A/N:

For easier reading, I'm trying not to capitalise ranks when I'm not referring to a person. It's something I've been doing since a while back, but as we delve deeper into Thedas politics/nobility, I have to be stricter with myself. I am keeping certain titles permanently capitalised, like a Dalish clan's "First" since it can get confusing.

;

"Out so soon?"

Carver turned around at the estate foyer to look up at the second-floor mezzanine, where Garrett leaned on a handrail with crossed arms.

"Just going for a walk," Carver replied.

Right. "At night?"

Garrett watched Carver rest a hand on his sheathed sword. Garrett had to commend Carver for slipping into chainmail and reaching the estate's front door before anyone could notice. Without plate armour, the young Hawke tended to prowl about as silent as a cat. It sometimes seemed as if the Hawke estate hosted three family members instead of four, especially with Gamlen's loud personality eclipsing everyone else.

At least Carver had left his bow behind for the night. Garrett felt inclined to believe that Carver wasn't leaving Kirkwall without a word. The younger brother owned so little that Garrett's possessiveness of his family feared that Carver could grab everything he owned and vanish within a visit to the loo.

Garrett's nerves eased with Carver's non-answer. "I'll return soon."

"Before the sun rises, preferably," Garrett quipped. "Since you must stretch your legs so suddenly, take Brute with you. He rarely has the opportunity to run about without displeasing a noble. Brute!"

At the whispered shout of his name, a reddish-brown mabari bounded into the foyer from the adjacent parlour, short-haired tail wagging.

Carver opened his mouth. "Garrett––"

"Take my brother out for a walk, Brute," Garrett suggested. "He needs company."

The mabari sat on Carver's feet as if to stick to the evanescent Hawke like tar.

Carver sighed down at the dog. "Et tu, Brute?"

Garrett descended from the second floor for the foyer as Carver and Brute left through the front door. He smirked when Carver shot him a look before closing the door behind himself.

A heavy sigh leaked out of Garrett.

It was indeed the dead of night, with no Orana fussing over bent utensils or Bodahn poking the parlour's fireplace into a bonfire worthy of Orzammar. A peaceful blanket of quiet had fallen over the estate pricked with the distant torchlight of the occasional guard patrol. Garrett ruffled his hair as he sauntered into the parlour and fixed a woodpile into the hearth. A muted snap of his fingers bloomed a fire to life.

Garrett bonelessly sank into a couch and watched the flames. Carver had grown a handspan taller than him. He wore turtlenecks to conceal a white scar on the side of his neck, thin and puffy like the kiss of a blade. He liked Andraste's Grace. He preferred to listen to songs about myths and ancient history, where the people were either long dead or immortal, as songs did. He never spoke in depth about Ostagar or the Deep Roads.

He struggled with sleep.

Sounds couldn't wake Carver when he managed to fall unconscious, but he never stayed that way for long. Case in point, his attempt to sneak out that night. Garrett belatedly realised that tonight could have just been the first time someone had caught Carver. Ever since Carver had been the boy who hid in Lothering's Chantry, it seemed that only the Maker knew Carver's inner thoughts. Besides the details Garrett had earlier observed, Carver himself hadn't changed.

His way of speech and sociableness were the same. Maker, if Garrett had shared the same mindset when they had been young, he would have been repulsed by Peaches, too. And the interest in swords? Carver wielded his weapons only as a means to an end, like his stick waving as a kid. His head didn't live in fantastical tales despite being the subject of many.

Garrett couldn't speak for Carver's self-confidence, but his actions seemed to carry a certainty in their purpose. Saemus evidently admired that, given the viscount's son periodically invited Carver over for tea. Marlowe supported any activity that delayed Saemus' intended relocation to Seheron as a declared Qun convert. Petrice's legally confounding crime had blown the Dumar family's private matters out to the public, and the sharks had been circling since then. The viscount's position was unstable. Whatever Carver spoke of with Saemus, it at least balanced Saemus' and his father's conflicting desires, and saw to Saemus' continued stay in Kirkwall.

Carpet-soft footfalls interrupted Garrett's thoughts and turned him in his cushion.

Fenris' relaxed posture refocused upon sight of Garrett's expression. "…You have a question."

Garrett hesitated. "The Ben-Hassrath you mentioned before, the viddathari ones…can they be in high positions in our societies?"

Fenris approached the couch from where he had snuck into the estate. "They can, so long as the rank is reasonably discreet."

Garrett watched Fenris stroll around the end of the couch. "Like knights?"

Fenris sank into a cushion next to Garrett and slid an arm across the backrest, grey-green eyes resting on Garrett's face. "The Ben-Hassrath aren't the army of their people, but the priesthood. Normal people already in certain positions in our world can be converted and turned into qunari spies, but the occurrence is rarer the more public the figure." Fenris' olive gaze softened. "What's on your mind?"

Garrett paused. "You've noticed Carver knows a lot about…a lot."

"Including the Qun," Fenris followed. "You suspect him?"

"He's holding things back from me," Garrett stated. "I always know when he's lying, and I think he knows that I know."

Fenris hummed. "Do you suspect his reasons why?"

Garrett hollowly chuckled. "I can tell when he's lying, but I can't read his mind. I've never been able to since we were children."

"You've just accepted it," Fenris deduced. "Is it the same now?"

Garrett ran a hand down his face and exhaled. "I don't sense maliciousness from him. And you're not answering my questions."

The corner of Fenris' mouth curled up. Garrett liked that about him, among many other things. "I'm just surprised. You seem unbothered by what you've learned of your brother."

"Oh?" Garrett rose a brow. "This is me unbothered, you say?"

They both chuckled, the whites of Fenris' teeth peeking out. "You accept what you can of the world and let what you don't like slide off your back. I've always admired that."

Garrett cleared his throat. "Well, the Qunari aren't evil, just – incomprehensible." He groaned the last word, sinking back into his couch.

"And Carver is certainly different," Fenris predicted. "Tethras thought Carver was his brother's spy."

"So I'm overthinking this," Garrett interpreted.

"You see the clearest of all of us," Fenris corrected. "Hearing the songs, comparing them to secondhand accounts…the more we unveil of your brother, the less I realise we know of him. If a fraction of what minstrels and the Feddics say is true, then Carver shouldn't behave as reserved as he is."

Like a cornered animal, already robbed of adrenaline. Stretching out his strength in mental rations. As if he had no back-up.

Kirkwall was a pen of sheep in the shadow of a full-bellied lion. Carver should have had no reason to cowardly crouch, awaiting an attack he wouldn't be able to walk away from.

Garrett would have understood the energy had they been children no taller than Malcolm's waist. The world had been intimidatingly bigger, back then, and any normal child would have desired the peace of knowing they could beat it. Yet Garrett and Bethany had long outgrown the perspective, while Carver was still fearful of a monster under the bed.

No, not fearful. Mentally prepared with a certainty Garrett had seen once in Ketojan, right before the qunari mage had wordlessly immolated himself.

To protect those around him according to the Qun.

"You know I'm driven by my gut feeling," Garrett began, and Fenris nodded. "If Carver is holding back from me, knows I know it, and isn't malicious about it, then I suspect he believes that his actions are protecting our family."

Fenris peered into his eyes. "You're willing to accept if he's a Ben-Hassrath."

"Of course I want him safe," Garrett's mind leapt ahead of the conversation. "He hides it with deflection or misdirection, drawing the attention of people like Varric away with a hint of gossip, but Carver is – scarred. Regardless of his intentions, I sometimes catch myself wanting to throw him into a cage and lock him up. Wait. Maker, not like—"

"I understand," Fenris placated.

Garrett groaned. "I don't deserve you."

Fenris' mind visibly stuttered the same time Garrett's did. "I — You don't — have me." Fenris snatched Garrett's wrist before he could retreat. "Not in a slavery sense, Hawke, but in a romantic sense."

"Good to know," Garrett smothered a question.

"I haven't been fair to you," Fenris stated. "I shouldn't have left you that night with the impression that you could wait for me."

"Fenris," Garrett cut off and fully turned to him on the couch. "Don't talk about it if you don't want to. You aren't in a place to have a relationship with someone, and you're working through it. I understand. It's my choice to stand by you, ready to be more than a friend. Whether or not you want more, I respect that you have the freedom to decide on someone else if so."

The firelight danced in Fenris' eyes. "I don't like Anders."

Garrett nodded. "I know."

"I don't like that he flirts with you," Fenris emphasised.

Oh. "He flirts with everyone."

"I want to move past my former life as a slave already," Fenris bitterly confessed. "I want to shed these blighted memories of lyrium burning into my skin, hurry up, and be normal."

"No one is normal," Garrett reminded. "You spent time being fundamentally treated as lesser than someone. Normal can wait for you at the end of working through that."

"Working through my memories, you mean," Fenris listed, "and the boiling rage in my gut at the thought of Danarius breathing." Nothing but killing the slaver himself would solve that. Fenris sighed. "I wish my earliest memories were of you. If I have a baseline for how strength, magic, or love should be, it's you."

A reflexive response died in Garrett's throat. He had maintained his emotional proximity with Fenris after That Night, so he had no right to complain if Fenris spoke words that tempted Garrett to push for a relationship one of them wasn't ready for.

Instead, Garrett sighed. "You are as cruel as you are lovely, Fenris."

The fugitive slave turned in his cushion, retrieving his arm from the couch's back. "I would apologise, if Anso didn't firmly advise me against apologising for everything."

Garrett knew that Fenris received a form of coaching beyond the concentration on verses or training dummies that the Chantry and its institutions often suggested. At least, beyond what Fenris had first found in his search for wellness through Sebastian, who could be trusted with private matters. A combination of Varric's and Fenris' own connections alternatively supplied Fenris with a more dedicated option when the runaway slave had asked for it — after That Night, now that Garrett recalled.

Fenris' merchant contact, Anso, had a cousin of the same name who had been banished to the surface for refusing to share valuable secrets told to him in confidence. Anso the Other had since crafted a quiet career out of it and begun research into a vocally applied practice of healing. The dwarf was reliable and discreet enough that Varric had later paid for some of Anso's like-minded peers and students to attend to Bartrand in Rivain.

Fenris seemed to be benefiting from his and Anso's confidentiality. The former more readily expressed himself nowadays without prompting. Garrett appreciated Fenris' sense of safety around him without worrying of being burdensome. They had never tiptoed around each other's differences, but recently they had been growing more self-conscious around each other — as much as their feelings had been growing. Garrett still hadn't retracted his open invitation for Fenris to knock on his door any time of day, even when Fenris had begun applying the freedom at night.

"Don't apologise." Garrett swallowed. "I'm keeping myself open around you, and I know what that risks for me."

"We should both be smart about this," Fenris sighed. "We can be honest and smart. We can think a word, but we don't have to say it."

"You want me to not compliment you?" Garrett checked.

Fenris snorted hollowly. "You must know when a thought passes the point of mere flattery, Hawke. You've already heard it."

The baseline comment.

Indeed, it had struck Garrett with unexpected force.

"This is your manner of indirect apology?" Garrett lightened up the mood. "Very well, I'll contain my outward appreciation of you to a minimum. Filtered words only."

"As will I," Fenris softly responded.

They both perked up at the same time.

"Did you hear––?"

Neither of them bothered to determine who had asked the question first, and simply flipped the couch just as a storm of daggers sliced the cushions open. Garrett cursed under his breath while Fenris dove for Lethendralis mounted next to the fireplace. The sword rang as Fenris wielded his former weapon for the first time in years since they had last retired it to decoration.

"Of all times to leave my staff in my room!" Garrett bemoaned as he exchanged a headache for an invisible blast against his opponents.

"You can't grow any dumber," Fenris soothed, then added non sequitur, "I left my sword in the foyer."

"Got it," Garrett grunted and threw an ornamental plate like a disk at an enemy.

The porcelain shattered against their head while Garrett darted for the doorway and snatched Fenris' real sword. They tossed their weapons across the room at each other in a stolen moment of combat before tearing into their opponents with confidence. When the dust settled, Garrett caught his breath with detached remorse that his unfocused magic had deformed Lethendralis beyond use.

"Dwarves?" Garrett muttered at the corpses strewn across his parlour.

"Carta," Fenris confirmed, toeing a crest closer to the fireplace. "Did you hear what they were yelling while attacking you?"

Garrett snorted. "I was more focused on not burning my house down."

"'The blood of Hawke,'" Fenris quoted, "then something about freedom. That was all I could catch."

Garrett's mind caught up. "Attacking me?"

"I was in the way," Fenris confirmed.

There was no question about it. For reasons unknown, the Carta had attempted to assassinate Garrett while he was supposed to be alone and asleep in his own home.

"Maker, Carver!" Garrett panicked. "He left for a walk with Brute!"

"Everything's alright," Fenris murmured to a groggy Bodahn at the doorway.

"Lock the house up," Garrett curtly decided as he breezed up then down the stairs for his staff. "Don't answer the door for anyone else, Bodahn––"

Dok.

The three of them froze.

Another soft thump, before the front door swung open to let in a mussy Carver, a bloody-mawed Brute, and a brunette with roughspun clothes and yet flawless makeup. Carver barely glanced up at Garrett while shedding a torn surcoat with a weary sigh.

Garrett ruffled Brute's ears when the mabari trotted up to him. "…Carver?"

"There shouldn't be any more." Carver strolled over, tugged a corpse off of a sofa chair, and collapsed into it. "For now. The Gallows are also a fortress enough that unless the Carta brings lyrium with them, no one's reaching Bethany any time soon, and even then the Templars will not suffer trespassers. Did the chaos wake Mother or Uncle Gamlen up?"

"No…?" Garrett answered in lieu of making sense of Carver's words.

"Don't worry about the mess, Bodahn," Carver waved off the concerned merchant. "I'll clean it up. You can all go on back to bed. Ah, Charade is welcome to my room. Charade?"

The brunette from earlier paused in her shucking a bloody pair of boots near the front door. Tipped over on the ground, Garrett could see now that they barely had soles. The bow and quiver on the young woman's back betrayed more careful attention.

"I'll take a closet," Charade snorted. "Anywhere safe from becoming collateral damage."

"Our cousin through Uncle Gamlen." Carver gestured to the woman. "I tripped into her before the Carta suddenly attacked."

Bodahn scurried over to help Charade settle her things. "I'll open the guest room across Messere Amell's." He caught Charade's expression. "…And inform him of your existence, Messere Charade?"

"I'll tell him," Charade interjected, "in the morning before breakfast. If he eats that?"

Bodahn smiled encouragingly. "He and Lady Hawke attempt to break fast every day together."

Garrett whiplashed. "Our…cousin."

"Mama told me of my father before she passed away," Charade shared. "Spoke of an Amell whose search for precious rocks had cost him his marriage. I thought if I lured Gamlen in with the gem he was looking for the most, he'd come seeking me himself."

"She's a treasure hunter," Carver commented as if that explained anything. "Like anyone in that profession, she ended up backstabbed by her allies. They…contributed to the ruckus with the Carta. She was fortunate that I had happened across her in time. In a sense."

"Treasure?" Garrett parroted.

Charade revealed a diamond choker with a dazzling statement diamond in the centre. Even in the dim firelight, it seemed the entire moon itself was sealed within the central jewel.

"The Gem of Keroshek," Charade introduced.

Oh, Varric would kill to hold the mythical artefact. Like the legend of the apples from Arlathan said to cure all depression with one lick of the fruit, the Gem of Keroshek was the lucky item that inspired the very concept of luck. Considering Charade's brush with death and her elevation into the Hawke estate within the span of an hour or so, the choker was the real thing.

Garrett scrubbed his face, dizzy. "Alright Carver, the Carta is after father's blood…and you figured it out already?"

Bodahn fretted. "The Carta's main trade is in lyrium."

"These lunatics aren't driven by money," Carver dismissed. "They're also based in the Vimmark Mountains, so we can expect a few days of quiet before the next ambush. We can discuss it more tomorrow when we have more energy."

A Carta clan not interested in trade? The Vimmark Mountains were also repulsive for anyone interested in moving goods without trouble or with reaching their destination alive, given the steep mountain range was inhospitable and riddled with ruthless bandits. Only the Merchant's Guild bothered paying the minimum insurance cost that validated sending wares through the mountains.

"If you insist," Bodahn happily led a tired Charade away to her room.

Garrett looked between Fenris, his disordered parlour, and Brute panting happily at his feet. "So you enjoyed your walk?"

"It was cut short," Carver muttered, "literally. Brute was a good boy and quickly sensed the danger. We neutralised our attackers without issue. What are you doing?"

Garrett dragged the corpses into one pile. "Cleaning up?"

"I have it, Garrett."

"Do you?" Garrett retorted. "You're sitting in a chair instead of addressing the mess despite what you told Bodahn earlier."

Carver's lips thinned. "There might be stragglers."

"You're keeping watch," Fenris realised.

Of course. Carver hadn't slipped out of his chainmail upon returning home, and an unsheathed gilded sword was leaning against his armrest, its grip in his palm. Carver didn't intend to sleep. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he struggled with it.

"I'm writing to the Circle," Garrett decided.

"What?" Fenris and Carver reacted in unison.

Garrett sat on his pile of corpses and crossed his arms. "I'll send Mother and Uncle Gamlen with my letter; the Circle can't reject my request for Bethany. If a criminal syndicate wants the children of Malcolm Hawke, then they'll get exactly that."

Three mages walked into an ambush….

No, that wasn't quite fair for Carver's company. Journeying into the Vimmark Mountains came with risks, even for a six-man party composed of the Hawke siblings, Fenris, Varric, Anders, and Justice. Well, a six-man party and their indestructible feline. The ambush went more like this….

Bethany nudged Carver with a leather journal. "You fell silent. You're thinking loudly, again."

Carver curbed a sigh, accepting his journal with gratitude and reluctance. "I've already told you everything I could about my experience in the king's army."

"And none of your personal opinions regarding it," Bethany quipped. "How you feel has always been more relevant than what you've done."

Carver had barely dodged witnessing Gamlen and Charade's tooth-rotting reunion, but there was no escaping Bethany's will. She had been delighted to learn of an addition to their extended family. "Let's talk about you," Carver returned.

"You already know everything about me," Bethany smirked. "I'm your twin, remember? Though quiet, I notice my surroundings; especially when a soldier of Maric's Shield spies on our family in the midst of a blight."

"Um," Carver stuttered.

"It was thoughtful," Bethany shared, "for you to use your work connections and check up on us. Although next time, brother, do be less shy."

Carver cleared his throat, chastised. "Does Garrett know?"

They both glanced at the front of the party where Garrett was leading them through the mountains, guided by Varric and guarded by Fenris. In the days following the failed Qunari invasion, Garrett had eventually learned to stop touching the open cut across his nose earned from fighting the Arishok, though now Garrett sometimes scratched his scar in thought. Trailing behind Bethany and Carver were Anders and Justice.

Bethany muttered, "Nor Mother, for that matter. I wasn't even sure the Shielder had been spying on us out of all the Ferelden refugees until I heard the song."

Carver groaned. "Which one?"

"The Knight." Bethany's face softened into the impression of a smile. "You always wanted to be one growing up, whether as a Templar or a soldier. When Garrett said you wanted us to leave Lothering for Kirkwall, and then the Clash at Ostagar happened, I suspected you had sent us away for our own safety."

"It was selfish of me," Carver admitted. "I could have forced all civilians to evacuate Lothering."

"And laid the groundwork for a tyrannical military," Bethany added. "Still, I'm curious how you built connections in Maric's Shield."

"They're a social bunch," Carver deflected. "How is Ella?"

Bethany didn't hesitate to answer, familiar with Carver's unusual knowledge of matters. "She's a smart kid. I don't usually play favourites with my students, but Ella reminds me of myself. She thrives in study and animated fieldwork, when the Templars allow us to step outside."

Carver pointed out Bethany's current absence from the Gallows. "You have some pull."

"I'm spearheading a scientific and arcane revolution," Bethany drawled, "so to speak. Apparently, I'm giving some Orlesians a run for their money. First Enchanter Orsino thinks it's funny."

"And Meredith?" Carver asked.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Can't be taken seriously for finding demons where there are none. You would think the Knight-Commander would understand basic magic theory."

Carver nearly gaped. "You didn't."

A glittering smile answered him.

Of course. This was the woman who regularly deflected the Templars' frequent questions about what Garrett actually did for a living and who his friends were for at least three years. Bethany even managed to evade suspicion with her convincing delivery. She possessed a sweet face that allowed her to pull off stories Varric would never be able to.

Including the story that Meredith was merely imagining a couple of mages acting shifty because the knight-commander saw blood mages or abominations in every corner. Poor thing.

Carver admitted, "I'm surprised more people haven't heard of your activities."

Bethany hummed. "My researchers and I are dedicated to enlightenment, but are aware of our circumstances. We meet in secret to discuss our developing philosophies. Not all Templars in Kirkwall subscribe to Knight-Commander Stannard's extreme measures, either; they just want the Circle to return to normal. Those Templars understand how things can and should be, as we do. However, I'll admit that it's a matter of time before my fraternity becomes known. Genuine joy in research and community is evidently attractive across borders, from Hasmal to Markham."

"Your fraternity," Carver repeated.

"I am an enchanter." Bethany sniffed. "It's common practice for enchanters to enter a fraternity upon promotion. I've simply founded one that I prefer not to advertise, though it is a lost opportunity to be unable to attend College of Magi gatherings."

"Yet your fraternity still plans to eventually make itself known," Carver deduced.

Bethany grinned. "We don't even have a name yet."

Carver sighed. "How about Illuminati?"

The known fraternities of the College of Magi were Aequitarians, Isolationists, Libertarians, Loyalists, and Lucrosians. Bethany had essentially founded a science club that had grown to encompass the Free Marches and evolve into its own clandestine sect.

Bethany shot him a beatific smile.

So, Carver was loosely related to a mage revolution, now. Just another weekday.

Anders caught up to them with Justice napping around his neck. The former was apparently done with silently glowering in Carver's direction.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" Anders accused.

Carver blinked. "So I've been informed. Garrett's still angry with me."

"And confused," Bethany added.

"You helped me escape the Grey Wardens," Anders seethed. "You admire ancient Templars and told Hawke that you learned Templar abilities from a Warden. You hail from a family of blighted apostates. You're a pagan!"

Carver looked at Bethany, who merely smothered a snort and didn't offer insight.

Anders grew frustrated with Carver's confusion. "You stand in the middle of two peoples as if holding hands and singing a song will make us touchy-feely. If you were a stereotypical Templar, this would be far much easier."

"What would be easier, Anders?" Carver felt a headache developing. As usual, he didn't know how to behave around mages.

"Th-This!" Anders gestured to Carver in general. "You and your illogical reticence, even at the cost of others' good opinion. Your alarmingly blue eyes. And your—"

"Arms?" Bethany offered.

"Stupid turtleneck!" Anders finished, then cut himself off at Carver's bewildered face. "Ugh!"

Carver watched Anders storm off to stick with the front of the party. Carver self-consciously hugged his arms clothed mostly by his long sleeve shirt, given his chainmail's sleeves ended above his elbows and his surcoat was sleeveless.

"Someone left an impression when you last met," Bethany commented.

"I shooed him away on a horse," Carver stated. "Hardly the ingredients for a positive impression. What do you mean, 'arms?'"

"They're form-fitting." Bethany gestured to his sleeves. "I'm surprised he didn't mention your haircut."

"What's wrong with my hair?" Carver defended.

Bethany patted his arm. "Don't worry about Anders. He's a wet cat half of the time, and you've certainly confused him. Mother wasn't kidding about her eyes being 'Amell blue.' How long did anyone believe you were a Marcher?"

"Not long," Carver corrected. "My accent is a giveaway. Along with the fact I would introduce myself as Ferelden. I'm not trying to pass as a Free Marcher, Bethany."

When they had been young, the elderly of Lothering had thought that non-brown eyes were a myth. Should any Chantry or imported artwork depict otherwise, it was a decision of the artist. While Carver had grown to accept his backwater hometown was what it was, he still regretted its isolation. Not until Leandra or Carver's direct interaction did the elders finally accept that blue eyes were possible – however, the "myth" of elves' green or grey-green eyes remained steadfast. In a place as remote as Lothering, elves themselves were practically fiction.

Bethany chuffed. "You're not curious about Mother's family? About belonging somewhere? In the Circle, I feel a little more accepted just as I am."

"You deserve it," Carver deflected with honesty. "So, Anders is confused about my allegiances? Or is he just confused."

Bethany snorted. "You should have seen him around our brother before Garrett and Fenris – oh."

"I already know," Carver offered at Bethany's hasty pause. "Fenris has a red cloth tied around his wrist, and the Hawke crest attached to his sword belt. He's not exactly going for subtle."

"It's complicated," Bethany shushed. "They're working things out."

"The tension is killing me," Carver groaned. "I have to stay in the house. Ouch, don't hit me, I'm fragile."

Bethany snickered as they descended into familiar teasing.

"Stop roughhousing," Garrett tossed back at his siblings, before a mass of Carta dwarves descended upon the party.

"Ambush!" Varric shouted.

Garrett and Bethany telekinetically slammed the Carta gangsters into the ground, allowing the rest of the party to make short work of them. The party stepped closer to each other as they traced a chasm into an abrupt drop, as if a titanic hand had scooped a bottomless hole out of the mountains, or a massive sinkhole had swallowed an entire peak. Either way, what greeted the party was a sight similar to Orzammar, where the earth suddenly sank into an abyss from which a terrifyingly majestic construction arose. Where Orzammar had a coliseum, however, the Vimmark Mountains had a prison dedicated to one, singular evil.

"These Carta cried out to a master," Varric remarked, shaken. "They dedicated their needless deaths to some god. They're as insane as Bartrand!"

Fenris frowned at the stone fortress. "What do you think is in there?"

"Kittens," Anders vainly hoped.

"The one who wants our blood." Garrett frowned. "The name these cultists called."

"Corypheus," Carver whispered.

;

A/N:

In less privileged areas of a certain country, my grandparent's generation grew up with black-and-white TV where they could access it. They honestly thought that certain characters' light eyes were a product of the film, and not that the actors were blue-eyed despite the movie posters. To my grandparent's generation, they had only ever seen brown eyes in real life. Which makes sense, since brown eyes can look black or golden brown depending on lighting. Just a fun fact about human perception!

Light spoiler: Anders has been mildly attracted to a lot of people, including Solona and Carver, hence his remarks in Chapter "Pest." Since Carver isn't a straight-forward character, however, Anders has trouble stereotyping him and thus reasoning his interest away. It's tough noticing people who know each other and/or are together, especially when you can't convince yourself to stop being attracted to what you're attracted to.

Anders also strikes me as someone who wants a close relationship, is aware he needs to work through a lot of stuff first, yet prefers to ignore his problems by addressing others'. In DA2, he's a healer and an agent of the Mage Underground who won't accept money – literally, a charity worker. However, he reacts badly to criticism when he loses control of Justice. Only his respect for Hawke opens himself up to finally accepting he has a problem by the end of DA2 if Hawke has a rivalry with Anders.

To be clear, Anders isn't at the point where he has a crush on Carver. I'm more interested in writing about organic romantic relationships for Dragon Age characters than for Someone Else. Of course, that's subject to change based on how you readers feel as the story progresses.