J is for Juxtapose

-v.
to place together for contrast

Pffft! Of course she desires power. Of course she wishes to rise. She's not helping a prince, however bereft of his lands, out of the kindness of her tender heart. And just for being so dense as to state the so-obvious-it-hurts fact, she threw in an extra twist of the dagger as she plunged it into the demon's back.

Days later she's still satisfied. Even in the chantry, the atmosphere thick with fine Orlesian incense and elegant echoes, a faint thrum of excitement courses through her at the thought of having been the one to deliver that final, punishing strike. It's not the violence, and it's not the fight. It's as if the demon, by having voiced her ambitions, forced her desires out into the light. Killing the would-be tempter was not just a practical necessity but also symbolic: none but she will dictate the course of her life. It's one thing to be a hit at parties for killing a few darkspawn and looting a thaig, and another to be the pivot on which current evens turn. That's the next step up. She's so caught up in her new sense of purpose, it takes her a few beats to realize she's being addressed.

"I really didn't think you'd come," Sebastian is saying. "Let me show you where it is."

"Of course." The addition to Carver's memorial. Her manner is stiff as she adds, "You didn't have to do this."

"I told you, it was the least I could do," he says as he leads her to the grand memorial wall, its myriad of engraved plaques glinting in the radiant light of their vigil lamps like scales on a fabulous creature. "Here it is."

The plain bronze plaque Mother had put up has been moved from its corner and closer to the Amell grouping, toward the center of the wall, affixed into the veined marble with handsome burnished bolts. It is now level with her gaze, and its small vigil flame has been given an ornate ironwork brazier. Two new lines form a flowing contrast to the bold letters of Carver's name:

CARVER HAWKE

Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

"I spoke with your mother before having this done, and she said you might appreciate it better if you came upon it after the fact." The prince sounds hesitant, apologetic. "I hope you like it, Hawke."

She brushes her fingers over the curve of the C, following the name's flow, and fights the urge to dig her fingernails into the W's grooves. Carver would have liked it, she's certain, but does she? It was somehow easier to accept his death when his name was one of many languishing at the edges of the memorial wall. Seeing it spruced up in a prominent place only makes the old loss fresh again.

She takes a moment to form her words against the knot of tears in her throat. "It looks important. He'd have liked that."

"You'll want some time," Sebastian says as if the catch in her voice never occurred. "Thank you for helping me. Be well, Hawke."

She nods, her glance on the inscription below her brother's name. He would have liked that too, but only if he were to look on it from beyond the Veil after having died at a ripe old age, a passel of grandchildren and the trail of a life well-lived behind him. As things stand, he'd just ask the Maker why it is that Marian always gets the win.

If the demon shone a light on her ambitions, her brother's memorial crystallized another truth: glory without a legacy is meaningless. She knows without hesitation she'll someday name her son Carver, and that until then, she'll work to make Kirkwall a place this child will be proud to call home. That, perhaps, is the thing Carver would have liked most. She splays her palm onto the smooth metal and whispers, "I promise you, little brother."

What she does not voice, for it terrifies her to acknowledge the feeling dancing at the edges of her parenting desires, is the wonder at how much the child of an elven father might bear a family resemblance to his namesake.