.


The Other One


XII.

The Hanged Man is dim and smoky, reeking of damp and spilled spirits. It's exactly as Carver remembers it, and when he enters, and the stuffy, overbearing warmth of the place hits him full on, he closes his eyes and breathes deep, searing lungs already prickling with the cold. He is flooded with memories of a simpler time, an unexpected reverie of cards and drink, of laughter and song. This was where they had gathered, once upon a time, when he was too young and stupid and selfish to know the difference between jealousy and admiration. Star-crossed brother and sister, both so ignorant of what their rivalry was going to cost them.

He tries his damnedest to push her out of his mind then, rubbing at his watering eyes as if such rough handling would be enough to banish her forever. He cannot bear the thought of her sorrow haunting him here, in this self-imposed exile. He looks around desperately for respite, and he realizes that the Maker must be smiling on him, despite all he's done, because it's in that moment that Isabela takes notice of him, and calls his name.

She sashays over, all boots and bronze trinkets, her wide white smile washing over him like the breaking of waves against his rocky shore. She stops in front of him, hands on her hips. Her presence, as ever, is as dominating and overwhelming as the sea.

"There you are," she says through that saucy, perfect smile. "I was beginning to worry I'd have to walk up all those stairs to come see you."

"Am I really worth the trouble?"

"No," she laughs, and gives him a wink. "But it's on the way to the Rose, so I'd thought I might as well drop in."

"I doubt you'd have found it very welcoming."

A shadow crosses her face then, and that shield of a smile falters. But like a cloud passing over the sun, it returns, though it is lesser somehow, forced and mirthless. "Is it still that bad?" she asks, as if she cannot comprehend such all-consuming sorrow. As she shakes her head, the medallions at her ears glint and glimmer with captured firelight.

An image enters his mind then, unbidden. His sister's room, the massive fireplace casting long shadows to dance along the walls, those high windows open, all that swirling snow – and in the middle of it, Marian. Careless, reckless, unaffected Marian, so concerned with the welfare of a dead woman that she is heedless of her own.

"It's bad enough," he tells Isabela. "I couldn't tell you if it's better or worse."

Isabela sighs, and shores up her brave-front smile. She loops her arm through his and leads him over to the bar. Drags him, really – there's a strength in those arms of hers that surprises him. She gives the tavern master an unsubtle wave and a two-fingered gesture, and within moments there are tumblers in their hands and they are raising them in honour of his dearly departed mother.

The rotgut whiskey burns his throat and coils in his stomach like a thing alive. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and notices Isabela surveying him over her empty glass. Her lips curl into a frown, and it's then that she tells the tavern master that he'd better just leave them with the bottle.

"A lot on your mind, pet?"

"I am buried beneath the weight of my burdens," Carver says, trying to make light, but he is hard pressed to even manage a smile. He does not want to talk about himself, not to this woman who can read men as easily as others might read their letters. He has always worn his flaws and fears so openly, and now he has so much to hide.

And so he changes the subject, as cowards are wont to do. "It's quiet tonight. Where is everyone?"

"Snowbound, I'd imagine," she says as she lounges against the bar. Her arms are folded before her and she stretches like a cat, arching her back. Carver's eye catches the curve of her backside and lingers there without shame. She's not watching him, but he knows she's paying attention. She always has. "And what about you, Carver?" she asks with a sidelong glance toward him. He cannot ignore the wicked gleam in her eye. "Why did you stumble all the way down here when the Blooming Rose is practically on your doorstep? You could have broken your neck and no one would have found you until spring. Those stairs can be treacherous."

He takes a moment to refill their glasses. "Perhaps I'm looking for better company than the Rose can afford me," he says. He downs his drink as she laughs heartily at him.

"I would think it's the other way around." She grins cheekily around her glass. "I don't suppose being a Grey Warden pays very well. But this isn't about the coin, is it?"

He looks down at his empty glass, and shakes his head.

Isabela sighs. "Then why are you here, Carver? You should be up at the house with your sister. It's why you came back to this cursed place, isn't it?" She takes up the bottle and pours him another drink, despite not having finished the one he'd poured for her. He knows she's trying to loosen his tongue, but he takes the drink anyway.

He'll come to regret it later, but in that moment, he has not a clue of what the night has in store for him – the lengths to which Fate is willing to go to get its way.

"I couldn't bear to be in that house another minute," he mutters into his glass before taking a deep swallow. This time, he scarcely cringes. His tongue is almost numb, his throat much more so. He grits his teeth as the warm whiskey hits his empty stomach. "My sister is the most impossibly stubborn creature I've ever met. And I fight darkspawn for a living."

"I'm almost certain I've heard her make the same complaint about you. No wonder you two were always at each other's throats."

Carver rolls his eyes, if only for an excuse to look away, but Isabela is having none of his reticence.

"Far be it from me to get involved in someone else's family affairs," she cajoles him, "but I hope you're taking it easy on her, Carver, I really do. After everything that's happened..."

"Everything that shouldn't have happened," he says darkly. He puts down his glass so he, too, can lean on the bar, grasp the edge in his hands and brace his arms to hold his weight. He is mildly surprised the wood doesn't splinter under the force of his grip. "If it wasn't for her, then–" He struggles to put his thoughts to voice, but Isabela turns to him, her eyes hard.

"Is that what you think? That your mother's death is her fault?" When he doesn't answer, she shakes her head in disbelief. "Carver, what do you know about what happened? Honestly, have you even talked to Hawke about it?"

"I know enough," he snaps, reminding himself so much of the boy he used to be that he is immediately ashamed of himself.

"Then you know nothing," Isabela tells him. She heaves a much put-upon sigh before reaching over to place her hand over his. He cannot bring himself to look at her, instead looking down at her hand, her dark, calloused fingers covering his. There is solace in their warmth, their strength. "Why did you come all this way, then, if not to confront Hawke? Why are you hiding all the way down here, talking to me?"

Carver finds he cannot answer her, that his mouth is full of words he cannot speak. Yes, he came to confront her, but when the time came, he found he could not stomach the truth, no matter how willingly his mourning sister would lay it at his feet. The years have changed him and the envy he always carried in his heart has fractured, and the broken pieces of what he used to be are coming together in a way that is altogether disgraceful and surreal. He has taken his sister in his arms, himself so full of desire that he's growing frightened of the creature he's becoming, and so he hides, for cowardice is more comforting a lie than the terrible truth of the sin he has committed.

Isabela, however, knows none of this, and in that moment, he envies her ignorance. He finally musters the courage to look up at her, and watches as she fills their glasses one last time.

"One for the road," she says, lifting her glass to him. His arm feels leaden as he does the same. "You know we're counting on you to bring her 'round, Carver, don't you? You're our last hope. You might not miss her, but we do."

Carver grimaces and coughs as the last of the whiskey goes down roughly. Isabela gives him one last self-satisfied smirk as he turns to leave, but as he does, one final question crosses his mind.

"Why do you care about her so much?"

Isabela looks surprised by his interest, and her cheeks flush as if she's been caught misbehaving. He thinks for a moment she's going to brush him off; he knows she's not one for sentimentality. But then she shakes her head, and says in the strangest soft voice, "Because she's been a good friend to me, though Andraste knows I don't deserve it. I thought you of all people would know that."

Carver cannot think of a response to this, but Isabela does not seem to be expecting one, regardless. She flags over the barkeep and the two of them put their heads together over the counter, and just like that, he is forgotten. It is probably better that way. He dare not trust himself to speak anymore.

And so it's with a heavy heart, and his mind full of chaos and despair, Carver makes his way through the snowy streets of Lowtown.

He's ready to face his sister and get his answers.

He's ready to go home.