.

The Other One

I feel her filth in my bones
Wash off my hands 'til it's gone
The walls, they're closing in
With velvet curtains

"Slow it Down" - The Lumineers

X.

Carver takes his breakfast alone.

He soon realizes that staying in his sister's house will take some adjustment, even if he does not plan to be here long. He is not accustomed to being waited on hand and foot, but waited upon he is. He finds it to be wholly disconcerting, but he cannot bring himself to send his sister's servants away. They are eager to please him, and he can see in their honest faces how glad they are to have work to do. He does not imagine the past weeks since his mother's death have been easy. Even though he is only a guest, he feels the pall that hangs over the place, the loneliness that has spread in her absence; it is a void that cannot be filled, especially by him, he who is without stake in the fortunes of the family, he who does not care one way or another if the rooms are aired, if the woodwork is dusted, if the silver is polished until it gleams.

So far as he is concerned, there is no power in this world that will remove the tarnish from this place.

He waits for his sister to come downstairs, but stubborn as ever, she refuses to grace him with her presence. He does not know why he expected any less. The ghosts that haunted them last night cannot be chased away so readily, and he knows she still grieves, fearful of what truths she might see in his face by the cold, clear light of morning. A broken heart cannot be mended overnight, and he curses himself a fool for thinking otherwise.

Carver spends that first lonely day exploring his ancestral home – or, as one might rather put it, exploring the life his sister has built without him. The first thing he discovers is that the mansion is not so sprawling as their mother's stories had made it seem. Or, perhaps, he is older now, wiser, and has seen much of the wide world outside the tiny farmhouses in which he grew up, and he knows more of grandeur, and of greed and sacrifice, and he is no longer so easily swayed.

Still, the grand estate leaves its mark on him, so much more so than the fateful day he and his sister had crept along the tunnels beneath the house to clear it of the slaver vermin who had claimed it as their own for so long. He does not know how his sister can stand to be here, to know what evils have been done here and to turn her head away as if it is merely a trick of shadow and light. But he remembers. He goes down to the wine cellar, dark and dry, and sees the stains upon the floorboards that no amount of scrubbing could ever get out. He is not surprised. His sister has never been particularly efficient at washing the blood from her hands.

He walks down corridors that have known his blood but have never known him, and though he looks for ghosts, he finds none. The house is cold and empty. His mother was born here, and her father before her; little Amell feet to tread where little Hawke feet were forbidden ever to go. He does not understand why his mother and sister were so eager to forgive the years of poverty. He cannot forgive and he cannot forget. Ferelden is where he grew up, where he became who he is. Ferelden is in his blood and in his bones. He is no Marcher, no matter how his mother would have had him pretend. Even now, he finds he cannot honour her in such a way. A lifetime of bitterness has seeped into his very soul. He has not the means to forgive.

By midday, he has grown bored and he does not know what to do with himself. He has poked his head into every room, searching for the connection that will make him feel as though he belongs, but he does not find it. All he finds is his mother's room, memories safeguarded behind a locked door. He curses his sister for keeping him from it, and is chased away by Bodahn.

"I'm sorry, messere, but the dear woman's room is off limits. Orders of my mistress, I'm sure you'll understand."

Carver doesn't, and storms into his sister's room, ignoring the steward's continued protests; he gains immense satisfaction from slamming the door behind him. Marian bolts upright in her bed at the noise, sees that it's only him, and slumps back against the pillows again.

"Never a dull moment when you're at home, brother," she says. She's still dressed in her nightclothes, the same virginal white gown that cannot hide her wickedness; the ribbons threaded through the front are undone, exposing the expanse of her clavicle, the deep shadow between her breasts dipping down below where he can see. One arm rests over her stomach, the other above her head; the way her knuckles brush against the headboard sets his heart to pounding. The very picture of her is so warm and inviting that he is overcome with the urge to crawl up the bed beside her, to take her into his arms and cover her body with his own. Indeed, he begins to walk toward her before he comes back to his senses, and checks his step.

She only smiles at him, vague and enticing, and her eyes betray nothing.

"Get out of bed."

"Must I?"

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Her smile goes out like a snuffed candle, and she turns her head away.

Carver approaches the bed and sits upon its edge, close enough to take her hand in his if he so desired, but he cannot bring himself to reach out for her. She won't look at him, stubborn as she is, but he's never had the patience for it, and now is no exception. He presses her, heartless bastard that he is.

"When was the last time you left the house, Mari?"

She sighs and turns her head toward him, dark eyes cutting into him, a look so sharp that he worries he might bleed, that there's enough magic in that one hateful glare to tear him to utter ribbons.

"Sebastian," she says.

For a moment, Carver is confused. He knows of whom she speaks, though he knows little else. Sebastian Vael; decent archer, Chantry lapdog, vengeful prince. They helped him once, another incident of Marian's need to be everywhere and into everything. In the end, there were demons at the heart of it. It always turned out to be demons.

"What about Sebastian?" he asks through his teeth, still sour with memory.

"He took me to the Chantry on the day they read Mother's name during the Chant of Remembrance," she says, and the resentment is clear in her voice. Her eyes take on that faraway look that he's come to know so well. "He thought it would be good for me."

Carver would have laughed had it not been in such poor taste. As it is, he cannot stop the roll of his eyes. Someone tell Marian what was good for her? Heaven forbid.

"Let me guess," he says. "You disagreed?"

"Of course I disagreed. I don't need the grand cleric to tell me how and when to mourn my mother."

"Yet, it seems you need me to tell you when enough is enough."

When he thinks back on it, he realizes he's lucky that she didn't set him ablaze then and there with the pure force of her contempt. He regrets it immediately, a sure sign of how soft he's becoming where she is concerned. Instead of being hurt, she's angry, he can see it in her eyes, her flushed cheeks, the way she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. She's always done that, chewed on her lip when she's cross, and especially when she's cross with him. He's a little surprised she doesn't have a scar from all the long years of their weary dealings. The sight of her like that stirs something in him, the desire to push and argue until even that little bit of her composure is gone. It leaves him sullen, this childish urge to torment her to no end. How much has changed, how much has stayed the same.

"Marian, why is Mother's room locked?"

It is a question she is not expecting. She lets loose her lip as her mouth parts in surprise, and her brows knit together. She pushes up on her elbows. "Mother's room? What could you possibly want with Mother's room?"

"My reasons are my own."

"As are mine for keeping it closed," she says with a degree of finality, sounding so much like their father that he is, for a moment, chastened into silence, watching as she pulls a leg from the tangle of blankets and nudges his side with a bare foot. "Now get out."

He raises an eyebrow. She pushes at him again, more firmly this time, her toes digging into his ribs.

"Out," she demands again.

With an exasperated sigh, he takes her ankle in one hand. She's small, his sister; his thumb and forefinger meet as he wraps them around her ankle, and he can feel the strength in the very bones of her, the flex of tendons as she tries to wrest herself from his grasp. But his hold is stronger than she can readily break. He will not let her go.

"Enough, Marian," he says, trying to be gentle. A lost cause if ever there was one. She twists her leg again and he tightens his grip. It must hurt, but never once does she flinch. She sits up straight, her hair falling into her face as she glares at him. Her eyes burn into his, searing the wounds she's left on his pride, and all at once, his bleeding is done.

"Let me go," she says. There's a tremor in her voice, a note of panic. The neckline of her nightdress has fallen off one shoulder, and she does nothing to correct it. He swallows hard as his eyes move over the curve of her neck, the newly bared shoulder, all that naked skin. His throat tightens, and a ripple of heat is sent running through his chest, pulling like the tide. He has never known the peace of still waters, but this –

Carver moves without thinking, running his hand up her leg to hook behind her knee. He pulls her, and she has no choice but to come to him. The sudden motion unbalances her, and her hands go out behind her, arms braced to keep herself from falling back to the bed. He doesn't stop until she's next to him, almost atop him, close enough to touch her face, her hair. He doesn't. His hand stays anchored behind her knee, the other moving to wrap around her waist. Her nightdress bunches in his fist as he closes it at the small of her back, holding her where she is.

Through it all she does not look away, his dark-eyed sister. Her hands move to rest on his collar, and for a moment all is quiet and right as they watch each other but do not speak. Never have they stood on such equal ground. The distance between them has never been so small, so insignificant that it could be ended with a breath. A kiss.

He wants to. Maker forgive him, but he wants to. The night before washes over him again, gently at first, the warmth of her, the peace of this strange new truce struck between them, but then the wave swells as her kiss had swelled, and it overcomes him, steals his breath and his footing as he remembers the taste of her on his lips, the touch of her hands, all that dark hair locked between his fingers.

"Carver," she whispers now, and he realizes he has looked away. Contrite, he returns his eyes to hers, but he cannot hold them for long. He is flushed and hot. His heart is pounding, he knows it must be, for her hand has left his collar and drifted down to the center of his chest. There is presses fast, heavy, a relief and an anchor against that which would sweep him away. Succor midst sorrow, she waits.

"It's time to get dressed," he says, loath to let her go, but let her go he does, pulling his hand from beneath her knee. He rights the neckline of her dress, if only to prolong the moment, if only to run his fingers along the expanse of her shoulder, brush them against the back of her neck. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. Her breath catches. He pretends not to notice.

"Come downstairs, Mari," he tells her, though he knows that he's almost begging, imploring her to come out of this locked room, for he fears he cannot take another day of being shut in here with her. This dim, suffocating place, where the fireplace is their abettor, the bed their conspirator, the walls a sanctuary they do not deserve.

His sister sighs. "If you insist."

He does.