A/N:

A longer chapter than usual ahead. I got inspired!

;

Garrett panted. "Why would the Qunari invade now?"

Carver clicked his tongue behind Garrett. "Not the Qunari, just the ones from the docks. They've been cut off from the main body for too long, though this is sooner than expected."

Leandra and Garrett's friends ran behind him as he raced for Lowtown's western street leading to the docks. Quentin had apparently abducted Leandra on her way to Gamlen's house for their weekly visit, and Leandra feared that Gamlen could have peeked outside his home in search of her, placing him in the qunari's warpath. Aveline had already split off to toss the Howe traitor in jail and sync with her guardsmen and the viscount on Kirkwall's military response.

A hysterical mob passed Garrett, nearly concealing the wave of qunari charging in the direction of Garrett and his armed party.

CLANG!

Garrett tilted his head from a thrown spear that struck a building behind him, bringing his staff up just in time to block a sword's downward slash. Had Garrett not intuitively sheathed his staff and hands in shields, the qunari attacking him would have already split Garrett in half. As it was, the horned giant's eyes betrayed quicksilver surprise at Garrett's reflexes and strength, right before the end of Garrett's staff lit up and fried the qunari with a ruthless crack of lightning.

BOOM!

Garrett briskly spun his head to check on his party, as he usually refrained from such spells while in their proximity. Fortunately, they either weren't turned stupid by the deafening thunder, or were already fighting stupid. No thoughts, head empty, just the way Garrett liked it. To the side, a qunari's spear stitched the air between himself and Carver with failed contact.

The oxman snarled. "Bas! You fight like a qunari!"

Carver retorted, "Good. I was trained by one."

Bang!

The qunari struck again at Carver's torso, only for Carver's sword to steal in at an angle with less strength, disproportionately blowing the qunari's spear away. The exchange was lightning-fast, no pun intended, as if Carver knew where to hit in the last second to redirect his opponent's energy.

Another qunari stole Garrett's focus, and he repaid them with a quick death.

"There's too many of them!" Garrett barked, lighting up a qunari behind him without looking.

His friends wordlessly regrouped in a single step, familiar with Garrett's communication and ready to retreat and attack from a better position. Despite Garrett's ability, he preferred to give ground if it meant reducing risks for his party. While he could go solo and wreak havoc, he would no doubt end up exposing his magic for all of blighting Kirkwall to see and tiring himself before a big fight. There always was one.

"I'll take Mother," Carver stated from his shoulder.

"Go. I'll find Uncle Gamlen."

"No," Carver cut down another qunari, "the Arishok will be leading the charge for the Viscount's Keep in order to steal control of the city. Then he'll be able to force everyone to turn or burn. If you think there are too many enemies, then the head of the snake must be cut off before it outgrows us all."

Garrett snorted. "I'm flattered that I'm your measurement for when things are truly screwed, brother."

"I'll take Mother to Gamlen's house," Carver decided non sequitur. "She's safer there than risking the open northern street. Then I'll find Uncle Gamlen."

Garrett grabbed Carver's wrist. Fenris and Merrill advanced on the qunari in front of him, buying him time. "Uncle's a sluggard who's either in a corner of the Blooming Rose or lost in a barrel somewhere."

"You don't know that—"

"Don't leave Mother's side."

Garrett knew his grip was tight. He usually couldn't feel his own strength, but when it came to his reticent, diffident loner of a brother, Garrett especially could never curb his emotions. His grip was always tight. It seemed that otherwise, Carver would float off the earth as a dream meant only to be forgotten, and Garrett would have lost him without trying.

Carver was wearing that same expression now. The one that travelled from Carver's eyes straight to Garrett's, and yet saw through him to a horizon beyond the world in which they stood.

Carver bowed his head, the fringe of his black hair covering his eyes. "…In time."

Garrett tilted his head. "What was that?"

Carver peeked upward and slipped something out of his pouch to offer to Garrett. "If you bring this to the Arishok in time, he might leave with it before he can kill Kirkwall's government."

Isabela jerked forward with a slit of a qunari's throat. "How do you have that!?"

As Garrett accepted a weathered tome, Carver merely nodded to himself in thought, and for a breath, Garrett was standing in front of a muddy little boy contemplating a stick in his hand. A burst of complicated affection abruptly swelled in Garrett's chest, surprising him. Carver would hate it if Garrett wrestled him into a crushing hug like when they had been kids. Garrett was bursting with love and anger – the faces of passion – and they only fueled his confusion, but now wasn't the time.

"The Arishok might appreciate a fruit basket more," Garrett quipped.

"That's the Tome of Koslun, the Qunari's sacred scripture," Carver shared. "I can't tell you how many 'Sam's' I tracked down before finally stealing it from a smuggler in a dark foundry."

Garrett's brows furrowed. "The one near where you encountered Quentin?"

"The same. I've been busy."

"Got it. We're heading north!" Garrett raised his voice for the party. "Merrill, take my mother with Carver."

"On it," Merrill replied.

"I'll search for your uncle," Sebastian offered.

At Garrett's assent, the prince nimbly shot arrows on his way to the docks. Merrill summoned rock armour around herself and defended Leandra as the two women and Carver split for Gamlen's home. At least Garrett could count on Brute to defend Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana in the Hawke estate, though considering the merchant pair, the three probably wouldn't need it.

Suddenly, Isabela swiftly snatched the book from Garrett's hands and darted past a wall of flames, leaving Garrett and the rest with the qunari.

"Isabela!" Garrett cried out, astonished.

"I need this to save my life!" the raider's voice echoed back. "Sorry, but I'm not you!" She vanished into the shadows like a thought.

"Blood and flames," Garrett gaped. He hadn't felt this lost since hugging the mast of the ship that had brought him to Kirkwall, the endless sea and sky swirling together with nausea. "Forget it, we're saving the viscount!"

The rest of Garrett's party unquestioningly agreed and followed behind him as he pivoted for Hightown. They fended off qunari, Qun converts, and random Carta at their heels and in their way, until finally they stormed the steps to the Viscount's Keep. Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino simultaneously swept in on either side of him with sharp reprovals at his lack of strategy.

"Hawke, you can't just—!"

Garrett scrunched his face. "Stand with me, or stand aside!"

He unleashed a massive telekinetic blast at the qunari blocking the keep's front doors. The oxmen scattered like tossed rag dolls and the doors splintered as they were blown back. There was no chance at stealth now — with Garrett's enemies or his allies.

Meredith breathed. "Maker—"

Orsino interjected, "—Maker bless those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Watch the left!"

Meredith's Templars raised their shields against a hail of spears. "Knight-Commander, get down!"

Garrett and his party were still running. "You've got it!" he tossed back encouragingly.

A flash of magic from Orsino and his mages answered him. Hopefully Orsino hadn't brought Bethany along in his mission to stop the qunari. Garrett hadn't seen her, so she was probably in the Gallows defending it alongside Knight-Captain Cullen. To Garrett's understanding, an enchanter and knight-captain were almost close in rank, or whatever.

Thump.

Garrett and his friends slowed down as a qunari sent the head of a trembling, kneeling nobleman flying, then rolling to a stop at Garrett's feet. "…Shit."

The Arishok and several qunari paced the red carpet of the viscount's throne room, where half of Kirkwall's nobility cowered. On the steps to the throne itself, Aveline was lying down clutching her ribs with slain or unconscious guardsmen around her. Marlowe Dumar lied unresponsive among them, likely knocked out from having tripped on his robes down the steps and hitting his head while trying to flee.

"We offer this choice," the Arishok bellowed, "accept the Qun, or die!"

"Shit," Garrett emphasised, practically singing while he pointedly turned. Garrett had picked up the swear from Varric. "Fenris, any insights here?"

A flat stare answered him, before Fenris stepped forward. "Arishok––"

The horned giant cut him off, stepping over Aveline, her guardsmen, and Marlowe to meet Garrett and his party on the throne floor. "Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you. Maraas toh ebra-shok – you alone are basalit-an. This is what respect looks like, bas!" The Arishok abruptly barked at the government officials and scattered nobles pushed into the room's corners. "Some of you will never earn it!"

"Right," Garrett cut in. "Greetings. Your invasion is ill-timed, Arishok."

Varric shot him a look at the subtlety.

"Shanedan means 'I'll listen to you,'" Fenris helpfully whispered from Garrett's side.

The Arishok hefted a double-bladed axe over his shoulder, another dangling from his other hand. "You know I cannot withdraw, basalit-an. How would you resolve this conflict?"

Any other day, Garrett would shoot the breeze with the Arishok about how Kirkwall sucked and what either of them could do about it. The Arishok liked switching documents about to be stolen; Garrett preferred driving Tal-Vashoth out of the city. However, the blood of Kirkwall's military was currently staining Garrett's shoes.

Garrett cleared his throat. "Your society's mind, body, and soul agreed to send you and your soldiers here. Given your society is a living entity, would it not require another such agreement before one may sweep through Thedas and identify the faithful?"

The Arishok's barrel-sized chest rumbled in displeasure. "You claim to know what the Arigena and the Ariqun would agree to."

"The three of you already sent you on a task," Garrett pointed out, "separate from conquering foreign lands. If the task denies you Par Vollen until its completion, is it not by nature as grave as foreign conquest? I only ask you to consider that you don't know the – uh – Arigena and Ariqun's minds either."

The Arishok took great offence to that.

Fenris's mouth flew while Garrett stepped forward to square off with the Arishok, who had immediately lowered his axe and moved to stomp in. "Arishokost! Qun-anaam ebra-toh. You have granted this man basalit-an, and by this admission, he has the right to challenge you."

"A duel to the death," the Arishok grumbled without breaking eye contact with Garrett. "The duty that binds the defeated ends."

Garrett had no duty to claim off the top of his head, but he recognised that he was an honorary qunari. Or something. "The soldiers with you will return to Par Vollen?"

"Should I lose," the Arishok stated flatly.

Garrett fixed his hand on his staff, resembling the qunari soldiers watching the exchange with spears in their hands. "What duty binds you, exactly?"

"Returning the Qun as written by Ashkaari Koslun back home to Par Vollen," the Arishok answered. "A thief stole it four years ago, and I have since chased her to Kirkwall's shores."

Maker's breath. Isabela? She couldn't have trusted Garrett with helping her? They could have found a way to – to sneak the tome to Castillon, then sic the Qunari on the slave-smuggling merchant. They could have come up with anything in the past three years.

But Garrett couldn't send the Qunari out of Kirkwall on Isabela's tail, no matter how much he trusted the raider to slip out of their grasp. Garrett couldn't truly ensure her safety.

"Arishok," Garrett breathed, "let's dance."

"Meravas!" the Arishok stepped back, twirling the axes in his hands. "So it shall be."

No sooner had everyone cleared the throne room's main floor did the Arishok charge, closing what seemed like half of the distance between them in one lunge. Garrett's life flashed before his eyes as he reflexively pivoted aside and grabbed his staff with both hands. The Arishok had rushed in horns-first, so neither of his axes were raised in a stab that could become a block.

Garrett quickly learned that this didn't count as an opening. The staff held across Garrett's body tilted forward to strike the Arishok's temple, only for the axe on Garrett's side to jab out in passing. Garrett caught the incredible force with his staff, backpedalling to recover with a flash of shields.

Nausea briefly kicked in. Though Garrett had managed to outwardly harden himself with magic in time, his insides had still felt the muted blow.

There was no time to think.

BANG!

Garrett glancingly caught an axe with his chest plate; then another with a burst of fire that deflected the weapon in a sudden temperature change; then another with the tips of his hair. A cut opened across his nose and his brain rattled in his skull despite cleanly dodging the blow. The Arishok's arms seemed to drag the very air with them. Garrett leaned sideways while stumbling back, pushing his centre of gravity away from the audience to avoid dragging them into the battle, and the Arishok's axe unsurprisingly found him.

The ground beneath the Arishok suddenly burst with light. Garrett had scraped his staff against the floor as he had retreated to plant a paralysis glyph, and for a heartbeat, the triggered glyph held against the Arishok's strength. In the next heartbeat, Garrett was already lunging past the Arishok's raised arm and whipping his staff up with a blade of fire.

TWANG.

KRSHHHH!

The Arishok and Garrett both staggered. The actual blade of Garrett's staff had grated against the Arishok's body paint as if the dye was solid rock – however, his blade had still cracked open the Arishok's unpainted chin. Garrett's fire spell had then cauterised the wound just as quickly, leaving burn marks as a souvenir. He paid for the success with his wrists. Having expected his staff to cut through skin, Garrett had thrown his back into the upward slash and found himself slicing a brick wall from the wrong angle.

Against Garrett's will, his staff flew out of his palms for the ceiling. Garrett one-handedly caught the last third of his staff by sheer reflex. He detachedly noticed the smell of the Arishok's burned hair.

"Ghh…!"

Garrett jerked his staff down and essentially caned the Arishok's forearm. Garrett's staff and one of the Arishok's axes clattered to the ground.

The Arishok finished recovering from the blow to his chin.

"Rahhhh!"

Garrett tripped backwards onto his rear, weaponless. He hastily twisted aside an axe that cratered the ground. The Arishok then snatched him by the throat and picked him up off the ground, squeezing. Hard. Aiming to break Garrett's neck.

Black spots danced in Garrett's vision, then a wave of red.

Bloodlust kicked in.

Metal gauntlets melted into Garrett's skin as he summoned a concentrated heat that seared through the Arishok's painted arm holding him up. The qunari cried out as slag ran down his limb, unwittingly dropping Garrett. Just as quickly, the Arishok refocused. His pain had only lasted for as long as his sense of touch had stayed intact.

BANG!

Another crater opened behind Garrett while he dove past the Arishok's legs. The Arishok wasn't giving Garrett time to think, and indeed, Garrett didn't even try. He moved on instinct.

Just the way he liked it.

Garrett rolled up to his feet and pivoted, meeting the Arishok's axe at his back with his staff.

The room exploded.

BOOM!

Lightning opened up the roof, branching up for the sky like a tree. The throne room's glass windows shattered in a ripple of displaced air. Garrett felt the last of his gauntlets melt away into nothing. When the ringing in his ears subsided, he could see the others in the throne room dazedly stand up, shaking away the same sound in their heads.

There wasn't much left of the ceiling or the carpet, much less the Arishok. A horrific, dimensional stain on the ground and a scorched scent in the air marked where Garrett's opponent had taken the full brunt of Garrett's Fade-driven power.

Despite it all, Garrett's staff remained unscathed. He had intuitively sheathed his staff and physical body with shields perfectly balanced against his offensive lightning spell – a sorcerous dichotomy usually impossible, according to the late Malcolm Hawke. The man had called Garrett a born genius. Malcolm had often lamented that Garrett couldn't grow up with official magical guidance.

So much for discretion. At this point, all of Kirkwall knew Garrett was an apostate.

Then applause and cheering rolled in like thunder.

"Hawke did it!"

"He saved us from the Qunari!"

"The Champion of Kirkwall!"

Garrett numbly turned around to look at his friends. What was he there for, again? The fight had sucked the intelligence out of him. He could vaguely see his friends level deadpan looks at his obvious thoughts. Meanwhile, Orsino, Meredith, and their forces filtered into the throne room, and the remaining qunari unhesitantly left without a word.

The Knight-Commander approached Garrett and crossed her arms. "So it is. The Champion of Kirkwall."

The room erupted in celebration. "Maker be praised!"

"The Champion!"

"So the mail backed up, and you told Teyrn Loghain to fix it?"

"No, the matter was brought up to Teyrn Loghain, who had me fix it."

"Which occupied you from writing back to Bethany for a year once you found out?"

"Months. Leading up to Ostagar."

Garrett stilled. "You were there."

Carver's gaze slipped away.

"In what capacity?" Garrett's playful voice flatlined. When the silence stretched, Garrett bounced his knee. "You know the rules, brother. I ask a question, and if you don't want to answer truthfully, you take a drink of the Hanged Man's specialty."

Carver stared balefully at the wooden mug. "So…speak, or die."

"You're stalling."

Carver had managed to evade a long-awaited conversation with Garrett while half of Kirkwall wanted the champion's attention. The city-state was a hot mess after the abandoned Qunari invasion, and everyone wanted a reliable public figure to assure them that they would be fine. At least Carver's early research into urban coastal repairs had finally found its way into the Viscount's Keep as originally intended, after all these years. Then there was the matter of Isabela, who had apparently returned to Garrett's front door and grudgingly spilled her confessions. Garrett had stuck himself to Isabela's side until the two had predictably renewed their friendship.

Carver had only managed to privately persuade Isabela to let Carver hold on to the Tome of Koslun by revealing that he had connections to the Postal Service, the same organisation that had fired at the Siren's Call for transporting slaves. Isabela's hands had trembled in remembered fear as she had handed the tome to Carver under the gaze of one of his Antivan contacts. The female merchant had reluctantly played the part of Carver's superior whom he would ostensibly give the tome to in private to preserve the Postal Service's secret smuggling methods.

Apparently, the Postal Service was a bane to slave-dealing merchants, even affluent figures like Castillon, and brushing paths with an authoritative figure like Carver's "contact" was rare and unwanted for most raiders regardless of their choice product. Later on, Isabela had warned Carver that associating himself with even "ethical" syndicates was dangerous for kids like him, no matter how skilled he was. Carver had managed to insist to Garrett and his friends at large that any encounters Carver might have had with Antivan Crows were coincidental and over by sheer luck. His remarks to the Howe criminals had been bluffs.

Now it was Carver's turn to sit in the chair. Per Garrett's request – read: command – he, his friends, and Carver were all gathered around a table in the Hanged Man for "friendly conversation."

Starting with cross-examining the letter Carver had sent.

At least Leandra was resting at home with Gamlen at her side. The younger Amell had taken to fussing over his sister ever since she had been abducted by Quentin. Carver's conversation with his mother had been a quiet thing snatched between bursts of qunari attacks at Gamlen's front door. Carver had also updated Merrill on how Theron was doing last Carver knew. The Hawke estate now temporarily housed Gamlen, just until the city finished rebuilding his home. Under Leandra's stern gaze, Carver had reluctantly moved his things into the guest room next to Gamlen's.

Hopefully once Kirkwall's upper echelon settled down, Carver could check on Bethany through Leandra. The Amell name carried such importance that even now, Leandra and Gamlen were able to physically visit Bethany in the Gallows, despite Kirkwall's Circle laws. It was a bitter fact to accept that Garrett – the city champion and Bethany's own brother – couldn't see his sister just because he didn't possess the long-established influence of a born Amell.

Carver sighed. His breath bounced off the surface of his drink, and the air that greeted him was vile. "Vanguard."

Garrett shot up from his chair. "You were seventeen! A new recruit!" He pointed and swung his arms in all manners of angry shock, barely missing the top of Fenris's head, while Varric was safe on Garrett's other side. Garrett wasn't done, and slammed his hands on the table, rattling Varric's sitting mug. "They knew it was a blight, and they didn't think of the taint? Did you–– Were you––?"

"Vanguard for the mages," Carver swiftly corrected in the midst of Garrett's tirade. He had to repeat himself until the bartender shot Garrett a look, and the mage's volume dipped to one more acceptable for a bar fight. Carver continued over Garrett, who eventually calmed to a tensely vibrating state while dancing the line of listening and reacting. "I was in the back line. I was hardly a new recruit by then. Many others of my class were already promoted ahead of me in the years leading to Ostagar. No, I was never tainted."

Garrett was still standing hunched over the table. "Mother thought you were dead until we received a letter from the king. One year later."

"It was a busy year."

"You had to wait for the king to write to our family?"

"Busy for all of us."

At least Aden had been smart enough to not withhold a royal letter from Gamlen's mail. Given it had been one of many token letters to soldiers' families, Cailan had fortunately failed to detail Carver's status.

Garrett slumped back in his chair and crossed an ankle over his knee. His eyes, though swirling with emotion, were piercing. Whenever Garrett did manage to curb the famous Hawke mage expressiveness in him, he was uncomfortably perceptive. He was a simpleton to anyone not sharp enough to search and see beyond his outward energy.

Carver bowed his head. He could endeavour to keep to himself, to conceal many things from bards, qunari, Crows, and knights. Yet by some natural magnetism, Carver couldn't hide what mattered from Garrett for long unless he put a distance between them. Now, he had no choice.

"Carver?"

"I…didn't hear a question."

Garrett wasn't frowning, which only drew out his resemblance with an impatient Malcolm Hawke. "What had you busy for twelve months?"

Carver was allergic to excessive attention. Garrett alone was enough to stand in for ten people, but the two brothers were also in the presence of Garrett's closest friends. One of whom Carver had been avoiding eye contact with, despite Anders' muted staring. It didn't help that the setting for Carver's interrogation was a crowded bar.

In other words, Carver was being asked about his participation in the Fifth Blight in front of his brother, a fugitive Tevinter slave…

A pirate the Postal Service had investigated because of Carver's curiosity,

The former First of Theron's clan,

A former Grey Warden recruit Carver had once sicced Zevran and Leliana on,

A merchant storyteller,

The City Guard Captain of Kirkwall,

An actual prince,

And the thirty patrons of the Hanged Man, who were definitely not listening. Only Justice seemed indifferent to the situation, peacefully napping in Anders' lap where the mage distractedly stroked his roommate.

Carver stared hard at his drink, and didn't sigh. "After Ostagar, the king's army was understandably short-staffed. I filled in as a runner between the southern front line and areas of military interest."

Garrett didn't budge. "You couldn't have a message sent to Kirkwall?"

"Not without compromising the essence of my mission."

Garrett's eyes flicked to Carver's drink. For a terrifying second, Carver thought Garrett knew.

Garrett knew that the next question would test Carver's willingness to speak.

The older Hawke opened his mouth. "How do you know Sandal?"

Carver's head blue-screened, and he looked up with a thunderstruck expression, so blindsided by the question that he found himself speechless. Garrett somehow found ways to defy expectation even against Carver, with all that Carver knew.

"What…?"

"I'm asking the questions here, brother," Garrett reminded. "Before you rescued Mother, I saw Sandal and someone in your armour while passing through the market one day. Sandal smiles at almost everyone, but you hugged him farewell. It wasn't the first time you two had spoken…so. How. Do you know Sandal."

Carver gaped.

Varric chuckled, lightening the mood. "Flies are gonna find your mouth, Shiny."

Carver snapped his jaw shut. It wasn't an empty warning in the Hanged Man. "Sandal…he's a former travelling companion of sorts."

Garrett cocked a brow. "While you were running messages?"

"Yes."

"That's it?"

Carver relaxed. "Yes."

"You must know his father well, then." Garrett, too, leaned back in his chair. "Bodahn told me that he and Sandal spent the majority of the blight together with the Hero of Ferelden, or running messages for her. I suppose from a certain point of view someone can consider the Circle, the Brecilian Forest, Orzammar, and Denerim as areas of military interest. Especially if that someone is Teyrn Loghain, or a soldier he had sent with the Grey Wardens."

How the––

What the––

Darn it.

"Garrett––"

"Busy?" Garrett's voice rose incredulously. "Maker, Carver! How many times have you nearly died, and proven Mother's grief right? You wanted to let King Cailan write to our family whether or not you were alive? Did you know what you were getting into when you agreed to hunt down an archdemon? Andraste's flaming tits!"

Carver shifted in his seat. "Keep your voice down…"

"How do you expect Mother or Bethany will react––!"

"You can't," Carver's gaze suddenly sharpened, finding Garrett's. His tone was as flat as a bared knife, but fraternity concealed it in silk. "I'll tell them myself, and in the fashion I see fit, but –– Garrett. I can't continue to…do my job if my name goes around. I never agreed to serve in the back line in Ostagar, or to––" limit his reach for running messages, "––follow the Wardens, but the king's army doesn't need my consent to give me an order."

"Until it does," Anders spoke up for the first time, tone subdued. Yet where the Hawke brothers were sharp knives, Anders was blunt. "You turned on Teyrn Loghain and volunteered him to the Grey Wardens. What job in the king's army has you command even your commanding officer, unless Teyrn Loghain wasn't one to you?"

Carver frowned.

Aveline twitched where she sat listening. "No job at all," she concluded. "Even Maric's Shield, the elite of the king's army, takes orders from Teyrn Loghain. Or, took. Carver must have been in a position that I would empathise with, if his superior had been corrupt like mine. Even then, I would have let the chain of command handle the issue, instead of turning over my boss's boss to a third party."

The official story behind Loghain's enlistment into the Wardens was still purposefully vague. Anders' deduction cut through more of it than certain parties would have liked.

Carver's voice was even. "To be fair, Guard-Captain, you were only part of the king's army when the king summoned your lord's forces. The manner with which 'royal legion' affairs are handled is for the royal legion to know."

"…A bit surly, your brother," Aveline muttered to Garrett.

"My job," Carver returned to Anders, "is also not for you to define."

Anders tilted his head. "Then look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you."

"Alright!" Varric clapped his hands. "Why not a couple more ales? Carver shouldn't be the only one drinking!"

Garrett's piercing gaze flitted between each speaker as he contemplated Carver's still hand and the mug next to it. As the orders arrived, Garrett glared over his shoulder, and the Hanged Man reluctantly regained its usual chatter, if regretful at getting caught and not being able to hear more. Garrett turned back forward in his seat and didn't speak despite his staring at Carver, and his friends quieted in expectation until their server left.

Garrett crossed his arms. "You run messages."

Carver searched his brother's face for a mental handhold in their conversation.

"Officially," Garrett clarified, then shook his head. "Right, you need to hear a question. Carver, are you in Ferelden intelligence?"

Schooled expressions stared across the table at each other. Up until that moment, Garrett hadn't been asking binary questions, but that was the trick in mental Wicked Grace. A wise gambler lured others into a pattern, then cashed in with a sharp hook.

Even now, Garrett was better than Carver at anything.

Carver lifted his drink and took a swig.

"Unbelievable!" Isabela delighted over the noise of Carver's immediate spluttering and the table's excitable reactions. "You should be a spy yourself, Hawke. You can start with searching me for hidden depths."

Sebastian slid his drink aside for Isabela to cheerfully claim. "I don't suppose we're allowed to know this?"

"It's always the quiet ones," Fenris muttered into his drink.

Anders reluctantly slipped Varric a handful of coins that Justice impulsively pawed.

Merrill was twisting in her seat to her friends. "Was that a yes? Or a no?"

Carver ignored the energy around him. It was neither. Due to Chantry influence, Ferelden had had a manner of an intelligence department only once in history, and that organisation –– swayed by the laissez-faire culture typical of Ferelden, among other cultures –– had downsized and seceded into the presently known Antivan Crows. How Carver had actually functioned up to and during the blight was more similar to that of military police, but no one except the Qunari would grasp the concept, so Carver kept his mouth shut.

Or rather, open, to ingest the cat's piss that only psychopaths could call a "drink." Phew. At least dwarven ale's burn had quality.

Fact of the matter was, Ferelden hadn't had its own intelligence before, and, despite Carver's personal wishes, likely never would. Yet to answer Garrett's question would be to admit that Ferelden didn't have a Swiss army knife of a spy organisation like certain nations –– or more precisely, stable nations –– of Thedas did. Even though everyone assumed spies were standard to their homeland's government, not everyone was correct or corrected.

Garrett froze. "Wait, then the songs––?"

Carver groaned, sinking further into his seat. "You aren't the only one who's friends with a storyteller. Mine just likes to sing."

At least Leliana hadn't captured everything or the full scope of what he had done during the blight, much less what had followed after. Carver might actually explode at the attention for, oh, establishing half of southern Thedas' political leaders including Orzammar's; guiding Circle and non-Circle mages; leading the war against the archdemon he had helped strategise; and so on. That wasn't counting what Leliana couldn't know by asking those who had travelled with Carver.

Such as his helping kill Flemeth.

Surprised reactions erupted from the table while Anders pounced. "Then you really cut down an undead army with one hand and cured a boy of demonic possession with the other!?"

"Me alone? No," Carver curtly corrected. "You've met Varric. The songs are exaggerated."

"Why, that's just slander!" Varric faked a gasp.

Carver vainly smothered an upward twitch of his lips and glanced up to catch Garrett staring at him, speechless. The mood around the table was warm, like a hearth. Carver and Garrett didn't look away from each other while everyone around them energetically conversed.

Carver hadn't taken a day off in a while, but he could enjoy this night.

Tomorrow, he would refocus on addressing the Tome of Koslun, Castillon, Corypheus, Château Haine, Meredith Stannard, and the entirety of Orlais. Just to name a few.

;

A/N:

Garrett: *Has tales about him that are exaggerated.*

Carver: *Has songs about him that he claims are exaggerated. Also implies that the Hero and her party are responsible for the heroic parts.*

Garrett's friends: Yeah, they could be related.

Nails, in the future: He was involved in WHAT now!?

I thought it was wild that in DA2, it took Ferelden's monarchy six years to identify who was left of the king's army. In Act 3, Aveline receives a letter informing her that she's formally resurrected from the dead and welcomed to return to the army. I like to believe that in this timeline, the monarchy is stable enough that Cailan can afford to send formal letters one year after the Blight, not six.

To recharge, I'm taking a break from this fic. It might be for a week, maybe two. I plan to write the full scope of the Hawke siblings, Anders', and everyone else's reactions to Carver in upcoming chapters. Someone else isn't keen on revealing all that they've done while separated from the Hawkes, hehe.

Please look forward to the next chapter, and thank you for the wonderful reviews!