. You stay here to keep Beth from falling over, and I'll go find them. Once she's magicked something, I can always find her."

Totally not creepy at all. He doesn't particularly care to know how Hawke always finds her sister. Hits a little too close to all the Templar nonsense rattling around in his head. Alistair adjusts his hold on the mage. "Can you do this?"

Beth nods, blinking twice. And then she pulls the staff off her back, slowly, so slowly, lets it thud into the mud.

"Oh," she murmurs, "there you are."

There's a flash of light, green-brown. The earth trembles. Stone arcs up around them, shooting sharp out of the ground with a kind of furious joy that breaks the rain above them. It's nothing special, more of a makeshift cave than anything else; three walls and a roof, a tiny little plateau to sit on. But it's big enough for several people, and the stone overhang comes out far enough that if they're lucky, they might manage to keep the horses dry.

Beth stumbles. "Is that—is that enough?"

"Careful," he says, catches her. She's not going to last much longer, he doesn't think, so he glances back to see if the others are visible yet (they aren't) and helps her into the cave. "C'mon, almost there."

He will never be entirely certain if she was unconscious before he helped her down onto the dry rock, of if she blacked out after.

Not that it matters much.

He shrugs off his traveling cloak, drapes it over her. It's caked with mud and soaking wet, but still wool, still warm. Hawke can yell at him all she wants, he couldn't exactly stop her sister from fainting. Poor girl shouldn't have been riding alone, not for that long.

And then he sits down and waits.

—

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tbc.