Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favourited! This chapter is much lighter in tone and Hawke is an adult so the previous warning need not apply.
As you may notice, I have an unabashed love for purple/sarcastic!Hawke, and I am actually fond of Carver (I just wish I could get to know him a bit longer than ten minutes in a playthrough). He and Hawke just… don't agree sometimes.
It wasn't a matter of fighting alongside the Grey Wardens anymore; it was a matter of dying alongside them. Darkspawn swarmed in numbers far greater than anticipated and the promised reinforcements were suspiciously absent. King Cailan was dead—nothing more than a bloody pile of bones and organs tossed to the side when the ogre had decided it was bored with its toy. The Grey Warden Commander, Duncan, was dead, or at least would surely miss the left half of his face. Captain Griseld was dead and as an added bonus to those who had served under him, was being worn by his Hurlock killer like a shawl. At this point, Skylar Hawke had given up the faint hope that winged warriors might swoop down to save the Fereldens, bringing victory on their golden wings. And, of course, cake because really, what was victory without cake? The battle was clearly lost. They'd tried the winning thing. It hadn't worked. Now it was time to focus on survival. But first...
"Carver," she muttered to herself. She highly doubted the genlock would be much of conversationalist with one of her blades shoved up its nose, but she allowed it a moment to respond. Sighing wistfully as the genlock fell to the ground without so much as a whimper, she searched for the lumbering form of her brother.
Well, this wouldn't be easy; needle in haystack, all right. Perhaps that was him—no, too short. That man was clearly dead, and that one was just a surprisingly human-looking hurlock. Oh, there he was because, yep, that was his swing all right. She'd grown up with it and no matter how hard she tried, never could get him to fix his stance.
Carver was fending off a mace-wielding hurlock on the other side of the battlefield. Because his being within safe distance clearly would have been too easy. No grabbing and running for her. Oh no, she had to cross the field of death.
She'd have to learn how to cloak herself in shadows for next time. This stealthing business was much easier when no one could see her. Hell, this staying alive business was much easier when no one could see her. Not that she found the task especially difficult. There was a reason Captain Varel had accepted her into his ranks with few questions asked. And, despite what Carver liked to say, it wasn't because rogues were generally too shifty and the army had to take whatever they could get. No, it was because she was a damn good rogue. And damn good rogues could slip unnoticed through a chaotic battlefield. It was practically lesson number one.
A sword arced downwards, coming dangerously close to lobbing off her nose.
Okay, so, maybe a refresher course on the basics might be a good idea.
Her attacker crumpled to the rain-sodden, blood-soaked ground, suddenly stricken with a lethal case of Dagger In The Throat. Well, there. She'd crossed the field of death. Now it was time to grab her brother and see if they could beat the couriers to Lothering. It'd save their Mother some trauma, at least.
A hurlock with a mace at least as tall and half as wide as its disgusting, leathery-skinned body was duelling with Carver. Well, duelling in the barbaric sense of the word. Try as she might, she just couldn't picture this particular hurlock in poufy pants and a curly moustache, pulling off a spectacular riposte before settling back for an honourable win. And, now that the pointy ends of her ever-quick blades were sticking out of the spots formerly occupied by its eyes, neither could it.
"Let's go," she told her younger, gawking brother with a nod to the nearby fringes of the Wilds.
She watched Carver do a double take—whipping his head to the forest then back just as fast. Then to the mangled darkspawn and back to her.
Normally she would quip that yes, she was a particular sort of darkspawn-killing badass and yes, he should be in awe, but there was a time for sarcastic comments, not that she often heeded social protocol, and that time was not when a genlock is rushing at you with the blood of its former victim flying behind it like a red ribbon in some sort of macabre dance.
The genlock turned out not to be the sort to stand around like a dim-witted speck in the scenery while she stabbed it with her knives, so the ensuing one-on-one battle took longer than she would have liked. But soon enough the genlock joined its brother, or cousin, or whatever member of the family that everyone else denies blood relations to, and she was able to return most of her attention back to her brother in the hopes that Carver had had enough time to fill in the blanks.
He blinked at her. She sighed. Lovely boy, truly. Strong, determined, mostly loyal. Bit dim when he's concentrating on something else, though.
She took a quick look around and made sure their immediate area was drooling-darkspawn free before turning her back to the battleground. It had to have been enough time, now right? Surely he would have—
He shook his head. She put in the effort to cross the warzone of imminent death, save him from a hurlock that would gladly use his naive head as a decanter, and he had the gall to shake his head?
"Carver," she tried again, making sure to frown in a way that he knew she meant business. "We're leaving. Now."
"I will not abandon my unit," he shouted without bothering to actually look at her.
But oh boy, could she feel the pretention. Well, forgive her if she didn't have the suicidal wish to join her fellows in a bloody, painful demise. She liked living, especially with all limbs attached, was quite fond of wine and men, and fully intended on being an absolute boorish pain at his somewhere-down-the-line-but-hopefully-not-with-tha t-insipid-Peaches-girl wedding.
She fully intended on reminding him this too, but he had that Look in his eye. The same Look from three years back when Father died and Carver had been specifically asked to watch over the family because in Father's words, "Your crazy sister is crazy and can't do everything by herself." The Look that lasted three long years fraught with quarrels, hunger, and over-vigilant Templars, but promptly disappeared when she'd said she was joining the army too.
Carver wasn't leaving. Not voluntarily, at least. She briefly entertained the notion of simply lying to him: "Varel ordered us to leave and hold the line elsewhere", "the Templars are watching Bethany again", or "Surprise! You've been chosen to personally bring justice to the Deserter formerly known as Teryn Loghain. Good luck!" It would probably be a little harder convincing him to leave than tricking him into avoiding left turns for a full three months when they were children, because clearly the left side was reserved for demons, but it would be doable.
She sighed again. Oh very well. She'd let Carver have his precious pride and honour. "I've got your back, Brother," she told him, and proceeded to dart behind him to prove that she flat-out lied only nine times out of ten.
She couldn't see his grin, but she knew it was there. "It's good to have you there, Sister."
It was the first time in a long time she felt she'd genuinely earned his respect and maybe that made the whole ordeal just a little bit worth it. They may die—they probably would die—but at least they'd die together. It wasn't exactly what Father meant by "Stand by your family" but it'd have to do.
Minutes—an hour, maybe, Carver fell and she took a thick bolt through the stomach and although her last thoughts probably should have been with her dear, departed brother, or poor Bethany and Mother, she instead found herself musing that perhaps she'd find cake in the Fade.
