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Carver had time now. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, really, or rather… it was just a thing that was. As neutral and ambivalent as the sun rising, or the large rock that marked the northeastern corner of their property.
It was just a… a thing. Time. He had it now.
He supposed it should be a good thing; the war was over—his war was over—the farm was built, finished, and they had time to exist. To settle. It’s what he’d wanted. It’s what he’d fought for, that opportunity for him and Nettie to be somewhere warm, and safe, where they could just exist together and be happy. So it should be a good thing, and he should be happy.
But of course, like so many things, Carver seemed destined to fuck it up without even realizing how.
He had time. There was always work to do, on the farm, plowing and weeding, and tending to the animals and the crops, little repairs, and big ones alike. Even helping Nettie, when animals were brought in—they needed weighed and held and heavy things always needed carried. But the thing with that work was that it was the sort of labor that didn’t require a lot of thought. Pulling weeds didn’t require a lot of mental engagement, which mean he had time to think.
And he hated it.
There wasn’t time to think, during Ostagar—there were darkspawn to fight, and even so, he’d been young, it had been his first battle. When they’d fled Ferelden there hadn’t been time to process, everything had been pushed aside, take care of mother, keep the templars away, survive survive survive. From the Templars, to travelling alone, to the Inquisition and finally moving and building their home, it had been so easy to fill that space inside him.
But they had settled and he was happy.
Wasn’t he?
The truth was, Carver was empty inside. Or at least that was how he felt, hollowed out and scraped raw with nothing left. He had no duty now, had nobody to protect, perhaps for the first time in his entire life. There was nothing for him to focus on except for living his life, and as someone who had built their entire existence around being the support for other people, he didn’t actually know how to live without that.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel needed—Carver knew that Nettie needed him, objectively speaking. He knew that he was important, that he was more than just a body between someone and danger. And he knew it was important to recognize that he was more than that too.
But there was just all of this space .
There was no press of immediate crisis, no pillar of purpose and duty, hell there wasn’t even that sweet wash of a world edged in buzzing blue to fill it up.
So pain came instead. Pain, and grief, the overwhelming sense of failure… it bled through the cracks of every single day, bubbling up through the foundations until it threatened to swallow him whole. He couldn’t protect Bethany, some soldier he was. Those long months spent sludging through the swamp, cutting down swathes of darkspawn and for what? To be forced to turn tail and run, to have the other half of his soul ripped out of his chest, left behind with nothing but a pile of stones to mark her grave. Nothing but dirty, filthy rocks left to remind them that someone had been there, that she’d been real and alive and such literal fucking sunshine that the world was, by default, darker.
He couldn’t save mother either, some fucking Templar he’d been. There were so many in the Gallows that he couldn’t help, corruption run too deep, neglected for too long that he could only beat himself against it until he was bloody and raw. But mother… it was their jobs , their entire fucking purpose, to protect people from blood mages, and yet what had they been doing when some sick, sadistic fucking bastard had been cutting people into pieces to feed his own demented desires?
The truth was, Carver suspected that he couldn’t really protect much of anyone.
It was that singular thought that had wormed it’s way into his chest. That singular thought, always present, the only thing that could permanently take root in the cavity of his chest, that had him awake at the slightest noise lately. He had taken to prowling the property of the farm at night when he couldn’t sleep—which was every night. He’d managed to play it off as restlessness, still having a hard time adjusting to so much leisure, that Nettie would accept it with a stubborn pout. It had become such a common occurrence lately that his husband wouldn’t even always wake up when the anxiety became too much and pushed him onto his feet.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something out there, something waiting to take even this slice of happiness away from him.
And really, why should he be here, alive and happy, when so many people weren’t because of him?
So many people that he could have saved; Bethany, mother, the apprentices and mages that had been made Tranquil for no reason even Paxley. His best friend in the Order, the man who had insisted that Carver be the best man at his wedding, twisted and deranged by red lyrium until he was nothing more than a monster that had literally tried to rip his throat out.
They deserved this more than him.
But he was here, and they weren’t, and he shouldn’t be so broken. He had no right to be so broken. So he bit back the hollow void in his chest, pushed himself through the motions, determined to fix whatever was wrong with him.
And if his brain couldn’t work properly, he would just fake it until it did.
He should know by now that things never worked out as planned for him.
“Maker fucking damnit cat!” The angry shout, heralded by the sound of scraping claws and a loud, resounding shatter , filled the farm like a boom of thunder.
Startled from his book, Nettie looked up in time to see a streak of orange fur dash under the desk, which in turn startled both Haelia and Pork Chop from their pillows. He was on his feet in an instant, panic worming it’s way up his throat as he rounded the hall to the kitchen.
“Don’t come any closer there’s broken glass fucking everywhere.” Carver snapped, picking up the larger pieces. “That bloody fucking cat I swear to the Maker…”
“What happened?” Nettie asked, wobbling slightly as he reached to pass over the broom.
“What do you fucking think?” The words came out in an almost snarl, the wood of the broomhandle creaking under Carver’s angry grip. “Your stupid blighted cat was on the damn table again and broke one of the bowls.”
“He’s just a cat, Carver.” Nettie pointed out, careful to keep his voice calm. “He gets up on the table all the time.”
“No shit he gets up on the table all the time.” Carver scowled. “I know he gets up on the table all the time. What, am I not allowed to get angry because he broke the bowl?”
Nettie watched his husband clean in tense silence for a moment, worrying at his lower lip. “I didn’t say that. But it’s just a bowl, we can replace it. You don’t have to shout.”
It was the wrong thing to say, Nettie realized belatedly. Not in that it made Carver more angry, but in the way it just seemed to… deflate him. There was something infinitely heart wrenching in watching a man that large fold down the way Carver did. Nettie didn’t mind the shouting, not really; Carver was a vocal person by nature. It was actually reassuring in its way, the way he would use words and nonverbal vocalizations to fill in the space between them, pushing away any lingering threats of claustrophobia. When he was annoyed he would complain, when he was angry he would huff and yell and mutter, and when he was happy the entire house seemed to fill up with his chatter.
This… this was none of those things.
This was a sort of bleak, dejected silence.
“I’m going to bed.” Carver said softly, disposing of the broken glass. “Dinner is done, just… put away the leftovers I guess.”
Nettie knew something was wrong, knew that the hypervigilance, the mood swings, and the almost manic restless energy weren’t normal. They would need an adjustment period, time to transition from the stress of the war to a quiet life, and that all soldiers had trouble settling. But it had been months almost a year, and things only seemed to get worse.
He didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t like not knowing what to do.
It was an issue he focused on while he ate, picking at the food and giving it a good try before eventually packing the rest up and storing it so the animals couldn’t get to it. It was an issue he ran over and over through his mind as he reassured Pork Chop, and Ethalan Junior, before turning back towards the room.
It was an issue he resolved to figure out as he looked at Carver, curled up into a small ball on his side of the bed, fingers twined in Haelia’s fur as she pressed against him.
Maybe it was something that Nettie didn’t know how to fix, he thought as he got ready for bed, following the curve of Carver’s spine, but he did know he wouldn’t let the human go through it alone.
“It’s happening to you now, isn’t it?”
It was an innocent question, really, filled with familial concern, completely undeserving of the sudden swell of hostility that clawed it’s way up from Carver’s chest. He didn’t answer, didn’t so much as look over at his brother, opting instead to focus on the apples he was meticulously peeling with his knife.
Abe didn’t like apple skins, and Malea only liked apple skins, and Teri just liked apples, so long as they were sliced. The kids were playing in the yard under the watchful eyes of Nero, Fenris and Anders, chased and chasing the dogs as the others did… well, fuck if he really knew. Between Eli and his, Nero and his , even Kalros, Devanna and Cullen, there were too many people and animals to keep track of.
It was a full house though, family and friends gathered around for the approaching holiday, and Carver had to admit it was… nice. Distracting, filled with so much to do and so much noise that he didn’t have time to focus on how colossally fucked up he was.
“I’m fine.” He grunted after a moment. “Nothing’s on fire.”
No, he thought that at least would be preferable to the icy hole in his chest. He might actually know what to do about it, instead of being trapped between feeling nothing, and feeling everything.
“Fine.” Eli snorted, fingers drumming absently on the porch. “That’s a lie. There’s something wrong, even it’s not the same as what was wrong with me. Have you talked to someone about it?”
“I don’t need to talk about it.” Carver shot back, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I don’t need to talk about it because there’s nothing wrong, okay ? Back the fuck off.”
There was a lot wrong, and he knew he wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought, but every time Carver even tried to broach the subject the words would lodge themselves in his chest as fear constricted around his lungs. Because admitting it meant admitting that he wasn’t strong enough, that he didn’t deserve any of this, and that was like daring the Maker to take it all away from him.
Eli drew back at the heat in his voice, their relationship still too sore and too new for him not to take some offense. A part of him regretted it, he thought, but then there was that small piece of him that liked it , telling him to push and bite and fall back into those old patterns where fighting was easier than anything else. Which of course made a bigger part of him feel extra guilty, for what he said and for feeling satisfaction for saying it.
“Carver.” Cullen was on his other side, peeling potatoes of all things, looking at him with that same patient, expectant look. “Nobody came out of that war without their scars, physical and psychological. You are among family, you don’t need to fear being judged.”
And Andraste’s bloody fucking ashes but why did it feel easier to talk to his commanding officer than his own brother?
A loaded question, that, and Carver couldn’t help the ugly little twist of his lips as the reasons bubbled up with a wholly separate but equally complicated tangle of emotions. But he was right, Carver knew--bloody bastard was almost always right--and really at this point everybody knew how fucked up he was so what was the point of hiding it?
He waited until the kids came running up, hungry, breathless, and covered in so much dirt that they might need a few dunks in the pond before their baths. Which they’d probably love anyway the little demons. But Carver handed off the snacks and sent them back out--it wouldn’t do for the little ones to come wandering up as he’s pouring his soul out, would it?
“Fine.” He sighed, watching as they turned their attention to the chickens. “I’m not. Okay.”
It came out haltingly, jagged like broken glass. An obvious fact, but the admission itself was still so hard to make.
“We figured that much out.” Eli offered dryly, and though he wasn’t going to say it Carver appreciated the attempt at levity.
It helped.
“I meant it though. It’s not like the world is on fire, it’s the opposite, actually.” The next part was easier, like pulling teeth. “I feel cold, and empty, like I’m just going through the motions and pretending to be happy. Because I have to be. I’m supposed to be happy.”
Otherwise it felt like he was just wasting a chance that so many people hadn’t gotten because of him. Because he’d been weak, because he couldn’t save them. Because by some stroke of divinely bad luck--or bad humor--he’d been spared and they hadn’t.
Carver hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud, but there it was in the air between them and he found himself speared between both Eli’s and Cullen’s looks.
“Look,” He began uneasily, “it’s not… it sounds worse than it is.”
“Then how is it?” Eli asked carefully. “Explain it to us.”
It was a hard thing to explain, this hole in his chest, and the way his brain would fluctuate between ‘ you don’t deserve this, you’re worthless’ and ‘you earned this, you can’t let anyone take it away’ . He couldn’t even explain it to Nettie, and his husband was arguably the easiest person for him to talk to. But he explained, or tried to as best he could, and there was something freeing in it. Like some small step forward, out of this mire that his brain was stuck in.
“You’re not the only one who’s felt that way.” Cullen offered gently when he finished, feeling scraped raw with a wet heat prickling at his eyes. “Who still feels that way.”
“I felt like that, after Kirkwall and… and when I went into the Fade with Arik and the others.” Eli added. “You told me to talk to someone. A professional.”
“What, you want me to go dump this shit on Nero?” Carver snorted, prickly and embarrassed. “I’m sure he’d love that.”
Nero wouldn’t help. Or he couldn’t, actually. He knew enough about helping people with trauma, but he didn’t specialize in the sort trauma most common in soldiers. And it wouldn’t be good for either of them, to blur that line between friends and counsellor-patient relationships.
But he did provide a name, some colleague in Llomeryn who would see him if he was willing to make the ferry trip.
Her name was Sidona Jarron, a surface dwarf with an office right above a bakery.
It smelled nice, at least, he reasoned as he made the climb, knocking with no small amount of anxiety. It had taken several trips up and down the stairs, actually, to work up the courage to knock. Carver had talked himself in and out of it so many times he feared he might have whiplash. He didn’t know what to expect, didn’t know if he could just get some miracle cure, or if she’d take one look at him and decide that he was a hopeless case.
Well you’ll never know if you don’t try. The soft voice in his head that he often attributed to his conscious--or at the very least the intelligent part of his brain--sounded so much like Bethany that it hurt.
“Come in.” The voice that answered was surprisingly deep.
Soothing, warm tones in shades of burgundy and bronze. It was the sort of voice that held the quiet kind of confidence to put him at ease, at least partially.
The office itself, if that’s what he was calling it, was… warm, and open. Carver had a clear view of all of the angles, and positioned himself in clear view of all of the potential entrances and exits. There were chairs, a sofa, and so many different textures and colors, all while having an open area should he feel the urge to pace.
[He would. Not that first day, but later, he would pace a great deal.]
Carver didn’t immediately hate it, and that in of itself was such a novelty.
“Serrah Hawke.” Sidona stood to greet him, hand extended and welcoming, and even though he was a few feet taller than the woman she had the sort of presence that made him feel safe. “Would you like to have a seat? You’re welcome to arrange the furniture as you see fit. Usually I sit in the black chair.”
“I, uh, right.” He nodded, brain tossing around in a slight panic before he eventually settled in one of the closer chairs. “Right.”
“Right.” She repeated again, taking her seat. “So, what brings you to me today?”
Simple question, easy enough to answer. “My friend Nero recommended I come here. He said you’re good at helping people get their heads on straight.”
“So you’re here because Nero told you to come?” She jotted something down, the scratch of a quill on parchment.
“Yes.” But that answer felt wrong, and his shoulders pulled in defensively. “No. I don’t know. He said you could fix me.”
“Fix you.” She parroted. “As you might have noticed, Serrah Hawke, I’m a dwarf. So I can’t just wave a magic staff and fix you . That’s not how this works.”
There were people who could do that. Who could take away all of his bad thoughts, all of the ugly in him, but the price for that was far more than he was willing to pay. That sort of magic would rip out all of the parts of him that made him Carver.
“How does it work then?” He couldn’t help the annoyance that bubbled up, jaw clenching. “I just talk and suddenly feel better?”
“No.” She shook her head. “And yes. I want to impress on you, before we go any farther, that the people that come to see me don’t have the sort of issues you can resolve in just one or two sessions. There is no quick fix unless you want to find a blood mage.”
There was an ugly laugh as she parroted his own thoughts.
“What you need to keep in mind as we start this, is that it’s going to be a lot of work. A lot of hard work. There will be days when you might curse my name, tell me you hate me, and feel like it’s all hopeless. You’re undertaking an uphill battle, Carver, and you’re going to want to give up. But if you keep at it, I think you’ll find it worth the effort.”
“You make it sound like I’m going to war again.” He complained, arms crossing.
She gave him a smile at that, and for a brief second he wondered if she was no stranger to her own demons. “You are, in a way. Except you’re going to war against yourself; your fears, your anxiety, and your own depression. I’ll be with you though, and I’ll help you. Teach you the tools you need to help yourself as well.”
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” He sighed. “I mean, I can’t keep going on like this anymore. I can’t stand to feel like this anymore. So yes, I guess. I’m willing to do the work.”
He was no stranger to work after all.
“Tell me about Ostagar.”
The second session they had jumped right into it, and Carver had shakingly told her about the darkspawn, about the friendships that had formed among his company. The men and women he ate with, slept with, and bled with. It was the sort of situation that bound people together closer than blood ever could. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk about it, really, the first few months of fighting.
“I saw him you know?” He said, voice sort of amused and sort of detached. “The Gray Warden recruit, the one that went on to become the Hero of Ferelden.”
It had been just a glimpse, really, in passing. He’d been running to the quartermaster to get a new set of boots, and they’d brushed into each other.
“Didn’t seem all that impressive at the time.” He shrugged.
It was harder though, talking about that night.
They knew the plan--engage the hoard, and then when the signal fire went up, Loghain’s men would come in from the other side and flank the spawn. That beacon had went up with a sputtering flare, all that hope for relief met with nothing.
Harder still to talk about the way that he’d been so willing to throw himself at the hoard, as though he was putting himself between them and the rest of the world, until he’d had to be physically dragged back.
The world isn’t yours for the saving, Carver, you are only human and you’re allowed to put your well being before others. Bethany told him, soft voice like a song in his ear.
They talked about his childhood a lot, about the things that he liked to do, the farm and the animals and the bees. He liked when they talked about that because it was good , and it was easy, and it didn’t leave an old ache in his chest when he spent almost an hour talking just about Nettie.
Sidona taught him grounding techniques, and ways to manage his anxiety. She taught him about intrusive thoughts, and ways to deal with them.
It helped, actually, to imagine that it was someone else saying those things to him. Someone like Meredith, or Gamlen, his brother occasionally, because it was so easy to tell them to just fuck off.
He hadn’t been able to tell Meredith to fuck off, even if she’d needed it, and the thought is sobering. How many of his charges had he failed out of fear of being cut off from lyrium?
That was a harder battle to win, one of the bigger tangles in his recovery; letting go of that guilt, and accepting that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Templars didn’t need sustained lyrium doses to use their abilities. The focus, the denial of magic, could be done without--sometimes that first draught opened the door, but the addiction wasn’t needed. It was just a leash, a way for the Chantry to create obedient soldiers, one that had been perfected over centuries.
Being one of countless others forced into the cycle didn’t make him a monster, it didn’t make him a failure, and it didn’t make him weak.
It was something he had to work to remind himself.
“Tell me about your twin.”
He turned on his heel and walked out.
“I used to do wood carving.” Carver said, a few weeks later after returning with a sheepish apology. “Bethany saved up all of her allowance and bought me a set of cheap tools for our thirteenth nameday.”
She was the only one he’d told, and even that had been only after she’d found the small, roughly hewn toy soldier he’d been working on. It hadn’t been good, by any means, but toys were expensive and wood was cheap.
“I haven’t touched a block of wood like that in… shit, not since I left Kirkwall.” His hobby had stalled during the Blight, those first few years at Kirkwall, not until after he’d been made a bonafide Templar.
He’d mentioned it offhand to Cullen, and had been surprised to find a much nicer toolset waiting a few days later. It had helped to keep his mind off of the things he couldn’t change, had been soothing and methodical, and he’d liked making little wooden animals for the apprentices. They’d liked it too, until a sharp word from the Knight-Commander had put an end to it.
Fucking bitch.
“One way to take control back from your trauma, is to pick up some hobbies or, in your case, go back to one.” Sidona offered. “It might be nice to pick up a chisel again.”
Recovery didn’t come overnight, it didn’t even come after a few months, but he had to admit that on his way home he’d stopped by the market and picked up a set of used tools.
Wood carving didn’t magically fix him, it didn’t let him sleep all the way through the night, it didn’t regulate his emotions, but he had to admit that he’d missed it.
Oooh, it looks just like you, right down to the scowl. That not-Bethany cooed when he finished the first one.
She was lying, of course. It had been years, it barely looked human shaped, and he’d ended up getting frustrated and breaking the thing in half. But he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. He appreciated all of the little comments when he found himself grounding himself in the world around him instead of getting caught up in his own thoughts.
I always loved sunflowers. Mother used to roast the seeds, and Father would teach us how to spit them. Eli was so sore when you hit the tree he couldn’t. And then you were both sore when I spit my seeds farther than either of you. It had earned a genuine laugh from him--a concerned look from Nettie--and the next day he’d gone out to get some seeds to plant.
They always sounded like Bethany, and that helped more than he could ever express. It was good to always hear her in his head, the other half of his soul gone, but not lost.
He was getting better too, he knew. He didn’t hate himself nearly as much, didn’t have to work to feel happiness.
Another toy soldier appeared next to that one a few weeks later. It wasn’t much better, but hell, it was definitely human at least.
You are allowed to appreciate the life you have, and you can do that while grieving the lives you lost.
“Paxley was my best friend before you.” He found himself looking over at Val one evening, a cup of tea in his hand as Malea napped in his lap.
She sat across from him, sipping at a glass of wine as her hand absently ran through Abe’s hair. They were getting older, their horns growing in as dark nubs. They wouldn’t be as big as Nero’s, probably smaller and more reduced as a result of their human mother. But the kids were conked out and could likely sleep through an archdemon attack at this point, and it was just the two of them.
“I was the best man when he married Ruvena. It was a small ceremony--Templar weddings aren’t a huge affair usually--but we were recruits at the same time.” He smiled slightly at that. “He even shaved that awful moustache.”
She didn’t answer, knew that a response wasn’t needed yet, that there was more. “We fought together, sat through Harrowings together, survived the purge of the Gallows together. Rue didn’t, and he was torn open about it. Then what do I do? I leave less than a year later.”
“It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d start taking Red, or that he’d try to kill me the next time we saw each other.” He sighed. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed instead.”
“Carver, you couldn’t have known.” She told him, holding up a hand to cut off his protest. “There are a lot of what if’s in that statement, and maybe you would have been able to get him to avoid red lyrium. Maybe not. And you didn’t leave, you were sent away, by order of your Commander.”
Her hand shifted then, reaching up to brush at the scar that twisted around her throat. “Friends are supposed to support one another, but once you start letting yourself suffer in the name of helping someone else, the relationship isn’t equal. And it isn’t healthy. Don’t feel bad for needing to step away, because otherwise, you might not even be here.”
The whole world doesn’t rest on your shoulders , she didn’t say, you are allowed to live for you.
I like your friends. Bethany mentioned the next day, Carver bent over a block of poplar.
“They would like you too, if they’d met you.” He said absently.
He was taking particular care with this one, had made several preliminary sketches. Teri was turning three soon, and had decided he wanted to be a wolf. So Carver had decided to make one for him, and the last thing he wanted was to mess this up.
It required a steady hand.
So of course, as he was carving out the details on the muzzle, his hands started shaking.
“Fuck!” There was a line, scoured clear across the muzzle. “Bloody void damn me.”
It’s not so bad. Bethany offered. It’s like a battle scar.
The lyrium withdrawal was going to last his entire life, Carver knew, but he hadn’t had any symptoms appear in a long while. But now--now here he was, his hands wracked with soft tremors even as he had to squint against the dim light. There was a migraine coming on, an almost negligible throb between his temples that would eventually grow until he was bed ridden.
“Right. Well, with your permission, I’m calling it a day.” He snorted, setting the chisel back down, neatly in row.
Permission granted, Lieutenant.
“Why did you leave the Templars, Ser Carver?” Sidona was sitting in her usual chair, reaching up to scratch at her jaw. “You spent the better part of a decade with them.”
It was easier to talk about these things, he realized. Which was likely part of the point of therapy he mused; being able to vocalize the things that bothered him. And Carver knew that they were going to have to talk about the difficult things, that it was part of the healing process or whatever but…
But he really didn’t want to talk about this.
“Did you miss the part about the Circle Annulment, and the Knight-Commander going bat shit insane?” He replied dryly, resisting the urge to cross his arms.
It was a sure sign that he was being defensive about something, years later and he still hadn’t mastered most of his tells.
“No, I didn’t miss that.” She hummed, patiently amused. “But if that were the case, you would have left after the battle at the Gallows. You stayed with them for over a year longer, which included a promotion to Knight-Lieutenant.”
“So I suppose maybe the better question is, why did you stay?”
Carver let out a sigh, reaching over to grab one of the metal puzzle boxes.
Being a Templar… Carver had found himself there. He had belonged to something, something greater than himself, and he hadn’t felt out of place, hadn’t felt like a reluctant tag a long stuck in his brother’s shadow. A shadow that--and he could finally admit this--perhaps Eli hadn’t intended to cast. But he had anyway, and Carver hated it. Hated that it constantly felt like all anyone had ever seen was how very much less he was. Second best-- oh I thought we were getting Hawke , not his little brother .
But it hadn’t been like that in the Templars; they never really asked much about his family. It didn’t matter when so many of the recruits were orphans taken from the Chantry--likely the illicit children of an affair between mages--with no backgrounds of their own. And there was a rule in the Templars; a recruit with a mage in the family was protected, they weren’t obligated to turn in their own family--not that Carver would have anyway.
And sure that changed, when his brother had become the bloody Champion--he’d caught a lot of flak from Meredith--but by that point he wasn’t just Carver. No, he’d been Knight-Corporal Hawke, and he’d proven himself to his brothers and sisters in the Order.
Being a Templar in Kirkwall had been horrible , but being a Templar in general?
It was the closest thing to a calling he’d felt since the moment rumor began to circulate of a Blight in Ferelden.
“They did things all wrong in Kirkwall.” He shook his head, twisting at the rings of the puzzle. “I mean, obviously , but it was fucked from the get go. Everyone seemed to think, ‘oh Carver enlisted to spite his brother’ but they were wrong.”
“Can’t really spite someone if you think they’re fucking dead, can you? That’s what that bastard brother of Varric’s told me, when I finally tracked him down weeks after they were set to return.”
They’d been running out of coin, and Athenril would only really toss him pity jobs--just enough coin not to starve, but barely. Carver had considered signing up with that mercenary that Gamlen knew, figured he was a better blade than a smuggler anyway but… Mercenaries weren’t particularly known for living long, fruitful lives and without him mother would be all alone. She’d never be able to survive it.
“Meredith liked to tell me that I didn’t have right temperament to be a Templar.” Carver admitted. “Granted, this was usually when I was being written up for disciplinary action, and maybe in a way she was right. I didn’t have the right temperament to be one of her Templars because I actually protected the mages under my care.”
“ Don’t be so soft on them Ser Hawke , she’d tell me, our duty is to guard against corruption, not coddle them .” He scoffed. “As though giving a scared fucking kid a toy was coddling them. She seemed to think I wouldn’t be able to do my duty, that my perceived weakness towards the apprentices meant I would hesitate when one failed their Harrowings.”
As though Carver hadn’t already fought and killed scores of blood mages and abominations already, as though he didn’t have scars from demons getting in too close. He knew his duty, and in every Harrowing he’d sat in on he had never once failed that duty. Even if it took a little piece of his soul with it every time, even if Kirkwall seemed to have a disproportionately high amount of failed Harrowings.
And it did, he knew that for a fact. Cullen had told him, one night, one of those rare few nights when Carver had been able to get him to talk about his last Circle. The Gallows lost a lot more apprentices than was considered normal in the Circles.
Carver was of the mind set that the best way to protect a mage from demons, was to make it very easy for them to turn down the offers.
“You know what most of the mages said they were offered?” He let out a bitter sigh, brushing the now smooth chain of rings across his leg. “It wasn’t power, or endless riches, or the ability to turn water into wine. Oh no, that would be simple, wouldn’t it? That would play into the Chantry’s bullshit about how mages are inherently sinful.”
The last few words were spat out in disgust. “No, most of them were offered the simplest of fucking things . A chance to be with their families, the chance to fall in love and get married and have children without having them taken away. Even just being able to have an actual fucking door, instead of living in converted prison cells.”
It had pissed him off to no end that it was something that innocent that would make mages give in to demons. Beyond fucked up, beyond unfair, and how many times had he been forced to experience disciplinary action because he couldn’t shut his damn mouth about it?
“You know, when I finally decided to kick lyrium, it wasn’t that bad. Oh, it fucking sucked, but the withdrawal symptoms aren’t nearly as bad as what you’d expect from somebody who’d been using for the better part of a decade.” He could hear the slight laugh, but it sounded bitter even to him. “Because I’d been used to getting my rations cut so often in the Order, I’d gone through it dozens of times.”
And that was the kicker; even though there were people who’d agreed with him, how many were too afraid of speaking out? The problem with employing addicts to do a job--they weren’t loyal to the job, they were loyal to their next fix.
“Carver.” Sidona’s words brought him out of his thoughts, and he slowly released the tension from his body, like she’d shown him early on.
He wasn’t surprised, looking down at his hands, to find he’d gripped the puzzle so hard there were several indentations in his palms from the rings.
“These all sound like very valid reasons to leave the Templar Order.” She offered gently. “Why didn’t you?”
Why indeed?
It would have been easy, in the aftermath. The Templar Order was all but decimated, in the chaos he could have slipped away but instead he’d stayed. He’d helped rebuild. And all because…
“Cullen needed me.” He admitted. “He was acting Knight-Commander, trying to make sense of the chaos and we were… He-- they --were all I had left.”
It had been… it had actually been good for awhile after that, if he was honest. It was chaotic, and there were a lot of things they had to learn to do without, but they were put in a unique position. They were able to rebuild , and this time, without Meredith, they could make things better. New policies, treating what few mages remained as equals instead of as prisoners, Carver had honestly believed that things had been changing for the better.
“So what changed?” Sidona asked, taking the rushed, hurried words in stride.
“I was sent away.” And oh, Maker , how that had hurt. “For my own good--the Seekers of Truth were starting to poke around, ask questions. Cullen didn’t want me caught up in the crossfire; he seemed to think that, with Eli and Anders gone, they might try to pin the blame on me.”
“Whether that was a genuine possibility, or paranoia from all of us running on thin rations, I’m not sure.” He admitted. “But I know it was done with good intentions, even if it didn’t feel that way at the time. He wanted me to go to a Circle in Ostwick--apparently he thought they needed a good Templar to sort them out.”
The best of us. Cullen used to tell him, soft and full of such warm pride. It had meant something back then, and it meant something now, even though that time in Kirkwall was long gone for both of them.
“I was almost there.” He explained. “Stopped for the night at a tavern in the city, and decided I’d continue on in the morning.”
Carver still remembered that night. There had been a handful of off-duty Knights there, and he’d considered going over and introducing himself. Just to get a feel of the men and women he’d been working with. And then he’d actually gotten close enough to hear them. Sitting there, laughing--fucking bragging about all of the mages they’d made Tranquil, the other abuses that had been allowed and even encouraged.
Carver got very quiet then, the next words coming out stilted and detached, as though someone else was saying them. “I wish I could say I don’t know what happened next, but it would be a lie. They weren’t Templars--they’d forsaken their oaths, and disgraced their armor. They were--it was fucking disgusting. I hated them, and the things they said.”
“People like that, people that take pleasure out of the things they did, they’re worse than animals. They’re the real monsters so… I killed them. It was quick, clean really, even though they deserved so much worse.” He should have continued on, should have purged the entire damn Circle of it’s Templars. “And then… I think that was it. I just. Broke. I couldn’t do it anymore so I left.”
For the first time he had genuinely hated the Templars. Hated that he’d been a part of them, that this sort of corruption could grow, but people would turn a blind eye because--at best--they just didn’t know. At worse, the Chantry was made aware of these injustices, but because they were happening to mages-- the Maker’s poor, sinful children-- they just didn’t care.
But he cared.
Carver cared so damn much it had been ripping him apart inside. He knew, yes, what the worst of magic could do to somebody. But he also knew what the best of it could do.
My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base.
His father had been the best of them, Bethany and Eli too, Anders and Nero and Kalros-- his apprentices, they’d been good mages too. There were more good ones than bad, Carver knew, but the Templars… they had gone wrong. It said something if he --Carver, who was never that great at anything, who yelled and snapped and swore like a cranky old sailor--was considered the best of them.
“I think they’re necessary.” Carver admitted after a moment. “Individuals who have the ability to nullify magic. But the Order itself? Should be burned to the ground so we can start over. A system of checks and balances--keep one side from getting too powerful.”
“It’s not impossible.” Sidona offered. “The Circle in Dairsmuid had a good balance. And there was a Circle of Magi started up in Orzammar, not long after the Blight. I don’t know that they ever had Templars, but I also think that there weren’t many failed Harrowings, or worry of blood magic down there either.”
“Right.” He grunted. “Yeah, something like that then.”
You were the best of them . Bethany told him. I would have felt safe in the Circle, knowing you were there to protect me. Even if you are a crusty old curr.
“Do you regret it then? Becoming a Templar?”
Did he? That was a question he’d asked himself quite a lot over the years. Often, after he would ask what am I, and where do I belong?
Well, the answer to the latter was much more clear cut now--he belonged at home, on his farm, with his husband.
But did he regret being a Templar?
“I regret a lot of things that happened while I was a Templar.” He answered. “But I know I was a good one. And I know I helped a lot of people--did what we were created to do. So. No. I don’t think that I do.”
That night, in his little work room, a roughly hewn soldier took it’s place next to the others, a Sword of Mercy emblazoned on it’s chest.
“Do you want to talk about your relationship with your Commander?” Sidona asked the next week, her expression open, and her words colored a calm, light gray.
It was his choice--it was always his choice--and Carver considered it thoughtfully.
He and Cullen… they had been something once. Carver had loved him, so dearly. And he still did but… but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like when they’d been in Kirkwall, with what felt like only each other to lean on.
Cullen had Devanna, and they both had their demons, but they worked.
And he had Nettie, and Nettie was… well, he was everything. Carver didn’t know where he would be if he hadn’t met the elf back in Tevinter. Didn’t know if he’d be alive, really. But he did know that whatever would have happened to him, he wouldn’t be this happy. He wouldn’t have his family, wouldn’t have a relationship with his brother at all.
And it wasn’t that Nettie had done all of those things for him, it wasn’t that Nettie had seen the broken man he’d been and decided to fix him. No, instead he’d pushed and prodded--annoyed the hell out of Carver--until he’d pulled his head out of his own ass. He’d listened, and understood in a way that nobody, not even Cullen, had really been able to. Nettie didn’t fix him, but he’d made Carver realize that he could fix himself.
Cullen was like a brother to him--in so much as he could be given their history--and there would always be things that would be easier for Carver to talk to him about instead of his actual flesh and blood brother. They were both different people from Kirkwall, both better people, and they were both happy. They had found the right place for themselves in the world, and it wasn’t together.
“No.” He said honestly. “I don’t need to.”
I much prefer my current brother-in-law anyways. Bethany teased.
“I have something for you.” Carver grinned when Teri latched onto his leg, bending low to scoop the boy up--much to his delight.
“Present! Present!” He cheered, that high-pitched sort of shriek that young children seemed to master by instinct.
“Now, a little bird told me that it’s your Nameday today.” He teased, pulling out the present. “And they also told me that you’ve taken quite the liking to wolves.”
“Daddy was telling me about how, back home in Ferelden there were people who can turn into wolves.” He said in a rush, clumsy fingers tearing at the wrapping paper. “Oh!”
By some stroke of insanity--stubbornness?--Carver had decided not to throw out the old carving and completely start over. The scratch was still across the muzzle, a battle scar, just like Bethany had said. He didn’t hate it, quite like he hated most of his other works--the pains of self criticism--but he still wasn’t fond of that imperfection.
“It got hurt.” Teri gasped, causing Carver to grimace slightly.
Leave it to a child to innocently point out a flaw.
“Uh… yeah.” He offered, mind casting about for a plausible excuse other than I fucked it up . “It, ah, it got hurt protecting it’s puppies from a… bear?”
“Nice save.” Eli muttered, low enough just for him to hear.
And he couldn’t even see when Carver flipped him off behind Teri’s back.
“Hm…” His nephew seemed to consider it seriously, before reaching up to put a small hand on his cheek, fingertips brushing the scar there. “Just like you. Daddy says you get hurt protecting people a lot.”
“Oh.” Something warm unfurled in his chest at that, and Carver could feel the heat rise to his face. “Oh, I, um, I guess so.”
Our Carver, always protecting us no matter what.
“Down you go, Haelia.” Their dog gave him a disgruntled look, letting out a very exasperated noise as she pushed herself up onto her feet and climbed off of the couch.
“Asshole.”
Ignoring Nettie’s betrayed accusation, Carver tossed his shirt over onto the chair before easing himself down into the space that she’d just vacated. “Last minute schedule change.”
“I suppose this is acceptable.” His husband sighed, trying to affect an air of disinterest that was completely thwarted by the smile on his face. “Is dinner almost ready?”
“Mmm.” He hummed when Nettie’s hand slid into his hair, grip tightening with just the slightest of tugs. “Soup needs to simmer a little longer, bread is still in the oven.”
“It smells good.” Nettie offered, a fond smile on his face.
Carver let out another satisfied noise, arms wrapping around the elf’s waist and holding him tight.
“You smell nice.” As though to prove his point, Carver nuzzled his face into Nettie’s stomach, unable to help the grin as his husband squirmed and let out a slight laugh.
“I love you, you know.” He said after a few moments of comfortable silence, head lifting so he could look up at Nettie. “I know these past months have been kind of hard, with me trying to get my head back on straight. And you’ve been really patient with me, and really supportive, which you always are.”
“Well yeah,” Nettie frowned slightly. “That’s because I—”
“Because you love me, yeah.” Carver interrupted. “I know you do, and I know that we always support and help each other but I want to thank you for doing it anyway. I don’t--shit, Nettie, sometimes I feel like you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He shook his head, his other hand reaching up to cup his jaw. “But we both know that’s not true, so instead of a lecture, I will simply say, you’re welcome.”
“And?” Carver grinned, stretching up just that last little bit to kiss him.
“And I love you too, you idiot.” Nettie laughed, pulling him back up for another.
And another. And a few more after that.
The emotion that filled Carver was… it was joy, plain and simple. He was happy, now. Happy again, the hole in his chest patched and filled with the memories of the people he loved, both old and current. It wasn’t something he had to fight to feel anymore, though there were still days that he struggled with it.
Those days would always be there, he knew, but for now it was… it was good. It felt good. He felt good… and whole.
The house filled with their shared laughter, loud and real, and golden.
Until it was broken by a shatter , the scrabbling of paws, and an orange streak that skittered out of the living room and straight under the couch. Both Carver and Nettie froze at that, tense and poised, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“He’s your child when he does shit like this.” Carver sighed, dropping his head back against Nettie’s chest as his shoulders shook with laughter.
“He’s a good cat, Carver. It’s not his fault you make such good food, he’s only mortal.” Nettie protested, whining slightly as the human got up.
“Uh-huh. See if you feel that way while you’re cleaning up the mess he made.”
“Hey! ”
In the small room, in a small shed, tucked in close on the other side of the house, there were a series of broken toy soldiers at various stages of completion. And at the end of the row, still neat and orderly, even if they couldn’t stand, was one that wasn’t perfectly made . It had chips, it had scratches, and the paint on the armor had been intentionally weathered and flawed but it was whole.
Just like him.