Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her shoulder hurt. A lot. This was the most salient thing. Searing pain in her left shoulder, her neck, her chest. All on the left.

And the sharp, clear blue eyes, full of concern. She didn’t recognize them. Did she? No.

“She’s awake. Hey! I’ve got you. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay. Brother! She’s awake!”

And then she wasn’t anymore.

These eyes were different. Amber. Not blue. Concentration, not concern. The pain was different, too. Numb, sore, something else her brain couldn’t quite name. Words were hard to find. Her head was foggy.

“Not yet, my dear.  Back to sleep. Let me work.”

She tried to nod. Sleep sounded good.

Things were less foggy the next time she opened her eyes. Wood ceiling. Lit by candles. It wasn’t the docks. She was alone this time. Nobody’s eyes hovered above her. Closing her eyes again, she exhaled slowly and went through an inventory. Fingers wiggled. Toes felt intact. The pain seemed to be gone, but her chest was stiff.

Opening her eyes again, she tried to take in her surroundings. A bed. No, a cot. In a large room with no windows. There were other cots. It smelled faintly of herbs and dust. There were voices, a quiet conversation from somewhere on the other side of the room. She carefully pulled herself up in the cot and felt a tug on her chest. Looking down, she discovered the bandage over her collarbone. Thick white fabric stuck to her skin around the edges with some sort of paste. It tugged at her skin when she moved. But it didn’t hurt. She finally got herself sitting upright, her back against the wall, when a man stepped into her line of sight. Tall. Blonde hair. Amber eyes. Stubble. Feathers. Feathers? Maybe her mind was still foggy after all.

“Ah. You’re awake again. And moving. How do you feel? Any pain? Soreness?”

She shook her head. No. No pain. Confusion, but no pain. The confusion must have been clear. He sat on a stool next to the cot.

“You’re in a clinic. In Darktown. There was an arrow in your chest. Do you remember?”

“Wh—what?” The longer her eyes were open, the less things were making sense.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” He smiled softly. “Okay. What do you remember?”

What did she remember? Amaranthine. Darkspawn. Rhys. No. That was months ago. Kirkwall? Everything was foggy. Everything. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to remember, tried to figure out what was going on.

“I was at the docks. Going home. There was…a fight. And blood. So much blood.” She opened her eyes and looked around the room again. Nothing familiar. “Where am I?” She turned back to the blonde. “Who are you?” She couldn’t stop her voice from shaking.

“My apologies. My name is Anders. I’m a healer, and you’re in my clinic. In Darktown.”

She shook her head. Someone had brought her here. Someone with blue eyes.

Anders watched the emotions pass over her face, recognizing the confusion. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. We’ll get you sorted out.” His smile was kind, reassuring. “You lost a lot of blood. I’ll be back with some food for you soon. Just rest.” She took a few deep breaths, then nodded to him.

“Meghan. My name is Meghan.”

Her memories would come back soon.

The next time Meghan woke, things were much clearer. She sat up in the cot, leaning against the wall again. She remembered the fight in the alley where she sometimes slept. The Redwater Teeth. She remembered the pain when the arrow pierced her chest, near her collarbone. Her collarbone should have been broken. It didn’t feel broken. She rolled her shoulder, testing it. Poked at it. Definitely not broken. The healer must have done something. Anders. That was his name. And then it clicked—the healer in Darktown she’d been hearing about was a mage. He had probably fixed her bone with magic.

That was as far as she got with piecing her night together when Anders came back. This time with a mug of something hot and a plate of bread and cheese.

“I noticed you testing your shoulder. Does it feel okay?” He passed her the mug. She nodded and took a sip, hoping it wasn’t peppermint tea. She hated peppermint.

“Rose hips, cinnamon and…honey?” She asked.

Anders blinked at her. Twice. “You could tell from one sip?”

Meghan nodded again and took another sip before resting the mug carefully against her knee. “I’ve heard about you, you know. The healer from Darktown.”

She saw Anders tense, jaw clenching, something flashing in his eyes. Immediately she realized her mistake.

“Oh, no. No, no. I’m sorry. I’m no friend of the Templars. Don’t worry.” When she saw that he didn’t look reassured, she sighed and reluctantly held her hand out in front of her, palm up. She took a breath and concentrated on her magic. It didn’t take long for little lightning bolts to start dancing across her open palm. Before the magic got away from her, she pulled it back, and looked up at him. There wasn’t a drop of the tension from before in the smile he gave her now.

“I didn’t realize you were a mage,” he said.

“I’m not. Not really. I mean, I can do the lightning thing, but that’s about it. I don’t think of myself as mage.” She shrugged.

Anders drew his brows together. “That’s all you can do? You were never trained? In a Circle or…somewhere?”

“No.” She nodded to the plate of food that Anders was still holding. “If you share some of that food, I’ll tell you my ‘Maker’s breath, I have magic!’ story.”

“Oh! Sorry. Right. This is for you anyway. I ate while you were sleeping. But I’m always game for a good story.” He sat on the stool and passed the plate to her. And Meghan told her story of the stable boy who cornered her behind the merchants’ stalls and tried to kiss her. She was 13—already apprenticed to Master Henley, learning about potions and salves. She had three older brothers and knew just where to kick a boy to make him leave her alone, but the stable boy caught her by surprise. Instead of kicking, she shot lighting at him. He was so frightened that he froze, and then she did kick him. Anders’s lips quirked up at that.

“Fortunately, for me, he was in enough pain that he couldn’t really tell whether the kick came before or after the flashing lights. My brothers coming after him the next day helped, too I suppose.”

“But your family knew what happened?” His eyebrows were high on his forehead.

“Yes,” Meghan sighed. “My grandmother was a mage, so we knew it was a possibility. If my mother were alive, she might have wanted to send me to the Circle. But my father said he couldn’t give me up. So he told me to hide it. Pretend it wasn’t there. And that’s what I did. What I’ve always done.”

Chapter Text

Carver walked a half-step behind his brother, letting Garrett lead them through the Darktown alleys. It wasn’t that he didn’t know his way around; it was just that it had become habit. As much as Carver hated being in his brother’s shadow, with the things they’d seen these past weeks, shrieks and demons and blood mages, he was sometimes grateful that he wasn’t the one in the lead. He just wouldn’t ever admit that. To anyone.

The doors to Anders’s clinic were closed, the lanterns dark. Strange. That usually meant Anders was out. Before he could point this out, Garrett pushed one of the doors open, like it was his clinic. Carver groaned and followed. It turned out that Anders wasn’t out. He was sitting on a stool in the corner, talking quietly with the girl. She was awake. Her dark hair had been smoothed into a braid, and the color had returned to her face. And she was smiling, a single dimple just at the corner of her mouth.

It hit him then why she had looked familiar before. And why she might have been at the docks in the first place.

He heard his brother making introductions. Before she had a chance to say anything in response, Carver blurted out, “You’re the girl with the potions.”

He could feel Garrett’s and Anders’s eyes on him. He started to apologize for being an idiot, but she just smiled at him.

“Yes. I heard someone the other day refer to me as ‘Potion Girl,’ like it’s a title or something. I know some others call me Lady Meghan. But Meghan is fine. I’m definitely not a ‘Lady,’ and I’m not sure I really want to be ‘Potion Girl.’”

“Well, that explains the tea.” Anders gestured at the mug she was holding. “But I think it’s cheating to identify what’s in tea that you made. I bought that last week.”

“This is mine?” She laughed. “I had no idea. It doesn’t usually taste this good when I make it. Maybe it’s how much honey you added.”

Anders shrugged. “I like sweet things.” She laughed again.

Carver groaned. Was the mage flirting with her? Was she flirting with him?

“Right,” Garrett interrupted. “We just came by to see how you were recovering and if you needed someone to escort you back home or get a message to your family.”

She stilled, and the mirth in her eyes melted.

“Maker’s teeth. I’m sorry. I should have realized how late it was. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I can get myself back. There’s no one to send a message…no, I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll just get my boots and…” Her voice trailed off as she started shifting toward the edge of the cot to get up.

Anders put out a hand on her arm. “No. You’re staying here for the rest of night. You lost a lot of blood, and you need more rest. We can get a message to your brothers.” He glanced in Garrett’s direction.

“Of course.” Garrett nodded in agreement. Carver shook his head. He couldn’t believe that neither of them had heard her say there was no one to send a message to. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he paid attention. He was the only one not surprised when the girl whispered, “They’re all dead.”

“Andraste’s flaming…” Anders muttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Carver watched her smile at Anders, telling him it was okay. He could tell the smile was forced. She quietly explained that she was on her own and began repeating her earlier claims that she would be fine. He wanted to say something, something comforting or kind, but he was never good with that sort of thing. Garrett was. And, of course, Garrett stepped in and put a hand on her arm. Carver rubbed the back of his neck and watched his older brother offer condolences and a promise to return in the morning to walk her home.

And then, as if Garrett hadn’t spoken at all, she looked directly at Carver, meeting his eyes for the first time and said, “Thank you for saving my life.”

Her eyes were grey and bright with tears or candlelight or gratitude, he wasn’t sure which. In that moment, he couldn’t quite form words, so he just smiled at her and bowed his head slightly.

Anders walked with the Hawke brothers to the door, quietly telling them that she was a mage with no training and that, if she was really in Kirkwall alone, she would need help. They nodded in agreement and planned to bring Varric along in the morning.

When the door to the clinic closed behind them, Garrett let out a laugh.

“Looks like I’m the one in your shadow this time, little brother.”

Chapter Text

Meghan, Anders, the Hawke brothers and Varric sat around a makeshift table. Varric, it turned out, had also heard of her and her potions. But he had still wanted to hear her story. So she told them all about the darkspawn that attacked Amaranthine. Anders nodded. He had been there.

“My father was a city guard. So was one of my brothers. The other two had been soldiers. Thomas died at Ostagar. Gregory was at Denerim. Rhys was with me at the house when the attack started. We didn’t have time to look for father.”

She remembered the way had Rhys looked at her as he thrust one of his swords into her hands, eyes full of determination, defiance. They both knew father was lost inside the city walls. They were the last of the family. They had to survive. And so they ran.

“I’m rubbish with a sword. My brothers never let me practice with them. ‘Swords aren’t for ladies,’ they always said. But it was sharp, and I knew if I swung it hard enough, I’d hurt whatever I was swinging at.”

They hadn’t gone very far when they found themselves overwhelmed and trapped. The cliffs above the Waking Sea on one side, a half a dozen darkspawn on the other. Rhys shouted at her to keep running. Run to Highever. But she couldn’t run. Not without him. Not alone.

“It was the first time I was angry that I’d never learned to use my magic properly. I tried fighting. I know I killed at least one with my magic. But it wasn’t enough. Rhys…fell. I ran. And now I’m here.”

Varric narrowed his eyes at her. “I feel like you’re leaving out the good stuff. How exactly did you get here? And why come to the Free Marches? The Blight was over. You didn’t even need to leave Ferelden.”

“Would you believe me if I told you a dragon saved me and brought me here?” She laughed as she said it, knowing exactly how ridiculous it sounded. But when everyone else looked, not at her, but at Hawke, she felt a small shiver creep up her spine.

“We might believe that, actually.” Hawke said, levelly. “Tell us what happened.”

“I…I don’t remember much, to be honest. I was running. The darkspawn were close, and…I saw this great beast flying at me. I fell. I woke up to an old woman leaning over me. She told me I needed to keep running but not to Highever. She said, ‘I can’t tell you where to go. All I can do is point you in the right direction.’ And she put me on a boat to Kirkwall.”

Varric cocked his head to one side. “That’s it?” He asked. “I can’t imagine Flemeth is really running around rescuing random Fereldans from darkspawn.”

“Me neither,” Hawke said. “She made us do her a favor in return, once we got here.”

“And gave us some really lousy advice that didn’t mean a thing.” Carver scowled.

Hawke nodded. “What else did she tell you? What deal did you make with her?”

Meghan repeated Flemeth’s words. “You can’t hold others in front of you forever, dear girl. There will be a time when Fate asks you to run. And when that time comes, you must be prepared. And prepared to go alone. Your path is an important one, but it must be yours. You must choose it before you can share it.”

“The ‘deal,’ as you call it, was that the next time I saw her, she would tell me to go, to run. And I had to do it. Alone. No questions asked.” Meghan explained.

“That’s…a bit odd.” Hawke scratched at his chin. “I mean, that’s not really something for her, is it?”

Meghan shrugged. “Apparently, someone’s life will depend on whether or not I follow her instructions. So whoever it is must be important.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Hawke leaned forward with his elbows on the table.

“Right, well, Flemeth even referred to herself as ‘an old hag who talks too much.’ But I wouldn’t forget the deal, if I were you. Now let’s talk about getting you somewhere safer than the docks.”

They had all been appalled when she admitted that she’d been living at the docks, trying to find a different nook or alley to sleep in each night, so the Coterie wouldn’t find her. And before the Hawkes and Varric even arrived, she and Anders had struck a deal.

“A favor for a favor,” He had said. “You bring your excellent potion crafting skills here and help out in the clinic, and I’ll teach you some healing spells.”

She sat back and tried to follow the flurry of conversation in front of her. The Hawkes didn’t have a room for her to sleep in, but Varric could probably get her set up with a room at the Hanged Man. Then Anders offered a cot at the clinic, since she would be helping out there already. Garrett offered to help her with combat spells in addition to Anders’s training. Carver, she noticed was silent through most of this. Garrett explained that he had a whole trunk full of torn trousers, opal fragments, and raven feathers he could sell to get her a staff to practice with. Varric suggested they also keep an eye out for places to practice, empty warehouses and the like. This was when Carver finally spoke up.

“Armor,” he grunted.

Everyone turned to him.

“She needs armor.” He repeated.

“Or proper robes,” Anders suggested.

Carver shook his head firmly. “She needs armor if she’s going to get caught in late night gang fights, which happens all the time when you follow my brother around. Robes aren’t going to stop arrows.”

Meghan’s face burned. “I don’t go around trying to get shot with arrows, you know.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Carver frowned at her. “But robes are only useful if you’re actually using magic, right? And you’re not. So armor makes more sense.”

“Sometimes, Junior,” Varric grinned, “You actually say something useful.”

The conversation returned to potential practice spots when Meghan caught sight of a kitten. She reached down and settled him in her lap as she let to the men talk. She was tired of the conversation, and they weren’t letting her make any decisions anyway. Varric and Hawke started making a list on a scrap of parchment. Carver looking on, appearing bored.

“Ah…who did you find?” Anders glanced over at her.

Meghan leaned back a bit to let Anders see the grey lump in her lap.

He laughed. “Looks like you found the scruffiest, mangiest one of the bunch. I’m not sure I’d want him in my lap.”

With a shrug, she replied, “Maybe I like scruffy.”

Anders’s lips twitched into a smug half-smile.

Carver glared at Anders, and Meghan watched as Anders’s smile faded. Then Carver turned to his brother. “We need to leave if we’re going to make it to the Bone Pit and back before it gets dark.”

With promises to meet at the Hanged Man later that night, they left Meghan, and her kitten, alone for the day. She was thankful for the bit of peace and quiet to sort through everything that had happened. She felt an odd sense of comfort that these new friends would be able to help her finally get settled in this new city. Anders and Hawke both seemed kind. Varric appeared to know everyone and everything about the city, which would be helpful. And Carver. She knew he was the one who had carried her to the clinic. She had recognized his blue eyes almost immediately. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was always so grumpy.

Chapter Text

Carver hadn’t seen Meghan in a couple of weeks. He knew she’d been at the Hanged Man a few times, playing Wicked Grace with the others. But he’d always shown up after she’d left. And the times Garrett had brought her by the house, he’d been out. Or sleeping. So he hadn’t seen much of her since that first week. Until today. Garrett had asked him to meet her in the market in Lowtown. She wanted to gather some herbs from the Wounded Coast and needed someone to go with her. Apparently, it was his turn.

He walked into the market, a bit later than he should have been. It took him a moment to find her. She was sitting on the steps leading to Hightown, leaning back on her elbows, face turned up to the morning sun, eyes closed.

“Enjoying yourself?” He nudged her foot with his boot.

She didn’t open her eyes, just smiled. “I spend much too much time underground these days. I miss the sun.”

“Well, we’ll be in it all day today.”

She sighed, finally opening her eyes and peering up at him. “I’m sorry you got stuck babysitting today.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugged, then held out a hand to help her up.

They walked in silence until they made it through the city gates and turned up the coastland path. Carver glanced over at his companion and noticed her clothing. An oxblood leather gambeson.

“You got armor.” He said, then mentally kicked himself for stating the obvious.

“I did. You all but told me to, remember? Is this acceptable?” She stopped and spun for him. He noticed the knee-high boots, the dark canvas breeches, and pale blue tunic she wore under the sleeveless gambeson. And the pink in her cheeks and the smile on her face when she completed her spin. She was quite pretty, he realized.

“It’ll do.” He said with a wry smile.

“Good enough, I suppose. Aveline helped me. I thought that was safer than letting Isabela tell me what to wear.”

“Isabela doesn’t wear pants.”

“Which is why I didn’t ask for her help. A lack of pants does not equal armor.”

“So…” Carver cast about for another topic of conversation. “My brother told me you’re learning quickly.”

“Well,” she sighed, “not quickly enough to let me go pick blighted plants on my own apparently.”

His step faltered at the shift in her mood.

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “He’s as bad as my brothers were. I’m fairly certain that I can handle myself. Nothing ever happens out here. They never let me do much either.”

“You realize that saying nothing ever happens is a guaranteed way to make something bad happen, right?” He teased.

“Oh, shut up.” She shoved him lightly.

He was about to ask about her magic again, when she darted off the path. “Elfroot!”

He shook his head and watched as she knelt next to a large outcropping of rocks to pick leaves from the plant there. Focused on getting the whole leaves, she didn’t see the three giant spiders come around the other side of the rocks. He shouted and ran to push her behind him, drawing his sword. He sliced though the first one easily and focused on keeping himself between her and the spiders. He wasn’t even aware that more spiders had come up behind him and headed right for her. As he stabbed the second spider, he felt her step away. The air behind him crackled with lighting, but he didn’t have a chance to look as the third spider attacked. He leapt high to swing down on its back. Once that spider was down as well, he turned to find Meghan crouched, staff out, three dead spiders in front of her.

“Are there more?” She whispered.

“No. I don’t think so. Are you okay?”

“I…I think so.”

“You can put the staff down now, Meghan.” He took a step towards her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Andraste’s ass, those spiders were huge.” She finally lowered her staff and stood, turning to him.

He snorted. “I’m not sure if I should be shocked at your swearing or relieved that the size of the spiders is your biggest concern.”

Meghan tilted her head to one side, looking at the spider carcasses in front of her. “Is that a necklace?”

Carver looked at the spider in question, and, sure enough, there was a thin chain dangling from its leg with a round, copper pendant.

“It is. It’s probably some enchanted amulet. We find them all the time.” He pulled it off the spider and wiped off the blood on his pants. With a flourish and a bow, he handed the amulet to her. “Your spoils of war, my lady.”

She peered at the coin-shaped amulet for moment then looked up at him. “That’s kind of gross, you know?”

He laughed. “If you don’t want to wear it, you can sell it. That’s where half of our coin for the expedition comes from.”

She smiled suddenly. A brilliant smile, dimple and all. A smile that he was quickly learning was hard to ignore. “I killed giant spiders. With magic. I can’t wait to tell Hawke and Varric.”

Laughing again, Carver said, “Yes, well. I doubt it will be enough to convince my brother to let you wander around on your own, but I’m sure Varric will spin some grand tale about it.”

They picked their way further down the path, finding more elfroot and some spindleweed. She answered his questions about her magic, and he told her a few stories about watching Bethany learn when they were younger. They chatted about the expedition and growing up in Ferelden. She had said she was looking for something called embrium, but they weren’t having any luck. Carver noticed that the sun was well past its high point. Not wanting to get caught outside of the city after dark, he suggested they turn and head back. Meghan groaned but agreed.

“We can try again tomorrow, if you’d like. A different path this time.” He offered.

“No, that’s okay.” She sighed. “I’ll find a different babysitter and go in a day or two.”

Carver frowned. He had forgotten that she referred to his company as babysitting. Even though he had grumbled to his brother about having to go with her, it hadn’t felt like a chore at all. In fact, he’d enjoyed the day talking with her, getting to know her.

“It’s not babysitting.” He stopped walking and looked down at her, wanting her to see that he was sincere. 

“Oh.” Her eyes widened for a moment, then she grinned up at him. “Well. Then maybe we can try again tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

It had been weeks, and Carver hadn’t managed to find the time to go to the coast with Meghan again. He’d come by the clinic every few days to say hello, to invite her to the Hanged Man, to bring her elfroot he’d found while out with his brother, but he never had time to go back out to the coast with her. Hawke had been dragging him along on every quest. The most recent was to rescue the Viscount’s son who had been kidnapped. Of course, he turned out to have not been kidnapped. And, along the way, they came across a dwarf who wanted them to get some information from some Tal-Vashoth, which of course led to a fight with the group of Tal-Vashoth. Meghan, two mugs of ale in, lost track of the story that Varric was telling. She regarded the room. Hawke’s companions. An elf with lyrium tattoos. A storytelling dwarf. A pirate with no pants. A Dalish elf lost in the city. A scruffy apostate rebel. A proud guard captain. And Carver.

Carver was looking particularly surly tonight. Frowning into his mug, ignoring the laughter around him. She kicked him under the table. Not hard, just enough to get his attention. His head jerked up with a scowl. She smiled at him. His scowl softened a bit, but he didn’t smile back.

Meghan rolled her eyes and downed the rest of her ale, pushing the empty mug away. She turned back to Varric and caught him describing Hawke’s firestorm. She’d heard him talk about it and had been meaning to ask if she could do something similar with her lighting. Not that she’d ever have a chance to use a spell like that, since she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere on her own. But it would be good to know, regardless. She made a mental note to ask him later. Something nudged her foot, and she looked up to see Carver looking intently at her. She raised an eyebrow in question. He jerked his chin towards the door. Nodding, she pushed her chair back and stood.

“I’m sorry I’ll miss the end of the story, Varric, but I’m exhausted. I’m going to head back to the clinic.”

“I’ll walk you.” Carver stood quickly. Meghan watched Varric look from her to Carver and back to her again. He raised an eyebrow at her. Then he chuckled. “As long as you promise to tell me again about these spiders you slayed.”

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

A clear sky and a full moon made the streets of Lowtown brighter than usual. Meghan paused just outside the doors to the Hanged Man, breathing in the night air.

“You know,” she said, “it smells like bronto dung in there.”

 “Yes. It does.” Carver said, flatly.

She looked up at him, studying his face for a moment. “Are you okay?”

He frowned and started walking. “I’m fine.”

She caught up with him, and tried to get him to look at her. “Liar.”

He slowed his pace a bit and sighed.

“Come on. Tell me what’s wrong.” She asked.

“It was a long day. I’m tired.”

“You know Carver, Varric calls you ‘Junior’ and Fenris ‘Broody.’ But I think he got it wrong. You brood just as much as Fenris.”

“I don’t brood,” He scoffed.

“That’s what Fenris says, too.”

He didn’t respond, so they walked in silence until they reached the stairs to Darktown. She didn’t want to go back just yet. Both because it was a nice night and she wasn’t ready to be underground again and because Carver is the one who wanted to leave the bar with her in the first place. She had a feeling he wanted to talk, even though he was refusing to just then. So she stopped and sat on the steps. Carver looked down at her for a moment, frowning again, before sitting next to her.

“What is it with you and sitting in the middle of stairs?”

She shrugged, “I just like being outside, and the stairs are more comfortable than the ground.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Spending the entire day with that mage makes me want to strangle him.”

“’That mage’ being Anders?”

He nodded. “Today, he had the nerve to ask me if I liked him. He told me it was ‘shameful’ to hate him just because he’s a mage.” He clenched his hands into fists in front of him. “My brother is a mage. My father was a mage. My sister…I wouldn’t hate someone just because of that. He’s so…so…” He let out a growl and dropped his head.

Meghan leaned against him, her shoulder to his. She could feel the warmth of his skin through her tunic. “I know. But you know his heart’s in the right place, even if he’s a bit of a git about it.”

“A bit?” Carver snorted.

“Do you miss Ferelden?”

“Changing the subject?”

“Only sort of.” She nudged him with her shoulder.

“Sometimes,” he sighed.

“I miss Ferelden. I miss my brothers. Every day. But I’m glad I’m here. I mean, I don’t really belong. With you all, with ‘Hawke’s companions.’ It doesn’t feel like ‘home.’ But for the first time in my life I feel like I can be myself. I’m not hiding from everyone. And part of that because of Anders, because he’s been willing to teach me. And part of that is exactly the kind of freedom he’s fighting for.”

Carver didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Meghan leaned her head on his shoulder and listened to him breathing.

“I know,” He sighed. “I just wish he didn’t talk about it all the time.”

“I know,” She responded. “And I wish Isabela didn’t talk about sex all the time. But Anders will probably always get under your skin and Isabela will probably always make me blush.”

At that, Carver laughed. It was just a small laugh, a chuckle maybe. But it was a laugh. She liked him better when he laughed.

“She is relentless, isn’t she?” He shook his head, chuckling again. “Come on. Let’s get you back before Anders finds the clinic empty and panics.”

“He wouldn’t panic,” she said as she stood and brushed herself off. “He’d find us here on the steps, tell Varric, and then we’d never hear the end of it.”

As it was, Varric did hear about it. The next morning, Meghan found Varric in his suite in the Hanged Man. She brought him a small healing potion for the hangover she knew he’d have and told him the story of the spiders.

“I like your version of the story better than the one Junior told us. Hawke’s proud of you, you know.”

Meghan couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. Hawke often reminded her of her eldest brother, Thomas, who she was always desperately trying to impress.

“So tell me,” Varric continued, “what’s with you and Junior?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?” She knew she was blushing, feeling the warmth in her cheeks.

“He was awfully quick to volunteer to walk you home last night. And someone may or may not have seen you two sitting on the steps together, definitely not walking home.”

“We were just talking. We’re friends, Varric.”

“Friends?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Friends.” She nodded once in affirmation.

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say anything else. She wondered if he could tell that she was disappointed in her own answer.

Chapter Text

Meghan was walking a few steps behind him through the market. Garrett had invited her along as they wandered the city, delivering some of the odds and ends they’d found in recent weeks, collecting every last bit of coin they could. An old shawl here, the remains of so-an-so there.

Carver hadn’t seen Meghan in while. Well he’d seen her, but he hadn’t spoken to her.

He’d seen her at the clinic with Anders, potion crafting materials spread out in front of them. She’d leaned close to Anders, rubbing a hand on his unshaven cheek. “Told you I liked scruffy,” she said, laughing. Carver crushed the bundle of embrium in his hand and left before he saw or heard anything else.

He’d seen her at the Hanged Man, leaning against the table where Anders was sitting. “Isabela told me to ask you to teach me the electricity thing.” Anders nearly spit his ale out. He refused. But when Meghan asked him to at least tell her what it was, he leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. Her cheeks burned crimson, and she buried her face in her hands. Isabela doubled over with laughter. Anders leaned back in his chair with a smirk. Carver turned away to see if Fenris would spar with him.

He’d seen her there a couple of nights ago as well. She was standing at the bar, telling a story to Isabela and Aveline. Arms gesturing wildly, a bright smile on her face. Isabela was laughing. Even Aveline looked amused. Anders, Varric, and Garrett were at a table, poring over the maps for the expedition. Anders kept looking over at the women. Carver turned on his heel and left, deciding to get a drink at the Blooming Rose instead. He didn’t see Meghan’s smile falter as he walked away.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d know he’d been avoiding her. And now she was walking around Kirkwall with him.

“I saw you at the Blooming Rose the other night.” Isabela had sidled up next to him.

“What? No you didn't.”

“I suppose someone else stole your chin to romance Faith?”

Carver laughed, “That's unlikely. She wasn't even working.”

“Mm-hmm. Got you.” Isabela replied in a sing-song voice.

 “Carver,” Hawke said in mock disgust, “what would Mother say?”

“You're just... that's not what I... shit!”

Carver was blushing. He knew he was blushing. His brother was laughing. Isabela was laughing. Meghan wasn’t. He didn’t want to turn around to see the look on her face. She was probably disgusted with him.

“Come on,” Garrett said clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Let’s drop this weird bottle of wine off and get home to finish packing.”

Isabela and Meghan split off from Carver and Garrett at the Hanged Man. The Hawke brothers walked in silence to find the vintner who wanted the Bottled Scar 5:34 Exalted. After they collected their 50 silvers and turned towards Gamlen’s, Carver stopped. Meghan and Isabela had both said they’d be at the house later to say farewell. He didn’t want to face Meghan. Or Isabela for that matter. He turned to his brother and said, “I forgot to pick up some things. I’ll meet you back at the house.” He ignored the confusion on Garrett’s face and turned in the direction of the docks. He could drink at the Axe and Anchor, play Diamondback with some dockworkers, and not run into anyone who knew he was leaving. Especially not Meghan.

By the time Carver got home that night, he was blissfully drunk. Everyone had already gone to sleep, but Garrett woke up when Carver stumbled trying to take his boots off.

“Andraste’s tits, Carver. Where have you been?”

“Out.” He kicked his boots into the corner of the room and flopped down on his bedroll.

“Meghan came by.”

“Good,” he grunted.

“She was looking for you. To say goodbye, you know?”

“Oh, right.” Carver felt his stomach twist. It might have been guilt, but it was probably just the rubbish ale he’d been drinking all night. He decided to blame the ale for now.

Garrett threw something at him, something small and metal, a coin-shaped amulet on a chain. It landed on the floor by his head. “You are a colossal idiot, little brother.”

Carver picked up the amulet and held it up. A copper disc with a spiral pattern on it. It was the one Meghan had found on the spider she killed all those weeks ago. They had discovered that it was enchanted to ward against critical injuries, and she had worn it every day, after cleaning the spider’s blood off. He spun the disc in his fingers. Now, he knew the feeling coiled in his gut was guilt and not the ale.

Chapter Text

Once the expedition left, time seemed to slow down for Meghan. She was on her own, truly on her own. She had promised Anders to keep the clinic running and had promised Hawke to focus on non-magical healing, just to be safe. Apparently, Aveline had promised Hawke to check in on her, and after only two weeks of Aveline chiding her about the need to defend herself without magic, she gave in and agreed to learn to fight with a sword properly. Every day, for six weeks, she’d been waking up early and going to the barracks to train with the guard recruits. It turned out that she was good at reading her opponent’s body language, which almost made up for her lack of strength. Almost, but not quite. She could often read their movements before they actually made them, but she wasn’t always able to counter those maneuvers and got tired quickly. She left each day, bruised and sore and able to function only because of her own healing potions and the occasional rejuvenation spell.

It was after a particularly difficult morning that she found herself sitting on the steps to the Viscount’s Keep, head in her hands, cursing Aveline and Donnic both.

“Are you alright, serah?”

She hadn’t heard anyone approach and looked up in surprise. The first thing she noticed was the white armor. Then the blue eyes and concerned expression on the man’s face.

“Yes, I’m fine. I apologize. I’m probably in the way.” She didn’t want to get up at all, but she made an effort to.

“Not at all.” He smiled and sat down next to her. “It’s actually a nice view from here. I think the Viscount’s office is the highest point in Kirkwall.”

“Probably,” Meghan laughed. “It’s too bad we can’t see over the walls. It might be nice to have a view of the ocean.”

“Aye. It would.” He nodded. “But since we can’t see over the walls, I assume you’re not here for the view?”

“Ah, no. Just for the rest. I’ve been training…well, the guard-captain is a friend, and she’s been letting me train with the guards. I did rather poorly today and didn’t quite make it all the way down the stairs before I decided I needed to rest.” She sighed, “It’s going to be a long walk to Darktown.”

“Would you like some company? I’m headed that way myself.”

“Oh? What in Thedas for? You’ll get that shiny, white armor all dusty and dirty down there.”

He laughed. “There is healer there. I have a letter to deliver to her from a woman whose sister she saved two days ago.”

Meghan eyes widened in surprise. “Do you mean Marcie? She is recovering well?”

“I do. And yes.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know her?”

“I do. And I can save you a trip to Darktown as I am the healer you’re looking for. My name is Meghan.”

“Well, Meghan” he smiled. “Andraste has smiled on us today. Though I was rather looking forward to the walk. Might I accompany you anyway?”

Meghan grinned at the prospect of having someone other than Aveline to talk to and nodded in agreement. Then paused. “I suppose I should know the name of my escort before I go anywhere with him.”

He stood and offered a hand to help her up. “You can call me Sebastian.”

Sebastian proved to be pleasant company for the walk back. Enough to distract her from her aches and pains as she walked. The conversation was light and easy. Mostly he asked about her healing. She told him about her apprenticeship in Amaranthine, of finding her way here after the Blight, of meeting another healer and working in the Darktown clinic. She left out any mention of Flemeth or magic. She also left out, just to be safe, Anders’s and Hawke’s names. A few days later, she bumped into him on the steps again and he walked with her to Darktown again, this time they spoke mostly about Starkhaven and Ferelden. Two days later, he met her on the steps again. Then again the next day. Aveline approached her before her next practice session.

“How is it that you’ve managed to get the Prince of Starkhaven to escort you home regularly?”

“The Prince of…who? What? Sebastian?”

“Yes. Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. Former Chantry brother.  My guards won’t stop talking about it.”

Meghan felt the blood drain from her face. “Sebastian is…Prince of Stark…no…oh, Andraste save me.” She slumped down on a bench. “He never told me. I only knew his first name.”

When she confronted him later that day, his cheeks reddened and he apologized. “It was selfish of me. Now that I am the last of the Vaels, I find it difficult to have conversations with anyone who doesn’t want something from me. I admit I have enjoyed just being Sebastian for a while, not Brother Sebastian or Prince Vael. But omitting my full identity was dishonest, and for that I am sorry.”

It was a lovely and sincere apology. She shouldn’t have laughed. But she did. “So the Prince of Starkhaven is in the market for a friend?”

“I…well,” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, I…suppose so.”

“Well it just so happens that I am as well, so let’s just pretend you’re not a prince and I’m not an irreverent fool.”

As the weeks progressed, Meghan found herself looking forward to her walks with Sebastian. It wasn’t quite the same companionship she’d felt with Carver, but Sebastian was kind, and they found they had much in common. They spoke of growing up as the youngest sibling, how he rebelled and she became dependent.  They spoke of the losses they’d suffered, the tragic and unexpected deaths.  They spoke of the struggling to find their way, in a new city, in a new life. He spoke often of the decision looming over him: Prince or Chantry bother.  She spoke often the uncertainty in front of her: finding her a path for herself and running when Flemeth ordered it.

And as the weeks passed, she found herself less lonely.

She came to him when she needed someone to accompany her to collect elfroot outside of the city. He came to her when he needed someone to be a sounding board as he thought through the political schemes that had led to his family’s murder.

And it was to him that she ran when Hawke and Varric and Anders returned without Carver.

Chapter Text

Carver woke with a start. Another horrific nightmare. He’d been told that he should be able to control them eventually and that they get worse during a Blight. It had only been a couple of weeks since his Joining, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take. He groaned and rolled to his side to look out the window. Dawn was near, and he knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep after that dream. He dragged himself out of bed, pulled his boots on, and made his way down the hall.

“You’ll trip if you don’t tie those.”

He looked up to see the dwarf ginning at him. Eira. That was her name. She had been the newest Warden until he arrived. He hadn’t seen her fight yet, but he’d heard the stories. Fierce, unrelenting, vicious with her daggers. He had a hard time reconciling that image with the always-cheerful blonde in front of him now.

“Did you eat all the sweet rolls again?” He asked.

She shook her head. “But I’d hurry, Bear’s right behind you.”

Carver glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the beast of a man they all called Bear was ambling down the hallway, yawning. His boots were also untied.

Carver turned back to the dwarf with a grin. “If you make him tie his boots, you’ll buy me a few extra minutes.”

She just rolled her eyes and continued down the hall.

A few minutes later, Bear was settled into a seat across from him in the dining hall, both their plates stacked with sweet rolls.

“Feeling better, kid?” Bear asked between bites.

Carver nodded. “I’ve been cleared to spar.”

It’s not uncommon for recruits to need time to recover from a Joining, but Carver’s circumstances—having been infected with the Blight for so long and close to death at the time of the Joining—made his recovery take longer. He was sure that some of the Wardens would harass him about it, in the same way that his brother might, but Bear and Eira had been kind. As had Rosamund, the healer who kept feeding him awful tasting potions and chiding him about sleeping. There were a couple dozen Wardens at the Keep in Ansburg, but those were the three he spoke to the most. The only other was Nathaniel, a Senior Warden who Carver was apparently assigned to. He checked in on Carver every few days, always serious, always impassive. If he’d been happy to hear of Carver’s clearance to spar, he didn’t show it.

Carver noticed Bear grinning at him with a gleam in his eye.

“What?”

“You can spar.” Bear’s grin widened.

“Yes.” He drew the word out, suspicious of Bear’s intentions.

“You fight with a greatsword.”

“Most of the time.” Carver narrowed his eyes at Bear. “Why?”

“So do I.” Bear nodded once, as if that explained everything.

Carver stared at Bear in confusion for a moment. He examined the man sitting across from him. He was bigger than Carver. Quite a bit, in both height and weight. A shock of ruddy-brown hair that looked like it was in need of a trim. He, like Eira, seemed to always be in a good mood, quick to smile and full of jests. He was one of the few Wardens he’d met who carried a greatsword, most of the other warriors preferring shields.

Carver finally let out a snort of laughter as he realized what Bear was getting at. “You want to spar with me.”

They met in the sparring ring later that morning. Carver had warmed up already and was watching Bear warm up. He was acutely aware of the size difference. He didn’t think he’d ever fought anyone as quite big as Bear. He was used to relying on his size and strength, but they wouldn’t be an advantage in this situation. A few thrusts and parries into the sparring match, he was even more aware that he’d need better tactics against someone like Bear. That’s when he heard Eira shouting advice at him from the side. He tried to listen, to follow her directions, but Bear bested him quickly. Four times in a row.

“Not bad, not bad. Thanks for the dance, kid.” Bear clapped him on the shoulder.

Carver cringed at the contact, already feeling the outcome of his first real activity in weeks. Eira laughed behind him.

“Not used to being the smaller one, eh?” She asked, amusement in her eyes.

Carver rolled his shoulder. “No. The last time I sparred with a two-handed warrior, it was with an elf. A very angry elf, but still.”

Eira nodded. “Bear’s almost the size of a hurlock. They’re stupid, but big. You’re going to want to learn some new tricks.”

“I guess so.” Carver’s eyes explored the armory and practice rings, frowning as he considered what he now faced.

“Don’t worry, kid.” Bear smiled at him. “You’ll be fine.”

Eira nodded in agreement. “Wardens are like family. We’ll help you get your feet when you need it, and we’ll knock you off your feet when you need it.” She grinned.

“And,” Bear added, punching him in the shoulder, “We’ll probably laugh at you when you’re down.”

Carver groaned. “Well that’s just bloody great.” He loaded his voice with sarcasm, but his words were sincere.

Chapter Text

Meghan stood in front of the door to Gamlen’s house. She was thinking about knocking, like she had been for the past few minutes. She hadn’t seen Hawke in weeks, not since they’d been back from the expedition. She was still embarrassed by her reaction. At first, excited to see both Anders and Hawke walk through the clinic doors, then confused that it was just the two of them. And the moment Hawke looked at her and said his little brother’s name, she had bolted. Anders had to fill her in on what actually happened later. And she still hadn’t spoken with Hawke.

“Are you going to knock or just decorate the doorstep for a while?”

Meghan spun around pulling the knife from her boot.

“Woooah. No need for that.” Hawke held his hands up in surrender, a lopsided grin on his face. “I yield.”

“Maker’s balls, Hawke. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. You’ve been hanging out with Isabela too much.”

“Or maybe you should have been paying more attention.” He gestured to the door with his chin. “Were you planning on knocking?”

Meghan sighed and lowered herself onto the top step. “I was thinking about it.”

Hawke sat next to her and took the knife from her hand. “Since when do you carry a knife in your boot?”

“It was a gift. Useful in a pinch though.”

“A gift?” He turned the knife over in his hand, examining the etchings on the handle. “From who?”

“Sebastian.” She reached over and took it back, sticking it back in her boot.

“And who is Sebastian?” Hawke raised an eyebrow at her.

“A friend. And stop acting like you don’t know. I’m sure Aveline’s already told you.” Meghan rolled her eyes at him.

Hawke chuckled. “Yes, she did. Why in Thedas you’re hanging around a Chantry brother is beyond me though.”

“I had to find someone to hang around. Everyone else I liked left.”

That sucked the levity out of the air in an instant.

“Oh, Andraste’s lacy knickers… I didn’t mean it like that, Hawke.”

“You’re not wrong though. And you sure do swear a lot more than I remember. Which is strange for someone who’s hanging around with a Chantry brother.” Hawke nudged her with his elbow.

“You just never heard me swear because we never really talked much.”

Hawke nodded. “That’s true, I suppose. At least you and I never talked the way you and Anders do. Or Carver. But you still are family, you know that right?”

Meghan stilled, a flurry of conflicted emotions in her chest. The usual ache at mention of Carver, a flush of warmth at being called family, a tightening of fear at the fleeting thought of “everyone close to me dies.”

Hawke must have registered her discomfort, and he returned to humor. “It’s true. I’m officially adopting you as my little sister.  When we get the estate back, you should move in with us. Mother will be so pleased to have a girl to dote on.” He flung an arm around Meghan’s shoulders. “Think of it. Dresses and ribbons and pretty little shoes. And then I can properly threaten this Sebastian fellow, like any good older brother would do.”

Meghan laughed. For the first time in weeks, she laughed out loud. “First of all,” she started. “I don’t do dresses and ribbons, so your mother may be a bit disappointed. Three brothers and a city guard father, remember? No one knew a thing about dresses.” She shook her head, still laughing. “And second, there’s no need to threaten Sebastian. Trust me. He’s nice, but he’s just a little too Chant of Light for me.”

“But you’re not saying no to me adopting you?”

“I already feel like your little sister, yours and Anders’s. What with all the overprotectiveness and rules and teasing.” Her laughter had finally died down, and she leaned into him. With a sigh, she added, “And I’m sorry for treating you like nug shit these past weeks. I—”

“Stop.” Hawke cut her off and tightened his arm around her. “I understand.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Hawke dropped his arm from her shoulder and turned to face her.

“Now, please tell me why you were staring at my door in the middle of the night.”

“Oh! I almost forgot. I have a favor. Or, well, a favor for a friend.”

“As long as that friend is not a Chantry bother.”

“See. Older brother nonsense.” She poked him in the side.

“But I’m so good at it. And you’re almost as easy to pick on as Carver.”

Meghan rolled her eyes. “Seriously though. Do you know Bonny Lem? The merchant down under the docks?” When Hawke nodded, she continued. “Well, he still buys and resells my health potions. I saw him today. Apparently, there’s a new gang down at the docks, and they’ve been harassing him. I was wondering if you could help.”

“Fighting gangs in the middle of the night? I’d love to.” He laughed. “Actually, Varric and I were just talking about trolling the streets looking for something to do anyway. It’s been a bit boring around here.”

“Boring?”

“Yes, well. I get bored easily. Hey, why don’t you come?”

Meghan narrowed her eyes at Hawke. “Who are you? Hawke never takes me on adventures.”

“Pfft.” Hawke stood and held a hand out to her. “Varric needs another story about you besides the spider one. As thrilling as it is, it gets old. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

The next night, Meghan was questioning Hawke’s definition of fun. Standing off to the side of the fight, she sent another healing spell at Hawke, then paralyzed one of the archers in the distance. She surveyed the area in front of her. Bodies everywhere, blood everywhere. Hawke was flinging fire and ice at the thugs. Varric was firing bolts as quickly as he could. And she was supporting them both with her Creation spells from a safe distance, rationing her energy and focusing on healing. It was when she turned to check on Varric that she saw the rogue appear behind him, ready to stab him in the back. Instinct kicked in. She reached out with her magic, gathered the energy around Varric and used it to fling the rogue in the air, then slam him into the concrete below.

Varric spun around, having felt the air around him and heard the sickening crunch as his would-be attacker hit the ground. He looked at the dead dwarf behind him, then up at Meghan.

“Holy mother of green cheeses! What was that?”

“A rogue! In your blind spot!” She called back and turned just as Hawke knocked the last thug down with the end of his staff.

As they surveyed the damage and collected a few stray coins, Varric nodded in her direction, “Little Hawke over there saved my life.”

“Mine, too,” Hawke said as he kicked a body out of his way. “Those healing spells were much better than Anders’s usually are.”

“No,” Varric said. “She really did.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Meghan crossed her arms over her chest. “Let him remove your kidneys?”

Hawke stopped and turned to her. Both eyebrows high on his forehead. Varric explained what happened. Meghan listened and grew more and more uncomfortable. When Varric finished the story, she and Hawke spoke at the same time.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Sweet Andraste, I killed him.”

 “Now don’t start that.” Varric marched up to her and put a hand on her arm. “He would have killed all of us without batting an eye and you know it. Come on. I owe you a drink.”

“And a better nickname. That’s one of Carver’s.” She said with a slight smile.

Chapter Text

Carver had been travelling with Nathaniel and small band of Wardens for a while now. Truthfully, he’d lost track of how long it had been. The first few months, it felt like they were constantly travelling. Sometimes they were for recruits, sometimes investigating rumors, sometimes clearing out stray darkspawn in the area. But for half a year now, the group had stayed at the outpost in Ostwick, chasing a rumor of a rumor, keeping an ear to the ground, watching the coastline and the coastal roads. Nathaniel wouldn’t tell them exactly what they were looking for, but it involved a woman and a child.

Carver settled near a window in the dining hall with two fresh buns, honey, and a mug of tea. He ate and watched the first tendrils of sunlight stretch across the sky through the window. He didn’t mind being posted at Ostwick. There was a network of caverns on the coast than ran almost as deep as the Deep Roads. Bands of darkspawn were constantly popping up on the coast. They also occasionally assisted the city with slavers or bandits. Sometimes, it felt a bit like being back in Kirkwall with his brother. The tavern the Wardens frequented in town even reminded him of the Hanged Man with slightly better ale. But the company wasn’t the same.

He did like Bear and Eira quite a bit. Nathaniel, for all his stoic silence, was fine. He even cracked a smile every once in a while. The other two were newer Wardens, having been recruited in the year since his own Joining. Kethan had been born in the Tantervale alienage and was nearly as good with a crossbow as Varric. Unlike Varric, he was quiet and kept to himself. Gordie, a sword and shield expert, had been part of the Starkhaven Royal Guard. He left Starkhaven when the new prince took over. When Carver told him he’d helped kill the mercenaries who murdered the Vael family, Gordie bought him a pint, and they reminisced about their pre-Warden adventures.

There was much he missed about his days in Kirkwall. Much he had taken for granted before that blighted expedition. Much he regretted.

He remembered Flemeth’s words to him on the top of Sundermount. He tried to heed her advice, tried to not cling to his regrets. But there was one regret he couldn’t seem to let go of. Meghan.

It was the first night after Bertrand had locked them in the thaig that Garrett brought up Carver’s behavior their last night in Kirkwall. A whole month into the expedition, and no one had spoken of her otherwise. At least not to him. But Carver was lying on his back, holding that copper amulet above him, studying it as though it had some hidden message. Like he did most nights.

“So,” Garrett propped himself up on his elbows and nodded at Carver. “What is that anyway?”

“It’s an amulet. What’s it look like?”

“Well, aren’t we cheery. That’s the one Meghan gave you, isn’t it?”

“Meghan gave you a favor, Junior?” Varric was suddenly interested in the conversation, too, moving to sit between the brothers.

Carver felt his cheeks burn. He’d thought of many reasons as to why she might have left him the amulet, but a favor was one reason he tried to not think about.

“Wait,” Anders came over and joined the group. “That’s the Spider one, isn’t it? That’s what she called it, the Spider Amulet. So she gave it to you after all? Huh. I wondered if she would.”

 “Sooo, what’s the story, Junior? She told me you two were just friends, but she left you a favor?”

“Just friends?” Anders scoffed. “And you believed her?”

“No, Blondie. Not for one second. But it’s what she said.”

At this, Carver sat up, frowning at his companions. “We are friends.”

“Uh huh.” Garrett grinned at him. “First, tell us about this Spider Amulet.”

They had all heard the story of their encounter with the spiders on the coast, of Meghan’s first chance to truly use her magic. Varric had included a rather dramatic version of it in one of his longer stories. But that story ended with the spiders dying, so Carver recounted what happened after.

“So that’s where it came from.” Carver shrugged, passing it to Garrett to look at.

“There’s more to it though,” Anders said. “She once told me that, even though she didn’t think it was an important enchantment for her, it sort of…stood for something. Because she had used her magic, controlled it. And without help. No, how did she put it? ‘Without anyone holding my hand.’”

“I didn’t even know those other spiders were there. It was 100% her, defending herself.” Carver said with a slight smile. He remembered how proud she was after that, how bright her smile had been.

Garrett passed the amulet to Anders.

Anders turned it over in his hand. “This is probably her most prized possession. Maker, but she fussed about whether or not to give it to you for weeks. It would have been obnoxious if she wasn’t so bloody sweet about it.”

He passed the amulet to Varric, who laughed, “Just friends. Maker’s hairy balls, what a lie that was.”

Carver, confused and skeptical, pointed to Anders. “But she was with you.”

Anders hooted, his laughter echoing off the walls of the thaig. When he saw that Carver wasn’t joking, he shook his head in disbelief. Then explained. They flirted shamelessly because they liked to make each other smile. They were close because they lived and worked in the same space. He had helped her when her magic wavered and watched her mourn for her brothers. She had comforted him when his nightmares came and watched him mourn for Karl. Friends, close friends, but just friends.

Garrett had been right. He was an idiot. It wasn’t until that moment, in the Deep Roads with his least favorite mage, that he realized just how much of an idiot.

In the dining hall of the Ostwick Warden outpost, Carver finished his mug of tea and rubbed his fingers over the amulet at his neck. He had been awful to her in those last weeks in Kirkwall. Mistaken about so much. Too stubborn or proud or stupid to actually talk to her. The one regret he was still clinging to. With a long sigh, he tucked the amulet back under his tunic and gathered his empty dishes. Nothing could be done now. He knew he’d never see her again.

Chapter Text

“And then, Little Hawke, from her perch—get it, perch?—on the upper path, sends down a wave of energy that slowed every one of the archers to a crawl, and Bianca picked them off like they were fish in a barrel.”

Meghan rolled her eyes, “I take it you’ve given up on finding me a new nickname, Varric?”

“Eh. I could try. But this one’s kind of stuck. Plus, Junior got Junior more than he ever got Little Hawke.”

“And,” Garrett pointed at her, “You really are going to be a Hawke when you move in.”

“Last I checked, I was neither Hawke nor Amell and still won’t wear the dresses your mother keeps harassing me about. I’m not entirely sure she wants me there.”

“You should try a dress sometime, kitten.” Isabela offered. “Something fitted to show off—”

“Shut it, Isabela.” Meghan shot a glare at the pirate, who just winked.

Garrett was tapping his chin in thought. “Mother does seem rather put out every time you show up covered in blood, doesn’t she?”

“At least she knows to blame you for that. You’re the one,” Meghan pointed a finger at Hawke, “who is always dragging me off to some alley to keep your precious face intact while you rid the city of thugs.”

“If you weren’t so good at your job,” Varric said, “He wouldn’t bring you.”

“The dwarf has a point,” Fenris grunted.

“Was that a compliment, Fenris?” Meghan turned to the elf.

“An observation.” He replied, his tone giving away nothing.

Meghan rolled her eyes and walked to the bar to get another round. As she waited for Corff to fill the mugs, an old woman grabbed her arm and leaned in, her whisper loud and harsh in her ear.

“It’s time. To Ostwick. You must run. Are you prepared, child?”

Meghan looked at the woman, startled. She saw Garrett, half standing and tense, from the corner of her eyes. Varric, too, was watching closely. The woman’s face was familiar, and her words tugged at an old memory. It was when Meghan’s eyes met the woman’s gaze, golden eyes full of fire, that the memory came back in a rush.

“There will be a time when Fate asks you to run. And when that time comes, you must be prepared. And prepared to go alone.”

Flemeth.

Meghan’s thoughts came in rapid fire. Was she prepared? Though she only knew a few schools of magic, she was capable with what she knew. Good, even. In the year and a half she’d been training with the guards, she’d built up her strength and was average with a sword and shield. She’d learned, on accident, that she appeared a skilled swordsman if her opponent was drunk. In the recent months running around with Hawke and Varric, she’d learned to steel herself against the blood and gore and death of a fight. She wasn’t as skilled with combat magic as Hawke or Anders, couldn’t hold her own for long with the sword if there was more than one opponent, and still preferred to focus on support rather than offense, but, she realized in that moment, she had found a sort of confidence in what she could do.

Before Meghan could form an answer to the old woman’s question, Flemeth laughed.

“I can see that you are prepared, dear girl. More so than I imagined you’d be.”

Meghan’s head tilted to one side. “Ostwick?”

Flemeth nodded. “To Ostwick. To the fire. You have time to gather your things, to say your farewells. But do not linger. A life hangs in the balance.” Flemeth paused, looking Meghan over as though assessing her, then added, “I suggest a horse.”

Flemeth disappeared into the crowd as Corff pushed three mugs of ale across the bar to her. In a daze, Meghan carried the mugs back to the table. Garrett was standing now, his eyes already asking questions. Varric, Isabela, and Fenris were all quietly watching her as she carefully set each mug on the table. Anders, who had just walked in, looked around at the silent group, brow furrowed.

“What did I miss?”

“Flemeth.” Meghan looked at Anders, then at Hawke. “I have to go.” But her feet remained rooted to floor of the Hanged Man.

“Where?” Hawke’s question was barely audible over the bar’s normal chatter.

“Ostwick.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Varric stood, placing his hands on the table in front of him.

“Right,” he said firmly. “Blondie, take Little Hawke to Darktown. Help her pack a bag. Hawke get some food together for her. And get Daisy. Rivaini, fetch Aveline. Just tell her it’s an emergency—”

“I need a horse.” Meghan interrupted when she finally caught up with Varric’s orders.

“I will find you a horse.” Fenris nodded to her.

“Perfect. Broody gets a horse, I find some maps and send a few messages, we all meet at the city gates in a half hour.”

They gathered by the gates, one by one. Meghan was still in a bit of daze at the flurry of activity around her. She was barely aware of what she had thrown in her pack.

Hawke had brought a small sack of food, dried fruits and meats, a loaf of bread, two waterskins. He was also dragging a half-asleep Merrill with him. Merrill gave Meghan’s hand a quick squeeze and whispered something in Dalish.

Aveline nodded to Meghan, “I sent a messenger to the Chantry. I doubt Sebastian will see the note until morning, but I told him to find Hawke tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Isabela purred. “I’ll keep your prince company.” She planted a wet kiss on Meghan’s cheek.

Fenris arrived with a dapple grey horse. He handed the reins to Meghan. “His name is Cloudreach, the low name for the month in which he was born. He is fast and quiet.”

Varric pulled out one of the two maps he brought and began showing Meghan which roads to take and which to avoid. He rambled through a list of advice, multiple variations of “be careful” and “don’t do anything stupid.”

Anders handed her his staff. They both carried nearly identical enchanted staffs, both were made of onyx, both dealt fire damage. But Anders’s staff was a bit more powerful than hers. When he had put the staff in her hands, she tried to refuse, but he just put his hands on her shoulders, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Try to avoid arrows, won’t you?”

She turned to Hawke last. He held out a bundle of charcoal grey wool. Curious, she took it from him and unfolded it. A long coat with red filigree embroidered on the edge of the sleeves and hood. It was gorgeous. He explained as she pulled it on and fastened the buckles. “I had this made. Well, mother and I did, I suppose. It’s got one of Sandal’s enchantments too, for protection. And the red, it’s Amell red. It was going to be a Satinalia gift, but, well, I guess I may not be able to give it to you then.” Hawke pulled her into a hug then and whispered into her hair, “Stay safe, little sister.”

As she turned Cloudreach toward the East Road, she just barely heard Varric’s voice one last time. “Hawke, isn’t Junior in Ostwick?”

Chapter Text

Carver was losing miserably at Wicked Grace. He was just starting to wonder if Kethan was cheating, but he didn’t have a chance to really consider it before Eira came barreling into the hall, blonde braids swinging behind her.

“There you are.” She was breathless when she stopped in front of Carver. “Fetch Bear. Nathaniel wants us in the courtyard right away. The cryer’s been by. We’ve got darkspawn on the coast again.”

Carver and Bear joined Nathaniel and Eira in the courtyard before heading for the coast. They found the group of darkspawn running through one of the clusters of farms. One farm’s crops were already on fire. The fire made the fight a bit trickier than usual, preventing any of the Wardens from properly flanking the band of darkspawn from that side.

Nathaniel stood back from the group, near the edge of the path, and fired arrows, picking off the genlock archers first then focusing on the melee fighters. Eira flew through the fray, focusing her attention first on one of the hurlocks, then on another that was running straight at Bear. Carver found himself surrounded by four genlocks, slashing and parrying, wearing each down one at a time. He was preparing for a mighty blow to take the last of them down when he heard a rumbling. A sound he would always associate with memories of loss and pain. Bethany.

He turned to see the ogre crouched and ready to charge. Distracted, he didn’t see the genlock’s sword coming, slashing into his side. He pushed back the pain and responded with a single swing to the genlock’s head, a rally cry as the genlock fell. And then the ogre crashed into him.

His side was on fire, his head was full of thundering brontos, he couldn’t feel his right hand.

He could hear Eira shouting for Nathaniel. Then telling him to hold on. Then shouting for Nathaniel again.

He couldn’t focus his vision on anything. Dark sky, blurry flashes of something. Maybe Eira’s braids. Maybe the burning crops.

He felt something push at his side, and he screamed. Garrett would make fun of him for screaming. But Garrett wasn’t there. Someone held his shoulders down, bracing him. He felt the pressure on his side again. He didn’t scream this time.

He heard a voice. Nathaniel, giving orders. “Bear. Carry him.”

And then everything disappeared.

Chapter Text

After two days and two nights of travel, Meghan had been lulled into a feeling of safety. She had only seen merchants on the road. No bandits. She had only seen the occasional fox or rabbit. No wolves. She couldn’t help but wonder if Varric’s messages had something to do with her clear path. She felt like she was making good time, riding though as much of each night as she could once she realized the horse had good night vision. She napped during the warmer part of the afternoon, off the trail. If she was reading Varric’s map right, she was only a few more hours ride from Ostwick. After her nap in the shade, she figured she would be at the city by nightfall. Then all she needed to do was find whatever fire Flemeth was talking about.

She was just about to swing herself onto Cloudreach’s back when she heard twigs snap behind her. She quickly pulled her sword from her back as she spun towards the sound.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

The voice belonged to a young woman, with dark hair and eerily familiar golden eyes. Her nose seemed familiar, too. She had a sleeping toddler strapped to her back, his head lolled forward on the woman’s feathered shoulder. Meghan’s head titled to one side as she noticed the feathers, but she didn’t relax her stance or lower her sword.

“Just a traveler.” Meghan said, aiming for calm and level.

“A woman travelling alone is rare thing indeed. You can put that away, you know. I would not provoke you with a child in tow.”

Meghan let herself relax a bit, lowering the sword to her side but not putting it away. “Is there something I can help you with?” Meghan asked.

“’Tis a curious thing, finding you here. There is something you can do for me.” The woman laughed softly.

“Oh?”

“You are headed for the fire, are you not?”

Meghan’s eyes widened at the question. “Flemeth?”

The woman let out a sigh of frustration. “I still think I look nothing like her. But that is of no concern.” She waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “I know of your journey. And I have a task for you.”

“A task?” Meghan asked warily.

“’Tis a simple message is all. Tell your friends there that what they seek is no longer where they are seeking.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Must there always be a catch?”

Megan nodded. “In my experience, there usually is.”

“Well, I do hate to disappoint, but there is no catch. Just a message. But you may want to hurry, I see smoke on the horizon.” She bowed her head forward slightly, turned, and disappeared into the trees. Meghan looked to the east. She couldn’t see smoke through the trees, but when she stepped into the path and looked again, it was there.

She pulled Cloudreach into a gallop. She hadn’t made it to the city or the fire yet when spotted a stone building surrounded by high walls, some sort of stronghold or military outpost. As she got closer, she just caught a glimpse of a party rush through the gates.

A dwarf with long braids and three men, one was being carried. Flemeth’s voice came to her. “A life hangs in the balance.”

The group all wore familiar silver and blue armor. They were Grey Wardens. Varric’s voice echoed in her head. “Isn’t Junior in Ostwick?”

Carver.

She brought Cloudreach to a halt in front of the gate, leapt down, and ran towards the door of the outpost only to be stopped by a man with a sword drawn.

“Is Warden Carver here?” She tried to push pass the man as though his sword wasn’t pointed at her at all. He held his ground, telling her she could not go inside. “Was that him? Is he hurt? Was that him? I need to see him.” The words tumbled from her. The dwarf, having heard the commotion, came back down the front steps, daggers drawn.

“You have no business here.” The dwarf glared at her.

Meghan stopped pushing at the swordsman. She stepped back, leveling her gaze first at him, then at the dwarf. She took a steadying breath.

“I am Meghan Campbell of Kirkwall, Healer of the House Amell.” She held her hands out, allowing the magic to build, wreathing her arms in lightning. “If you do not let me tend to your Warden, I will destroy you.”

It was a ridiculous thing to say, and she knew it. Healer of the House Amell? Like it was a title? And she wouldn’t “destroy” anyone, especially not Wardens. In that pregnant moment immediately following her decree, she was acutely aware of that fact that if they didn’t let her pass she was more likely to start sobbing than trying to fight them. But it had the desired effect. Varric would be proud.

The dwarf nodded to the man, and they both sheathed their weapons.

“Come with me,” she said. “And hurry. It doesn’t look pretty.”

“I’m Eira, by the way.” The dwarf continued as she rushed Meghan through the hallways. “That was Gordie out there you tried to tackle.” Meghan wondered if that was amusement she heard in the dwarf’s voice. Eira stopped abruptly and pointed to a doorway.

Carver was lying on a bed, bloody, bruised. Unconscious. Meghan struggled to not run to his side immediately while Eira spoke to the two Wardens bent over Carver’s body. They both looked up. The tall one backed away from Carver. The one with long hair narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’re a healer?”

She nodded and waited for some kind of approval. He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once and stood. “What do you need?”

“There’s a bag of potions. With my horse. Bring me those. Water, clean cloths.” She felt Eira run from the room as she stepped forward to Carver’s body.

They had removed most of his armor, revealing the deep gash in his side, running from his ribcage to his hip. It had been crudely bandaged. She could tell that his shoulder had been dislocated, his arm hanging at an awkward angle. And his breathing was ragged, broken ribs pushing against his lung.

She ran her hands over his sides, feeling for every injury. Closing her eyes, she began cataloging the damage in her head, the fear in her chest deepening with each injury she found. She was all too aware that this was Carver’s body lying in front of her, broken.  But she knew she could not lose him. She would not. She needed to focus. To sort which injuries were most critical. To heal those first.

She inhaled. First the ribs. The lung they were pressing against was a concern. Then the laceration. It was deep and the muscle needed to be repaired before the damage became permanent. Then the concussion. Then the shoulder. The rest of the scrapes and bruises could wait. She took another breath and began to work.

Chapter Text

As Carver regained consciousness, he was aware of two sounds. A female voice humming and the sound of metal against a whetstone. He almost didn’t want to wake up fully. He had dreamt, not of darkspawn and monsters, but of Meghan. Sitting with him. Whispering in his ear. Running fingers through his hair. With a groan, he opened his eyes to find Eira, sitting on stool next to him, sharpening one of her daggers and humming.

“Well good morning, sunshine. Or, afternoon, actually.” Eira grinned at him. “How do you feel?”

“Like an ogre crushed me.” He grunted and sat up slowly.

“Funny,” Eira laughed. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Carver looked at the angry red scar along his side. He poked and tested and stretched, making note of each ache and pain. Aside from the throbbing in his head and the soreness he felt everywhere, he actually felt pretty good for being crushed by an ogre.

As if reading his mind, Eira added, “You’ll want to make sure to thank your Andraste for sending a healer to us, or we might have lost you. But she said you’d be fine once you woke. I suggest a bath. You smell like dead hurlock.”

Bathing and dressing was a slow process, his muscles protesting every movement. When he finally finished, Carver made his way to the practice rings in the courtyard, hearing laughter there. He found Nathaniel and Eira watching Gordie teaching a young woman a disarming move. Gordie demonstrated the maneuver with his sword, and she imitated it. He corrected her then repeated the maneuver. The woman seemed unfamiliar, small, clad in light leather breeches, a sleeveless tunic, and fitted blue jerkin. There was nothing impressive about her, at least not that he could see from the other side of courtyard.

“New recruit?” Carver asked as he moved to stand next to Eira.

Eira started to answer when Gordie nudged the woman with the tip of his blunted sword and said something with a bark of laughter. She turned to face him, and then, quick as lighting, the air shifted and Gordie’s feet flew out from underneath him. He landed with a thud next to her.

“I’d eat raw nug to fight alongside her,” Eira said. “She’s nothing special with that sword, but her magic? You should have seen the lightning show she put on just to get inside the outpost. Gordie almost wet himself.”

Carver watched with a frown as the woman helped Gordie up. She glanced across the courtyard, paused for a moment, then handed Gordie her sword and strode across the ring towards him, smiling.

He knew that smile. She looked different than he remembered, the strength in her arms, the line of her shoulders, the curve of her hips. But that smile he knew. Meghan. She was here. She had been there. It hadn’t been a dream.

He took two steps towards her, his head spinning with emotions. Relief and joy and two years of regret and frustration. Inexplicably, anger won out. “What in the name of the Maker are you doing here? Using your magic in public? Andraste’s ass…attacking Grey Wardens? You have got to be bloody joking. Of all the stupid things…are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Meghan’s steps faltered. She stopped, still a few feet away from him, smile gone. After a beat, she folded her arms over her chest, leaned back on her heel, and asked calmly, “Are you done?”

Carver frowned. That wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure what he expected but definitely not that.

“Well, let’s answer your questions in order then. I am here because Flemeth sent me here. Yes, I used my magic in public. I didn’t actually attack anyone. I wouldn’t have. No, I promise, none of this is joke.” She titled her head to one side. “That one wasn’t a question, was it? Oh well. The last one was…” She tapped a finger to her chin, then straightened and put her hands on her hips. “No, I am not trying to get myself killed. I was trying to save your life. Which I feel inclined to point out, I did. Was there anything else?”

Carver’s jaw had gone slack at some point during her speech. He didn’t remember Meghan being so composed. She got flustered. She shouted back. He had just yelled at her, swore at her, all of which he realized he shouldn’t have done. And she just responded like they were having tea with mother.

Nathaniel stepped up behind Carver, placing hand on his shoulder. “She is safe here, you know that. And she is right that you may not have survived without her help. We should discuss the rest inside. Without the audience.”

Carver unclenched his fists and nodded, turning away from Meghan and following the Senior Warden into the common room.

Carver listened quietly to Nathaniel recount Meghan’s arrival and her story as to how she came to Ostwick. He winced as Nathaniel recounted his injuries, explaining that he was wholly unconscious for two days, Meghan consistently draining all of her energy and refusing to leave his side, and asleep under a sleeping draught for the next three. Nathaniel asked Carver about Flemeth.

“Everything about Meghan’s rescue from Amaranthine matched the Flemeth my brother and I encountered. I’ve always believed her.”

“Yes, it sounds like the stories I’ve heard as well. And she was a friend back in Kirkwall? With you and your brother?”

Carver nodded.

“Well then,” Nathaniel stood, “I suggest you go and speak with your friend. You might consider an apology as well.” He nodded towards the door.

Carver found Meghan in the small library, standing at a window that overlooked the courtyard.

He was trying to decide what to say, when she turned to him. She wasn’t smiling, but her voice was warm, kind. “How are you feeling?”

Carver shook his head. He’d shouted at her, was horrible to her, again, and she was still concerned about him. “I’m fine.”

“Carver-is-a-stubborn-git fine? Or actually fine?” A grin teased at her lips.

“I’m fine.” He let out a small breath, half a laugh. “And I’m not a stubborn git.”

“I’ve just spent the last three days with your fellow Wardens,” her grin widened. “And I think it’s safe to say you’re still a stubborn git. At least that hasn’t changed since I saw you last. Your hair looks good longer, by the way.”

Her smile dropped suddenly, and her voice turned calm, distant.

“I should have mentioned earlier. No swords for a few days. Between your shoulder and your ribs, you’ll need to take it easy for a bit. And I apologize about your side. The scar, I mean. I didn’t have enough energy to prevent that.”

She turned back to the window and crossed her arms.

He took a step towards her, reached out to put hand on her shoulder, and froze. He had thought he’d never see her again. He owed her a thousand and one apologies. And now, he couldn’t find a single word to offer. He dropped his hand back to his side, shook his head, and walked out of the room.

Chapter Text

Meghan hadn’t seen Carver since that afternoon in the library. Since then, she had spoken with Nathaniel at length, sent messages to Hawke and Sebastian, eaten, bathed, and wasted an inordinate amount of time questioning her decision to come to the outpost. Flemeth and that strange woman had both said to go to the fire. She hadn’t actually gone to the fire. And while Nathaniel reassured her that they had, in fact, been at the fire when Carver was injured, Meghan couldn’t help but wonder if she had made a mistake. Why would Flemeth be concerned for Carver’s life? But she couldn’t have turned away and left Carver to die. As she watched the moon pass behind a cloud from her perch on the front steps of the outpost, she knew she could have never done that. Hadn’t Flemeth said something about choosing her path? Well, she had chosen her path. And she knew she’d choose the same if she was faced with it again.

“So I’m still a stubborn git. And I see you still like sitting outside on the steps.”

Meghan couldn’t help but smile as Carver settled on the step next to her.

 “I’m sorry for earlier, Meg. For shouting at you,” he said.

“Oh.” She blinked. She hadn’t been expecting an apology.

“Seeing you was a shock. All of this…I just…I handled it poorly, that’s all.” He fidgeted with the laces on his boot.

“It’s fine, Carver. I understand.” She nudged him with her shoulder.

He stopped fidgeting and turned to her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“I was awful to you before the expedition. And I never wrote. And here you are, defying Flemeth to save my life, forgiving me for being an ass...how do you do that?”

She studied his face for a moment. The slight downturn to his lips, the crease between his eyebrows.

“Carver, you were never awful to me. You know, you were the only one who ever came by the clinic to check on me? Half the time I spent at the Hanged Man was because you invited me, to make sure I got out of Darktown. And all those times you went traipsing around with your brother and brought back herbs and plants for me? No one else ever did that.”

She looked down at her feet and took a deep breath before continuing. “Those last few weeks, well, I won’t lie and say I wasn’t a little heartbroken that I didn’t get to see you that last night. But I figured you had your reasons.”

“They were stupid ones.” He mumbled.

“Probably.” The corners of her lips twitched, but she didn’t look up back.  “As for Flemeth…well, I’m not sure I really defied her. I did what she said. I ran to the fire. I saved a life. She never said whose life it would be. So I made a decision and picked yours. If she wanted something different, she should have given better directions. Or picked a different girl.”

Carver barked out a laugh. “You know,” He nudged her with his shoulder this time. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“And now you’re stuck with me for a couple of weeks.”

“Are you staying?” He asked.

She nodded. “Apparently, Nathaniel has decided that I shouldn’t make the trip back to Kirkwall without an escort, and he won’t send any of the Wardens until he hears back from your commander about that woman I met on the way here.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ll be staying for a while.”

“You are?” She looked over at him, eyebrows raised. He was actually smiling.

“I am.” And then Carver did something he’d never done before. He reached over for her hand and twined his fingers through hers. At first, Meghan froze at the unexpected affection, then she smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Now,” he said, “Tell me how exactly you became the Healer of House Amell?”

She felt her cheeks burn. “Oh, by the Maker…I hoped you wouldn’t hear about that.”

He laughed. “Well, I did. So…tell me the story.”

They sat like that, holding hands and swapping stories, until late into the night. It wasn’t until Meghan had yawned for the third time, that they agreed it was time to go to bed. Everyone but the night guards were asleep already. Meghan lay awake in her bed contemplating how different Carver seemed than when she had last seen him. There were the obvious differences, of course. His hair was longer now, tied away from his face in a small ponytail. And the more disciplined training and fighting had toned the muscles in his arms and shoulders. But there were other things, too. He was freer with his smiles, with his laughter. His voice was tinged with pride when he spoke of this time with the Wardens. Meghan liked this new Carver. Quite a bit. She fell asleep that night thinking her departure in two weeks would be too soon.

Over the next week, Meghan fell into a routine with the Wardens. She trained with Gordie each morning, like she had been doing with the guards. She ran through maneuvers with her staff and practiced small versions of her spells on dummies, enjoying the fact the she could practice them without looking over her shoulder for Templars all the time. She played Wicked Grace with Kethan, Diamondback with Eira, and, when she found out Nathaniel had been at Amaranthine, she peppered him with questions about what had happened there. She and Carver spent evenings either on the front steps or in the library, talking, like they had always done in Kirkwall.

It was at the beginning of the second week that a courier came to the outpost. Meghan walked into the dining hall as Nathaniel, Bear, and Carver were discussing plans. Ostwick’s teyrna had requested that the Wardens look into reports of bandits on the road to Markham. But Kethan, Eira, and Gordie had already left for Ostwick to stock up on some supplies. Nathaniel didn’t want to wait for them to return and didn’t want to try to hunt them down in the city.

“We’ll just have to go with the three of us and leave Meghan here.” Nathaniel was saying. His back was to her, as was Carver’s. She stopped mid-step as she heard her name. Bear, however, had seen her come in. He winked at her.

“We could bring her,” he suggested with a mischievous grin. “Seems like a waste to have a healer here when we’re fighting out there.”

“She’s not a Warden,” Nathaniel said. “This is Warden business.”

“It’s not darkspawn,” Bear countered.

“I know you’ve only seen her practice,” Carver added. “But I’ve seen her fight. She’s good.”

“Against Kirkwall’s petty gangs, maybe. Not these bandits. You know what these bandits do with women.” Nathaniel was shaking his head. “It’s too risky to bring her.”

“She won’t let herself get taken,” Carver insisted, “and our chances of getting out without major injuries will be much better with her at our backs.” She felt a flush creep into her cheeks at hearing Carver’s confidence in her.

“Fine.” Nathaniel gave in. “Why don’t we let her decide.”

Without thinking, Meghan blurted out, “I’m in.” When Nathaniel and Carver turned around and saw her, she blinked once, and then she added, “Sorry for eavesdropping.”

Chapter Text

Carver crowed when the last bandit went down. It had been a long and difficult battle, one that would have gone poorly without Meghan’s healing spells and occasional blasts of energy. He turned in the direction where both Nathaniel and Meghan had been standing. She smiled at him and gave a half-hearted wave. Carver clapped Bear on the shoulder then moved to check the pockets of the bandit nearest him. He had just knelt down when he heard Bear say, “Carver. Something’s wrong.”

Carver felt his stomach drop at the words. He spun and searched for Meghan. She had collapsed, and Nathaniel was crouched over her. Carver ran.

Meghan was waving him off before he even got there.

“I’m fine, Carver. Just an arrow. You know me and arrows.”

She was sitting awkwardly on her side, an arrow sticking out of her hip, blood from the wound already staining the light leather of her breeches. It was one of the barbed arrows the bandits preferred. It couldn’t be pulled out. Meghan’s energy was drained from the fight, so even after they got the arrow out, the damage couldn’t be repaired right away. Nathaniel explained all this to Carver as he stared helplessly at the arrow.

“Someone has to cut it out.” Meghan pulled the knife from her boot and held it out. “This one’s probably sharpest. And cleanest.”

Nathaniel looked pointedly at Carver, “Can you do this? I’ll help Bear search the bodies. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a lyrium potion down there.” He stood before Carver could respond and was gone.

Carver wordlessly took the knife, knelt next to her, and began cutting the leather away from her hip. He met her gaze before making any other cuts. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“There’s a vial in my bag,” she breathed. “Green stuff. Rub some on before you start. It should numb it a little bit. I hope.” Carver found the numbing salve and rubbed it into her skin around the wound as gently as he could. This time, when he met her eyes, she nodded and lay back on the ground, trying to relax.

Carver stared at the arrow. He willed his hands to stop shaking. He’d done this before. For Bear. For Eira. For his brother. He knew he needed to separate what he was doing from who he was doing it to. It could not be Meghan’s flesh he was cutting into. It could not be Meghan’s blood seeping between his fingers. He focused on his hands, on the knife, and took a deep breath. When he pulled the arrow free at last, he realized Meghan hadn’t made a sound. Even Bear had whimpered at being cut into.

“Meg? Are you okay?” He asked, hoping she hadn’t passed out. Her eyes were closed, jaw clenched tight, but she just nodded.

Meghan stitched the wound up herself, gritting her teeth as she did. Carver could only watch, hands balled in fists at the pain he was all too familiar with. He watched her steady fingers. He couldn’t quite grasp how she could be so calm while sticking a needle into her own skin.  It wasn’t until she tied off the stiches and tucked the needle back into her kit that her hands began to tremble. The rest of her body quickly followed.

Without a word, Carver put an arm around Meghan’s shoulders, pulling her into an awkward hug, careful not to jostle her too much. Meghan leaned into him, took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm her nerves. But the breaths came out equally shaky.

“Meg?” He whispered. This was one of those moments when he wished he knew what to say.

“Maker forsaken arrows. Carver, I just want to go home.”  Her voice broke on the last word, and Carver wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her close. She hadn’t mentioned going back to Kirkwall all week. He sighed into her hair, “Maker, I’m sorry. Maybe…maybe we can arrange an escort early. Maybe just me, even. I might be able to—”

“Oh, Carver. No.” At this, Meghan pulled away from the embrace, looking up at him, eyes brimming with tears. “I just meant with you. Home with you.”  Carver felt those words soak into him. He tried to quickly sort through the flurry of emotions in his head—confusion, shock, and something else he couldn’t quite identify. Before he could complete a coherent thought, Meghan started to pull herself up, jerking Carver back to the moment.

He helped her up, letting her lean on him to keep weight off her injured leg. They made their way slowly to where Nathaniel and Bear were reorganizing their packs to allow room for the weapons and trinkets they had collected from the dead bandits. Bear looked up as the two arrived.

“You were amazing,” he beamed up at Meghan. “Saved my life at least twice out there.”

Nathaniel nodded in agreement. “It was good to have you at our side today. I found a small vial of lyrium. I’m not sure if it’s enough, but it might help you heal enough to improve your walking?” He passed Meghan the potion.

She sank back to the floor, dragging Carver with her. He supported her back with his arm as she stretched her legs out in front of her. He watched her remove the cork with her teeth, spit it out, and swallow the potion. Nathaniel was right. It wasn’t much. She rested her fingers over the wound she had just stitched up, thin blue wisps of magic seeping into her skin. When they stopped, Carver tilted his head down to catch her eye, asking a silent question. She nodded.  “At least it wasn’t my knee,” Meghan sighed and leaned heavily against him.

Chapter Text

First it was a letter from the Commander of the Grey explaining that, with the darkspawn threat on the coast, the Wardens couldn’t afford to send anyone on a week-long trip to escort anyone anywhere. Meghan offered to make the trip alone, because she felt like she should, but she felt a wave of relief when Nathaniel said no. Carver didn’t say anything out loud, but Meghan thought she saw the same relief in his eyes.

Then it was a letter from the Commander about rumors of rising tensions between the Qunari and the city of Kirkwall. The Wardens were to avoid the city for the time being. Again Meghan offered to travel alone, and again Nathaniel said no. This time, he explained that it was not only because it was unsafe but also because they had come to rely on her assistance. That night, on the front steps of the outpost, Meghan told Carver she was worried about Hawke, and Carver quietly admitted he was glad she was staying.

Then it was a letter from Gamlen informing them of the murder of Leandra Hawke. Meghan saw the letter first. She handed it to Carver as soon as he returned from his patrol and watched the emotions flicker across his face as he read it. Her heart was in her throat as she watched him crumple the letter and throw it into the fire. He turned to her and shouted. Bellowed. Blamed. He railed against his brother, against blood magic, against mages. He railed against the darkspawn, against the city of Kirkwall, against the Maker. Meghan kept her shoulders square, her gaze steady, and she let him shout at her. She knew that’s what he needed right then, so she swallowed her own grief and waited.

Eventually his rant slowed to a stop, and he turned and marched out to the courtyard, to the training rings, fists still clenched. She watched him walk away from her, then turned and made her way down the hall and up the narrow staircase to the top of the south bastion. It was the only place she could think of to go where she could see the sky but not see Carver take out his anger on the practice dummies. She slumped on the stone floor, brought her knees to her chest and wept. For Leandra. For Carver and Hawke. For her own family. She fell asleep there, head cradled against her knees. She woke when she felt the morning sun on her face and found that, sometime in the night, a blanket had been tucked around her shoulders.

She folded the blanket and carried it down to the common room, where Nathaniel sat at his usual table, papers spread out before him. She quietly set the blanket on the chair next to him.

“Thank you,” she whispered. He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded and returned to his missives.

She avoided Carver that morning, wanting to give him space. It was midday when Nathaniel requested to see her. When she arrived, Carver was already there, skin pale, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid. 

“I can’t go against the Commander’s orders and allow you to go to Kirkwall for any funeral. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But my hands are tied.”

Meghan nodded. Carver didn’t move.

“I can, however,” Nathaniel continued, dropping a small coin purse on the table in front of him, “send you both to Ostwick. Visit the Chantry, get drunk. Whatever you need to do. Be back by sundown tomorrow.”

They gathered their things and set off toward the city in silence. Meghan could feel the tension radiating off of Carver. Even his stride felt angry, like a march. About halfway to the city center, it began to rain. Meghan pulled the hood of her coat up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that.” Carver said.

“It was a gift from your brother.”

“You usually wear blue. Not red.”

Meghan reached up and ran a thumb over the red embroidery at the edge of the hood. “It’s Amell red.”

Carver let out a huff of air. “That’s sounds like my mother’s doing.”

“It was.” Meghan said softly. She thought she felt the air shift between them, Carver’s gait slow a fraction. They continued in silence until they arrived at The Black Swan, the Wardens preferred tavern. It was dark by the time they got there, and the rain was coming down much harder. A troop of Antivan acrobats were in town, and the tavern was loud and crowded. They arranged for the last room available and settled at a small table in corner with bowls of lamb stew and mugs of dark ale. Meghan followed Carver’s lead as they ate in silence, then ascended the stairs to their room for the night.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Carver volunteered. Meghan nodded and added a log to the fire.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots when he asked, “Do you remember your mother?”

Meghan quietly sat next to him. “I never knew her. She died while giving birth to me.”

Carver bowed his head and looked his hands, open in front of him.

“My father used to tell me I looked just like her.” Meghan went on, wanting to fill the silence.

“Varric told me once that I looked like Gamlen.”

Meghan could help but scoff at that. “Varric just likes to goad you. You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”

Carver nodded again, then whispered, “I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.”

Meghan reached to put an arm around him and the moment she made contact, he started to cry. Loud, shaking sobs. She pulled him into a hug, letting him curl himself around her. As his sobs subsided, so did his grip on her. She felt the tension seep out of his body. Slowly, carefully, she pulled him back onto the bed with her. They fell asleep like that, still in their clothes, a tangle of limbs and sorrow.

The rain passed during the night, and they woke to a bright, crisp sky. The spent the morning wandering the marketplace, talking about their families. Not just Carver’s mother, but Meghan’s father and Bethany and Thomas and Gregory and Rhys. When they passed a merchant selling Orlesian silks and ribbons, Meghan told Carver about the two dresses his mother had purchased for her. “She was convinced that I would let her doll me up and drag me to balls and nobles’ parties with her.”

Carver pointed out one of the acrobats, a fire juggler, and talked about the time Bethany accidentally set their mother’s favorite flowers on fire with her magic. “Bethany was in tears about it, but mother couldn’t even pretend to be mad.”

They ended up sitting on the steps of the Chantry, eating Antivan pastries and watching the acrobats across the city square.

Just before they reached the gates of the Warden outpost, Meghan stopped walking. She turned to Carver and, standing on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I wish this was something I could heal with a spell. But I know she would be proud of the man you’ve become,” she said. And then she stepped through the gates.

Chapter Text

Carver quietly watched Meghan from the doorway of her room. Her fingers expertly twining through her hair, pulling strands together in an intricate braid. He tried to ignore the packed bag sitting on the bed and the coat she only wore for travelling lying next to it. He tried to focus on the details of her, to memorize what he was about to lose. They had received orders to go to Kirkwall, to meet the Commander there. Something about the entrances to the Deep Roads there. After months of being at each other’s side, she was finally getting that escort back home. And so he watched her and made mental notes of everything he could. The one curl of hair on her neck that never stays tucked into her braid. The crinkles around her eyes when she laughs. The trio of moles on her left arm, just above her elbow.

“Carver! You startled me.” She spun when she realized he was there.

“I didn’t mean to.” He said and took two steps into the room. He opened his mouth to say something else, but nothing came to mind. He knew he wanted to talk to her, he knew this might be their last chance to speak alone before the whole party left for Kirkwall, but he didn’t know where to start.

Meghan leaned a hip against the small dressing table and said, “It’s weird to think about leaving. I’ve been here almost a year.”

“My brother will be happy to have you back, I’m sure,” Carver offered.

“I hope he’ll still let me live at the estate. After this,” she gestured at the room, “I’m not sure I can go back to that blighted clinic.”

Carver frowned, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

With a sigh, Meghan stood and tucked her hair brush into her bag. “Maybe I can rent a room from Fenris. Maker’s breath, I’m not even sure what I’m going back to.” Carver watched her sigh, and turn to him, her lips in a grim line. “What if there’s nothing there for me?”

Carver moved towards her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and said firmly, “Then you come find me. Make up a story about Flemeth and come back to me.”

He saw something flash in her eyes, but then she let out a rueful laugh. “I don’t think that would work.”

He tentatively moved one hand to her cheek, the other, even more cautiously, to her waist. He felt her inhale sharply, watched her eyes search his face. He would not ruin this farewell like he had ruined the last one. He ran his thumb gently across her cheekbone and leaned in, pausing when his lips were less than an inch from hers, giving her a chance to back away, to turn him down. At his hesitation, she closed the distance herself, pressing her lips firmly against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. He gripped her waist tighter, dragging her flush against him. When they finally pulled apart, she whispered against his lips, “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

Those words taunted him the entire journey to Kirkwall. He had been right that they wouldn’t have another moment alone. The Wardens moved quickly towards Kirkwall, stopping only to eat and sleep. What they found when they arrived was not the bustling city they had both left but a city on fire. The Qunari had attacked. Just outside the city gates, they found the Commander and three other Wardens. Nathaniel chatted quickly with the Commander, who then turned to the group. He divided them into three parties, one led by Nathaniel, one by Bear. Carver and Meghan were to stay with the Commander.

“My name is Alistair, by the way.” He nodded to them. “You must be the healer I’ve heard so much about. Not quite the homecoming you were expecting, is it?”

Carver raised an eyebrow at the joke, but Meghan laughed.  “No, it definitely is not.”

“Right, well. I hate to drag you to the Deep Roads with us, but it might actually be safer there than up here. We’ll sort you out once this settles itself.” With that, Alistair drew his sword and headed through the gates. Carver and Meghan followed him, greatsword and staff at the ready. They wound their way through the Hightown market, and, on Alistair’s orders, only attacked Qunari who attacked them. Carver couldn’t help but wonder what had caused this mess and how his brother might be involved. Because Carver knew he probably was.

As they turned down the steps to Lowtown, they were blindsided by a Sten. In one swing, he knocked both Carver and Alistair to the ground. Meghan, who was trailing a bit behind, stumbled but managed to stay upright. He felt the air around him crackle as she threw a lightning bolt at the Sten. Carver scrambled to his feet as Alistair charged in with his shield, and he followed, swinging his greatsword at the Sten’s side. He felt another burst of magic from Meghan, something that caused the great Qunari to stumble, and he swung again. Just as the Sten fell, two more Qunari attacked. He focused on the one closest to him, leaving the other to Alistair. Meghan sent them both a wave of energy, bolstering their strength, and both Qunari went down quickly. Carver watched Meghan send a healing spell at Alistair, probably for the gash that was bleeding on his forehead. Alistair wiped away the blood, nodded in thanks, and they moved on.

It was after they took down another small group of Qunari that Carver spotted Anders at the top of the stairs to the docks. And if Anders was there, so was his brother.

“Somehow I knew it would be you,” he said when he finally spotted Garrett.

“Carver!” His brother turned, eyes wide.

“Hello, big brother. Fancy meeting you here.” Carver walked up to his brother and felt Meghan follow behind him.

“Are you injured? Are there—Meghan?” Garrett asked, concern turning quickly to shock.

“Hello, Hawke.” She grinned a lopsided grin at Garrett.

“Junior and Little Hawke together? I bet there’s a story there.” Carver heard Varric chuckle.

Alistair stepped in then. “Whew. On the list of things that I thought might happen today, a Qunari attack would have been near the bottom.”

“Just near the bottom?” Carver shot a glance at his commander.

“It’s a big list. I like to be prepared.” Alistair shrugged.

Alistair introduced himself, thanked Garrett for his help, and explained that their mission wouldn’t allow them to stay and help. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Meghan stepped across the gap and hugged Garrett tightly. Carver watched her whisper something to him and step back. She gave Anders a quick hug as well, blew a kiss to Varric, and turned to follow Alistair.

Garrett stopped them again. “Wait. I need to tell you about mother.” Carver could see the sadness in his brother’s eyes, hear the regret in his voice.

“I already…we already know what happened,” he said. He felt Meghan nudge him in the side, and he added, “I’m sure you did your best.”

“Maybe this isn’t the time for that,” Alistair said slowly.

“We’ll find you later.” Meghan promised.

Carver knew they would need to. He knew that his brother was the best way to keep Meghan safe, the closest thing to family she had. But they had to get out of this mess first. And take care of whatever darkspawn issue the Commander had heard about. There were too many obstacles to sort out, too many things to explain. He watched as Alistair gave a ring of some sort to his brother, something from what sounded like “the love of his life.”

Carver met his brother’s eyes once more and put every bit of sincerity into his voice that he could when he said, “Take care of yourself.”

Chapter Text

Meghan had bathed twice and still felt like she smelled like darkspawn. Two weeks in the Deep Roads with the Wardens was two weeks too long. She had lost count of how many darkspawn she killed, how many wounds she healed. She never really knew what they were doing or where they were headed, though she heard Alistair and Nathaniel mention an architect and Amaranthine a few times. Whatever it was turned out to be just a rumor. For all the time and energy and blood, they left the Deep Roads having accomplished little. And they returned to Kirkwall only to find Hawke recovering from a deadly duel with the Arishok of all things. If she hadn’t seen Hawke herself, she would have assumed it was just one of Varric’s wild stories.

Meghan leaned against the fireplace, a glass of wine in hand, and regarded the room full of her friends. Her attention settled on Carver for a moment, who was regaling his brother with a story. The trip to the Deep Roads had been such a commotion of running and fighting, she and Carver hadn’t had a moment alone to talk about anything, let alone about their last night in Ostwick. And now he was leaving again. She shook herself out of those melancholy thoughts and returned her attention to the swirls of conversations around her.

“…and then Isabela marches in with the Tome under her arm, steps right on one of the dead Tal-Vashoth and…”

“Merrill, have you heard the Chant of Light?”

 “That’s not quite how it happened, Varric…”

“…wanted her to spread her faith, couldn’t she do that better alive?”

 “…you never talk about the mage’s plight…”

  “…consider my offer to let you train the guards in Tevinter fighting techniques?”

Alistair stepped to Meghan side. “Happy to be home?” he asked.

“What? Oh. Yes, I suppose I am.” She tried to force a smile.

“Well that wasn’t very convincing,” he said. “No jumping for joy? Shouting from the rooftops? Shooting lightning bolts at passersby in celebration?”

“I might if it weren’t for the Templars.” She shrugged.

“Yes. Pesky Templars ruin all the fun, don’t they?” Alistair laughed.

From the other side of the room, Carver caught Meghan’s attention and gave her a small smile. She smiled back, feeling a slight blush rise in her cheeks, and watched as he returned his attention to his brother and Varric.

She turned back to Alistair and found him watching her with a knowing smirk. “You and our young Carver are quite close.” She noticed it was a statement, not a question.

With a sigh, she replied, “I suppose that’s the real reason I’m not shooting lightning bolts at anyone. It will be hard to say goodbye.”

Before Alistair could respond, Varric shouted, interrupting her conversation with the elder Warden.

“Little Hawke! Tell us about the Healer of the House Amell.”

She groaned. “Maker’s bloody…sorry, Sebastian.” She shot a sheepish look at the former Chantry brother, then continued. “Carver Hawke, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. And it’s a good story.” He was grinning. She had a hard time saying no to that particular grin of his.

“Fine,” she sighed. She moved and sat on the arm of the sofa next to Carver. And she told her story. Alistair’s eyebrows went up when she spoke of the woman and child she encountered on the road to Ostwick. Varric hooted when she repeated the “I will destroy you” decree she had given. Hawke’s face darkened when she described Carver’s injuries. When she was done with the story, Varric picked up and started telling another.

Eventually, the wine started to run out. Meghan, wondering if there was more, headed into the kitchen. She found herself in an eerily familiar position: Carver’s back to her, Alistair looking right at her, and her as the topic of conversation.

“I can’t ask her to be a Warden.” Carver was saying. “You’ve seen her. She’s brilliant in a fight and can handle the darkspawn. But being forced to spend time in the Deep Roads? That much time underground? No. It would kill her. She has a thing about being outside.”

Alistair glanced up at her, then looked back at Carver. “But you do love her?”

“More than anything,” Carver sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. The sadness in his voice nearly broke Meghan’s heart. She knew she shouldn’t be listening to this. She started to back away when Alistair looked directly at her, his gaze freezing her in place.

“Does she love you?” He was asking Carver, but looking at her.

“I…I don’t know.” Carver said. At first Meghan just blinked at Alistair. Then holding her hand over her heart, she looked him in the eye and nodded.

“Well. That is something to consider.” Alistair said with a wide grin, looking back to Carver. “Have I told you about the time I gave up the chance to be king for the woman I loved?”

Hands trembling, Meghan quietly left the kitchen and found her way to the back door. Fresh air suddenly seemed very important. She found herself in a small, enclosed garden behind the estate. After taking a steadying breath, she scanned the small courtyard. There were no steps to sit on. There were no benches either. She was just looking for the cleanest spot of ground to sit on when Carver walked up behind her.

“Fancy meeting you out here.”

“Yes, well, I think I live here now. So, there is that.” She said. The words sounded almost bitter.

Carver looked down at her, brows knitted together. “I thought you wanted to go home? To Kirkwall?”

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go, do I?”

“But, I just, I thought…”Carver sputtered for a moment. Then, “You told me that one time, when I had to cut the arrow from your leg, that you wanted to go home. I guess I just assumed you meant here.”

“You remember that? It was months ago.”

“Why does everyone always think I don’t pay attention?” He grumbled.

Under normal circumstances, Meghan would tease him about this. But her mind flashed back to the conversation she had overheard in the kitchen. He really didn’t know.

“Carver,” She turned to face him, “do you remember exactly what I said?”

“You said you wanted to go home” he answered, matter-of-factly.

She peered up at him, tilted her head to one side, and waited. And slowly, his eyes widened.

“You said you wanted to go home with me.” His voice was nearly a whisper.

She nodded.

 “Would you…would you consider coming to Ansburg with me?”

This caught her off guard. “Ansburg?”

And then Carver reached for her hands, holding them between his own and the words tumbled out.

“Alistair said…he said that he could hire you as a healer…at the Keep. Not as a…well you wouldn’t be Warden, Meg, but the Templars wouldn’t have to know that part. And…well I wouldn’t be there all the time. I mean, I’d still have my duties, patrols and expeditions and…but I’d be…I mean, we could…Meg, come home with me.”

It took Meghan’s brain a moment to catch up with what Carver had just said. But when it did, she flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. He responded almost immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist, leaning into her. She didn’t even realize her back was pressed against the ivy-covered wall of the house until she heard a small cough from the doorway. They jumped apart, both blushing furiously.

 “So, tell me little sister. How am I supposed to be the good older brother when it’s my own little brother I have to threaten? That’s rather awkward.”

Chapter Text

In a matter of minutes, Carver felt his whole world shift. Meghan wanted to stay with him, to go to Ansburg with him. This woman in his arms, the girl with the single dimple, the girl who is somehow both fierce and kind and almost as stubborn as him, the girl he’s had adored all these years, wanted to be with him. When Garrett interrupted them in the garden and started asking questions, Carver didn’t even have it in him to be mad that Garrett seemed more concerned for Meghan’s happiness than his. He just watched Meghan blush then quip, “Don’t worry Hawke, no one needs threatening,” before she darted back inside leaving Carver and his brother alone.

The look on Garrett’s face sobered Carver quickly, the elation he’d been feeling moments before all but disappeared.

“You’re not really doing this are you, little brother?”

“Doing what?” Carver could feel the unspoken accusation in his brother’s voice. He folded his arms across his chest.

“This.” Garrett gestured to the space next to Carver as though Meghan were still standing there. “Right before you leave again?”

“She’s coming with me.”

“What? Meghan’s coming…you’re dragging her off with the Wardens? Andraste’s flaming sword, Carver!” The last was directed at the sky. But Garrett quickly returned his gaze to Carver and took a step towards him. “It was one thing when you two were all smitten and oblivious to each other, but this is serious.”

“Of course it’s serious,” Carver grunted. And of course Garrett wouldn’t take him seriously. Carver hadn’t been on the receiving end of his brother’s anger since they were kids, but he recognized the look in Garrett’s eyes.

“She’s not some farm girl from Lothering!” Garrett shouted, taking another step closer to Carver. “Or some tart from the Rose! You can’t just walk away when you’re done!”

“And I’m not some farm boy from Lothering anymore!” Carver clenched his fists at his side. “I’m a Grey—”

“Warden! I know! And how are you going to take care of her when you’re trapped in the Deep Roads? When you’re off—”

“Boys, boys…” Isabela appeared behind Garrett and draped her arms over his shoulders, hands across his chest. It was meant to look casual, but Carver could see the tension in her arms as she pulled Garrett back towards her. “Why don’t we save all this shouting for the bedroom, hmm?” She whispered something else in Garrett’s ear.

Garrett glared at Carver a moment longer then shook his head and turned to follow Isabela back inside.

Carver wanted to punch something. He’d actually thought Garrett might be happy for him. For them both. And instead he was questioning his ability to take care of her. His commitment. His honor. Of course he was taking this seriously. Of course she wasn’t just some skirt to chase. But, no, Garrett’s little brother wasn’t capable of taking care of anything. No, Carver just bashed about with his sword and made a mess of things while Hawke took care of everything and everyone. Carver found himself staring at the ivy-covered wall and saw Meghan’s face flash in his mind. He was serious about this. About her. And she wanted to be with him. He couldn’t let his brother ruin that. And he knew Meghan would refuse to heal him if he punched a wall. He took two deep breaths and, ignoring the group still chatting quietly by the fire, went straight to bed.

Carver woke to find most everyone still at the estate, sprawled in various stages of consciousness on sofas and chairs. And a table, in Merrill’s case. Alistair and Aveline were both gone, having left the night before. Sebastian, who had also left the night before but obviously returned, was chatting quietly with Meghan in a corner. When they saw Carver, Sebastian patted Meghan on the knee and strode across the room.

“May I have a word, Serah Hawke?”

“Uh, yeah.” Carver furrowed his brows. “Maybe we can talk in the kitchen? I’m starving.”

Sebastian nodded and followed him. Orana was just pulling some sweet rolls out of the oven. She looked up, startled, when the two men walked into the kitchen.

Before she could stammer out an apology, something Carver noticed she did no matter what seemed to be going on, he waved at her. “Those smell fantastic, Orana.”

Orana blushed. “Master Hawke said they were your favorite, messere.”

Carver knew it was a peace offering from his brother. Just like always. Pastries for him and flowers for Bethany. He sighed. “Could we borrow the kitchen for a minute?”

“Of course, Master Carver.”  Orana bobbed in a quick curtsey and scurried out of the kitchen.

Carver walked over to the sweet rolls and debated eating one, wondering if they were still too hot. He was just turning to grab an apple instead when Sebastian spoke.

“She is a remarkable woman.”

“Orana?” Carver turned to the prince. He still couldn’t picture Sebastian Vael running around with his brother. He knew that Meghan had befriended him, so he must have something decent about him. But all Carver could see was ridiculous white and gold armor, a self-important and stodgy Chantry prat.

“Meghan.”

“Oh.” Carver took a bite of the apple and leaned back against a cabinet. “I think so, too.”

Sebastian was standing with his hands folded behind him, back rigid. Carver idly wondered if Sebastian ever cracked a joke. Even the ever-stoic Nathaniel relaxed once in a while.

“Do you?” Sebastian narrowed his eyes at Carver. “Do you truly?”

Carver knew his answer, but he didn’t know what Sebastian was getting at. And he wasn’t about to spill his guts to the former Chantry brother. So he just nodded and took another bite of his apple.

At first, Sebastian didn’t respond. He just watched Carver eat his apple. Then he said slowly, “I hope so, Serah Hawke.” Carver heard the tiniest bit of warning in the prince’s voice, and he realized what Sebastian wanted. Of course. Just like Garrett, Sebastian saw Meghan as younger sister in need of protection. He wondered if Meghan realized she collected older brother types. Garrett, Anders, Sebastian, even Gordie. He straightened himself up, bringing himself level with the prince’s intense gaze.

“It’s Carver, not Serah Hawke. And yes, I am very aware that Meghan is a remarkable woman.” When Sebastian didn’t respond right away, Carver added, “I assure you my intentions are entirely honorable.”

“Good,” Sebastian nodded once. “I would hate to see her hurt.”

Carver took it as the threat it was and nodded solemnly. When Sebastian turned and walked out of the kitchen, Carver closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He opened his eyes to find his brother and Isabela in the doorway watching him.

He wasn’t up for another fight. He really wasn’t. So he didn’t wait for his brother to say anything.

“I just got threatened by the Prince of Starkhaven. And I managed to reassure him.” Carver shook his head and put every bit of sincerity in his voice as he could. “Look, brother, I know you think I don’t know what I‘m doing, but I do. I’ll take care of her. I love her.”

He ignored the slight look of shock on his brother’s face and grabbed one of the still hot sweet rolls. As he walked out of the kitchen, he heard Isabela chuckle then drawl, “Told you.”

Chapter Text

For the first nine days of the trip from Kirkwall to Ansburg, Meghan was buzzing with excitement. When she was 17 and working as an apprentice in Amaranthine, she would have never imagined being hired as a healer to work with the Grey Wardens. And now she was marching with a troop of ten Wardens and one new recruit. The Wardens camped each night and took turns keeping watch while the others drank, belched, fought, told awful jokes, sometimes slept and sometimes woke up screaming from what she now knew were “normal” nightmares. And Alistair had told her that she would be a Warden in every way save the darkspawn blood. She’d have a home in the midst of the bustling military fortress and the opportunity to train alongside the Wardens. He even said she’d get her own silver and blue armor, official Grey Warden regalia, when they got to Ansburg.

But then there was Carver. And somewhere around that ninth day, she started to panic about Carver. When he’d asked her to come, she hadn’t hesitated. She wanted to be with him.  She loved Carver. There was no question there. But she had no clue what she was doing with him. They’d kissed twice. Twice. And while both kisses were lovely, especially compared to the two other experiences she’d had as a teenager, she’d only had the two other experiences. She knew Carver frequented the Blooming Rose. He’d probably left girls behind in Lothering, too. But she was different. Nothing more than a kiss and nothing even remotely close to relationship, and now she was following Carver to some strange place with some unspoken promise of something. But she had no idea what.

Once she started thinking about it, she couldn’t stop the onslaught of uncertainties. She had no idea what his expectations were. Or if she would be able to meet his expectations. Or what would happen if she didn’t. Even though she had overheard him tell Alistair he loved her, he hadn’t said it to her. Of course, she hadn’t said it to him either. But she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to. Make a potion, heal a cut, throw a lightning bolt, those were things she could do. Swing a sword or defend herself from some lecherous sot, sure. But the more she thought about it the more she realized that she didn’t know how to handle having someone else’s life so intertwined with hers.

The shout of “Darkspawn!” startled her out of her thoughts. On instinct, she reached for her staff, instead finding only her sword. She had a fleeting moment of resentment at Alistair’s friendly order that she carry the sword instead while they travelled, even though his reasoning was sound. Best to not draw attention to an apostate, he’d said. She wasn’t uncomfortable fighting with a sword. She’d been training with a longsword every day for nearly three years. After watching her for only a few days, Gordie had taken her to the smith to have a new sword made, one with a slightly shorter than average blade but a hilt just long enough that she could grip with both hands to make up for her smaller stature against larger opponents. Between the new, custom sword and Gordie’s mentorship, she had become a decent swordfighter. And she had fun fighting with the combination of sword and magic. Even still, it felt different to have someone else tell her to fight without her staff.

She drew the sword and focused her sights on a genlock archer off to the side. Someone else had already hit it with a couple of bolts, probably Kethan, so she was able to bring it down with one thrust. She saw a hurlock charge in from somewhere in the trees and reached for her magic. At the same moment she sent the hurlock spinning, she felt a flare of energy hit her from behind. She staggered a step then spun to face her attacker, expecting to find an emissary. As she turned, she noticed two things. One was that she had an abrupt and overwhelming sense of emptiness. The other was that the sword in her hand was suddenly very heavy. And then she found herself face to face, not with a darkspawn emissary, but with the new recruit. His sword was pointed at her, his face a snarl of hatred and confusion.

She stared back at the recruit warily, watching him for any flinch, any hint that he might lunge for her, but he just stared back. She felt the fight around her fall to the background as she focused all of her attention and energy on the man in front of her. And on not falling over.

“What in the bloody Void are you two doing?”

Gordie stepped between them, blocking her line of sight.

She heard the recruit spit out, “She’s a mage!” and Gordie respond with “Of course she is, you daft walloper. She’s our bloody healer.”

And then Gordie was facing her, slowly taking her sword out of her hand. As he stepped toward her and pulled her arm over his shoulder, she realized that she was shaking.

“It’s alright, love,” He said, guiding her back through the tree toward the path. “Let’s get you some lyrium, yeah?”

A moment later, she was sitting on the ground, feeling the lyrium course through her veins, and watching the trembling in her hands subside. When she finally looked up, Gordie was crouched in front of her. There was concern in his eyes, but his lips were curved in a small smile.

“Was that what I think it was?” She asked.

“If you’re thinking it was a right beast of a smiting, then yeah. It was.”

“Right,” She started to stand, “Is everyone else okay? Do I need to heal anyone?”

Gordie laughed. “There’s my girl. No, I think we’re all fine, but I’ll go check. Sit.” He waved her back down.

Before Gordie returned, Alistair and Carver both descended on her. They were a blur of anger and distress and apologies and questions, and she couldn’t keep what either of them was saying straight.

“Andraste’s tits, would you both shut up!”

When they stopped, she said, more calmly, “I’m fine. I just needed a minute. And a potion. And I think I might need a drink in a bit. And I need to tell Isabela that she’s wrong about everyone needing a good smiting now and then.”

“He smote you?”

She wasn’t sure if it was Carver or Alistair who asked. She didn’t realize they didn’t know already. Carver’s face was a storm of fury. He snapped up and turned in the direction of the new recruit. But Alistair stood just as quickly and gripped Carver’s arm, pulling him back. Alistair looked back down at Meghan for a moment, lips pressed in a grim line, then stalked off. Carver dropped back to his knees next to Meghan and dragged her into a crushing hug.

At first she felt a small wave of relief at being in his arms, but it was followed by a twinge of discomfort. She couldn’t tell if it was because she was being hugged like that in front of a troop of Wardens or for some other reason, but it brought all of her doubts rushing back. She pushed him away, making a joke about her face being smashed against his breastplate, reassuring him that she was fine. She knew she was going to need to talk to him. Eventually.

Chapter Text

Meghan was at the bar, telling stories again. Carver could tell from the grin on her face that this was one of her Hawke stories, chasing down thugs and bandits in the dark alleys of Kirkwall. Without him.  Two of the newest recruits, he couldn’t even remember their names, were there. So was Davis. Like always. The kid had latched onto her like a mabari puppy ever since she forgave him for smiting her. And then suggested he spar with her. And now they were together constantly. Telling each other jokes. Walking arm in arm through the Keep courtyard. He even thought he’d seen Davis stealing pastries from the Keep’s dining hall and taking them to Meghan.

Carver shook his head and took another pull from the bitter ale in front of him.

He had watched them spar a bit earlier that morning. Watched her take Davis down, handily. She’d obviously read his move before he made it, like she usually does. A sharp spin to the right, dodging out of the way of his shield and away from his sword. She’d followed through with her off hand, shooting a small blast of energy at Davis’s back. Between the momentum of his charge and her spell, he ended up flat on his face. It was a good move. And she’d looked good doing it. Graceful. And even sweaty and dusty and flushed from a morning of sparring, she was beautiful. Or maybe she looked beautiful because she was sweaty and dusty and flushed from a morning of sparring. Sometimes Carver couldn’t tell which it was.

He looked over at her again, at the bar, feeling an old, familiar twist in his gut as he watched Davis casually throw an arm over Meghan’s shoulders. He probably shouldn’t have come out tonight. But he liked the Harkness Arms. They had good ale and just the right amount of shady characters to make it interesting. He’d thought a night of drinking with his fellow Wardens would be a good escape, after the day he’d had. The month, really.

He finished off his ale and waved to Ianto, the bartender, for another.

Ever since they’d left Kirkwall, Meghan had been quiet, distant. He knew she was avoiding him. Well, not avoiding him perhaps, but avoiding any situation where it might be just the two of them. When they’d first arrived, he’d shown up at the little cottage Alistair has assigned her to. It was just inside the gates of the Keep, smaller than Gamlen’s old hovel, but it worked for her and her potion crafting. He’d wanted to help her settle in, build some shelves for storing supplies or help her plant herbs in the little garden on the side. But when he’d arrived, she’d made an excuse. An errand of some sort. And had disappeared. Every time he tried to visit her, she had something else to do, somewhere to be, some reason to not be with him. So he’d given up, focused his attention on the recruits he’d been charged with training. And then, today, Alistair had called him in. To talk to him about stories he’d heard. Pushing the recruits too hard, too many injuries during training sessions. Something else he’d done wrong.

He was vaguely aware of the recruits leaving early when Ianto set his ale in front of him.

“She’s a good story-teller, your healer,”  He said with a wink.

Carver nodded but grumbled under his breath, “Not sure she’s mine.”

Carver glanced over at the bar again. Meghan was still there, alone now. Watching the crowd. She wasn’t wearing the Warden regalia Alistair had given her and hadn’t brought her sword. If he didn’t know her, he’d have no idea she was with the Wardens. She met his eye and gave him a half-smile. He probably should have smiled back, invited her to join him. But he didn’t. She’d probably say no anyway. He just wished he could figure out why, what he’d done wrong. This was not how he’d expected things to be when she said she’d come with him. But maybe she’d only agreed because he was her ticket out of Kirkwall. Maybe that’s all it was to her. All he was to her.

He downed half of his drink in one swig and turned his attention to the arm wrestling match going on at the table next to him. Bear, of course, was winning. Against everyone. Carver tried to join in the cheering and banter. It distracted him for a while, but his heart wasn’t in it.

He looked up sharply when he’d heard a shout from the other side of the room. And when he saw Meghan, he stood on instinct. She had a man pushed against the wall, her forearm to his throat and her knife at his stomach. He wasn’t the only one to have reacted. Most of the Wardens in the taverns were on their feet. She was like that, just like his brother, able to inspire everyone around her to follow her, to be prepared to fight for her. But no one needed to. She let the man down with a harsh whisper in his ear, and he scurried out the front door.

He watched as she glanced around the room, shaking her head to let everyone know it was fine, she was fine. She didn’t meet Carver’s eyes. Of course not. She didn’t really need him, especially not with half the Order in the Free Marches ready to defend her. And the fact that he knew she could defend herself. But that wasn’t the point. With a sigh, he sat back down and finished the other half of his ale. And decided to challenge Bear to arm wrestle.

Carver was unaware of just how many drinks he’d had or how many hours had passed when he and Bear heard a commotion outside. The tavern had cleared out quite a bit, so the thump against door was noticeable. Bear raised an eyebrow at him. When they heard a muffled shout, they both rushed to the door, trying to swinging it open wide.

It took some effort to get the door open on account of the unconscious body in front of it. There was another man, also unconscious just to the right of the door. And directly in front of them, Meghan, knife drawn, circling a third man—the one from before—with a sword.

Bear and Carver’s arrival, however, must have distracted the man. Carver wasn’t quite sure what happened, realizing just then that he’d had too much to drink. But somehow Meghan managed to knock the man’s sword away. He immediately put his hands up in defeat, backing away. Apologizing. Turning and running. Meghan calmly returned her knife to her boot and looked up at Carver and Bear.

Through the haze of alcohol, Carver was aware that Meghan had blood on her chin, that her hair was a mess. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that she had just fought off three men, alone. That whatever had happened earlier in the bar had caused this. That she was probably not quite as calm as she looked right then. But what he saw, and what his brain reacted to, was the two unconscious men on the ground and the fact that she’d only had her knife. Which meant she’d probably used her magic. In public.

“Andraste’s ass, Meghan. What did you do this time?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He ignored the look Bear gave him. He just shook his head and turned to go back into the tavern. Bear would walk her back to the Keep. And she’d have another story to tell Davis. She didn’t need his help for anything. But as the door to the tavern shut behind him, a small voice in the back of his head said, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want your help.

“Oh, piss off,” he grumbled to himself and waved down Ianto for another ale.

Chapter Text

The sun was already low on the horizon when they turned back to the Keep. They hadn’t found the bandits they were looking for or any darkspawn along the river. Davis was in deep conversation with Eira about the dwarves’ caste system, something he’d recently read about. Meghan and Nathaniel had dropped back, content to let the other two chatter away. Nathaniel fell into his usual silence, leaving Meghan to her own thoughts.

Meghan had been ecstatic when Nathaniel asked if she wanted to join him on a short mission. In the two months she’d been at Ansburg, she’d only left the Keep’s grounds to go to the Harkness Arms for drinks. And she hadn’t been back there since the incident with the drunken lecher and his friends. Things with Carver had become tense, and it was making her feel restless.

She blamed herself for the mess with Carver. Originally, she just wanted to give herself a little space to figure out how to talk to him. But the longer she avoided him, the harder it got. And she saw him get angry. He was normally good with the recruits, challenging them when they got too cocky, encouraging them when they floundered. That was something she admired about him, something most of the recruits admired about him. But then he’d started taking out his anger on them, pushing too hard, too much. And now he didn’t even try to talk to her, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

So when Nathaniel approached her to ask if she’d accompany a small party to investigate a supposed darkspawn sighting near the river, she’d agreed immediately. Of course, if Nathaniel thought it was really darkspawn, he wouldn’t have asked her. Bandits in darkspawn costumes to scare the farmers, however, she could help with. That was apparently a common occurrence in and around Ansburg. But they’d found nothing. She was actually disappointed for a moment at not getting a good fight in. She was about to ask Nathaniel if she could go again, the next time they heard a rumor like this one, when she saw movement in the trees next to her. Nathaniel had seen it as well, his step faltering. He called out to Eira and Davis in front of them right as the first arrow flew in between them and thudded into a tree.

“Maker forsaken arrows,” Meghan mumbled as she drew her sword and turned in the direction the arrow had come from. She found herself face to face with a lone archer, clearly a human but in a mess of black layers and black face paint. No doubt one of the bandits in costume they’d been looking for. She didn’t even have a chance to take a swing before an arrow lodged itself in the chest of the “darkspawn.”

She quickly nodded her thanks to Nathaniel before joining Eira and Davis against the five other bandits who had appeared on the path. She managed to distract one, drawing him away from the others. She had just knocked him unconscious with the flat of her blade when she felt magic—someone else’s magic—behind her.  She spun just as a white blaze of energy hit Eira square in the chest. Her heart clenched as she watched the blonde dwarf fall.

She could hear Hawke’s words in the back of her head, always take out the mages first. She left the unconscious bandit behind and turned in the direction the magic had come from. Davis must have had an identical thought because in the same moment that she lined herself up with mage, Davis threw a powerful smite, hitting them both at the same time. Meghan stumbled, feeling a familiar, sudden ache of emptiness and, for just a moment, everything around her slowed down. She heard a roar of pain behind her. She saw Nathaniel a few yards in front of her, firing arrows over her head. She watched the mage in darkspawn costume fall backwards, away from her. And she saw her chance.

If she couldn’t draw on her magic, neither could he. Grabbing her sword with both hands, she scrambled forward. The mage had started to sit up and managed to block her first swing with his staff. He blocked the second swing as well, but that block was at an awkward angle for him, and she recovered faster than he did. She shifted her grip and slammed the pommel of her sword into his face. She felt the impact in her forearms and watched him drop back, his face a mess of blood. It was a good hit. It was enough.

Meghan spun back to the others. Eira was back up, but now Davis was down. There were two bandits left. Eira slicing away at one. The other had decided to charge at her and Nathaniel. She planted her feet, sword ready, but he only made it half the distance before one of Nathaniel’s arrows dropped him.  Meghan turned her attention to Davis. He needed healing. She fumbled for a lyrium potion in her pocket as she ran to him, falling to the ground next to him.

There was blood. A lot of blood. More blood than there should be. One of the bandits had found a soft spot in Davis’s armor. Eira and Nathaniel both knelt next to her, ready to help if needed. Davis was still. Meghan downed the potion, and closed her eyes. Willing the energy to come back faster. She inhaled slowly, opened her eyes and reached out her hands to his side.

She could feel how deep the cut was, damage to the muscle. Damage to the organs. She felt her eyes burn.

Not Davis. Sweet Davis. Who told the best dirty Templar jokes and stuttered when he got nervous and always tried to flirt with Gordie but always failed miserably.

She reached out with her magic, focusing on knitting together tissue from the inside out. But the lyrium potion hadn’t given her much to work with. She could only go so far. She groped for another potion.

Not Davis. Not Davis. She couldn’t lose Davis. Who apologized whenever he beat her while sparring and always snuck her favorite apple pasties out of the Keep whenever the cooks made them.

She drank the second potion and stared down at the blood. Her hands were covered in it now. The ground was covered in it. She reached out with her magic again, but the tissue was sluggish. It wouldn’t respond. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. But it wasn’t working.

Not Davis. Not Davis. Not Davis. Who had just wanted to get out of Kirkwall.

She reached for a third potion, but someone put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at Nathaniel’s frown.

“No. Not Davis.”

He shook his head, “He’s gone, Meghan. He’s already gone.”

Meghan didn’t even remember the walk back to the Keep. Or what they had done with Davis’s body. Or how she ended up with his sword. It was just a standard issue Templar blade. The one he’d taken with him when he left Kirkwall’s Gallows. But he called it Maggie. So she called it Maggie.

Chapter Text

News travelled quickly through the Keep about Davis’s death. Carver heard it from one of his recruits first. He knew that Meghan would take it hard. Despite what he felt about the situation, he knew they’d become friends. He thought about going to check on her. But it wasn’t until Carver overheard Eira telling Bear that Meghan had been there, that she had tried to save Davis and couldn’t, that he found himself running across the courtyard to her house. In that moment, it didn’t matter to him that they hadn’t been speaking. He knew her. And he knew her well enough to know that, for her, this would be more than just losing a friend.

He knocked. When she didn’t answer right away, he knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. But he knew she was there, so he pushed the door open. “Meg?”

Meghan didn’t look up when he came in. She was sitting at the table with a bottle of wine. Across from her on the table was a sword. She was still as a statue, her hair wet, her cheeks tear-stained, one hand wrapped loosely around the bottle of wine, the other open in her lap. And she was staring across the table at the sword. It was probably Davis’s sword.

“Meg?” He said again softly as he moved to kneel next to her, resting one hand on her knee.

“It’s my fault.” She whispered, not taking her eyes off the sword.

Carver sighed. That was exactly what he was afraid of.

“No, it wasn’t. You did everything right.” He didn’t even need to know exactly what had happened to know that she would have done everything right.

She shook her head but didn’t respond. Carver scrambled for something to say. The right thing to say. He remembered when his mother had died, how Meghan had waited for him to talk, hadn’t pushed him, hadn’t asked questions. Maybe that was the right thing. So he waited, kneeling next to her chair.

His knee was starting to ache by the time she started talking.

“It is my fault. I was scared. I wanted to come. I wanted to be here with you. But I wasn’t sure what that meant. To you. Or for me. Or for us, I guess. I’ve never…I didn’t know if I’d…I just got worried that you’d change your mind. And I didn’t…I got scared and didn’t know how to talk to you about it. So I…I just didn’t talk to you about it, and now we don’t…now it’s broken. I don’t know how to fix it, and it’s my fault.”

Carver was expecting her to talk about Davis, about what happened. But she was talking about him. About them. She thought they were broken.

“Maker…Meg, it’s not broken.” It was the only thing that made sense to him.

“Davis told me to talk to you. He kept saying I needed to. And I didn’t, and now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do with his sword.”

Carver had no idea what the sword had to do with talking to him, but it at least gave him something to latch onto. Something to work with.

“Why don’t I move his sword to the other room, and we’ll decide what to do with it in the morning?”

Without waiting for an answer, Carver stood and took the sword from the table. Maybe if she stopped staring at it, she might relax, or shout, or something. He set the sword on top of a crate in the small side room she used to store her crafting supplies. He closed the door behind him and walked back to her. She was watching him now. He decided that was progress. But once he got a good look at her face, he saw how drained she really looked. He glanced briefly at the half-empty bottle of wine.

“Have you eaten?” He asked.

“I don’t…remember.” She shook her head slightly.

“Right. Let’s take care of that first then.”

He rummaged around in her little kitchen for food. He found some onions in one box. Spices in another. Then some barley or oats or something. But that all required cooking, which was a bad idea. He kept looking and eventually found a half a loaf of bread, a small chunk of cheese, and what looked like dried apricots. He piled the food on a plate and brought it to her. He found her mugs and a whole row of little tins of tea. He watched her pick at her food from the corner of his eye as he found the tea that smelled like oranges. He had no idea what was in the tea, but he remembered her giving it to him once when he had been complaining about nightmares. He decided that was a good choice, considering the situation.

As he gave her space to eat and waited for the water to boil, he replayed what she’d said in his mind. She had been scared. Something about coming here or something about him. And she didn’t know how to talk to him about it. So that’s why she’d been distant. Because she was scared of something. He just couldn’t fathom what. Maybe just that things had happened so fast? No, she’d said something about him changing his mind. He shook his head. Maker’s balls, he’d been an idiot. Again. All he’d needed to do was talk to her. And instead he ignored her. It was the same blighted mistake he’d made years ago. But it didn’t matter now. He’d fix it. He had to. Just not tonight.

He brought her the tea and sat across from her at the table.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” He was really hoping it would help.

She shook her head but then took a breath and started talking. About the fight and about Davis. About the mage he smote. About Davis’s injury. About his crush on Gordie. About how scared he’d been he wouldn’t survive the Joining and then how excited he’d been when he realized he had. Carver listened and let her talk, the words tumbling out. He didn’t quite follow everything she said. It was like she was trying to share every detail she knew about Davis. But he finally understood about the stolen pastries, and he told himself he’d try to remember to bring her an apple pasty next time he saw them in the dining hall.

And when she finally ran out of things to say, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. At first, Carver wondered if she was going to fall asleep there. He just watched her for a minute, trying to decide if he should make her go to bed or just leave. But before he could make up his mind, she whispered, “I think he’d be a little sad that he was killed by fake darkspawn and not real ones.” 

He bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing. From what he’d just learned about Davis in the last half hour, she was probably right.

Instead, he suggested, “You should probably get some rest.”

She let out a long sigh, then stood and walked to the bedroom. He cleared the table, putting the uneaten food back where he’d found it, rinsing the mugs in the still warm water and returning them to their shelf, and putting out the kitchen fire. Just before leaving, he peeked into the bedroom to see that Meghan had, in fact, curled up in bed. Her eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sure if she was sleeping. Or if she’d stay asleep. And as he watched her and thought again about what she’d said, about thinking they were broken, he decided that maybe he shouldn’t walk away this time. Just in case, so she didn’t wake up alone, he quietly pulled one of the chairs over to the bedroom door and settled in for the night.

Chapter Text

Meghan woke up in the early hours of the morning, the sun having just barely risen. She felt hollow, drained from dreams of darkspawn and blood and un-healable wounds. Trying to shake those thoughts clear, she rolled out of bed—only to find Carver, sitting in a chair in the doorway with his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, his chin was resting on his chest, and his breathing was slow and steady.

She hadn’t forgotten what had happened the day before. The fight, Davis’s death, or Carver taking care of her. But she hadn’t realized he’d stayed. And slept in a chair in a position that would likely make his neck sore. But she didn’t want to wake him, so she quietly stepped over his outstretched legs and went to light the kitchen fire.

She picked up the flint and steel and knelt in front of the fire. As usual, her first few tries did nothing. And, as usual, she cursed herself for not trying harder to learn the fire spells that Hawke and Anders were so good at. Hawke had tried to teach her once, but she hadn’t had much success. He had just laughed and told her that her lightning bolts were just as good as his fireballs and that the fact that she’d become a better healer than Anders should be more important anyway. Not that her healing had done Davis any good.  No, her healing hadn’t been enough. She felt the lump in her throat and tried to swallow it back down, returning her focus to the flint.

But the flint wasn’t working. And now she couldn’t get Davis’s face out of her mind. And she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. She hadn’t been able to heal him, to save him. She had failed.

The next thing she knew, Carver was on the floor with her, holding her tightly against chest, whispering over and over that it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t even realized she had been apologizing to the image of Davis in her head.

Four days later, she found herself sitting at a table at the Harkness Arms. Carver hadn’t left her side much during those four days. He didn’t sleep at her house again, but he came every morning with breakfast and stopped by each afternoon to invite her to the Keep to join everyone for dinner. And when she declined each time, he came back in the evening with a fresh loaf of bread or basket of strawberries or some other snack from the dining hall. And he made her tea and sat with her on a couple of upturned barrels in front of her house until she went to bed.

On that fourth afternoon, when Carver invited her to the dining hall, she finally admitted that she was afraid to face everyone who she had failed. She didn’t think they would want to share a meal with her. Carver just shook his head and walked back to the Keep. But when he returned that evening, he returned with a group. Gordie and Bear. Eira and Nathaniel and Kethan. Her Ostwick friends. And when Bear threatened to physically drag her out of her house, she agreed to go to the tavern with them.

As they left the Keep, it was Nathaniel who fell into step beside her.

They ran into another group of Wardens at the tavern, some of whom she didn’t know. But they all greeted her and her friends like they would have on any other night. And ales were bought and cards were pulled out and stories were told.  It was beginning to feel almost normal. And then Bear got up to get more drinks, and Nathaniel slid into the empty seat next to her.

“We think we’ve found where those bandits’ hideout.”

“Oh?” Meghan glanced over at Nathaniel.

“There’s some sort of tunnel system underneath Ansburg’s orphanage. We think their leader lives down there.”

Meghan just nodded, wondering why Nathaniel was telling her.

“I want you to come with us when we go,” he finally said.

“No.” She frowned at him. She wasn’t going to get herself in the middle of another battle. She wasn’t going to fight anymore.

Nathaniel shook his head. “You’ve heard those stories about falling off a horse right? How if you don’t get right back on and try again, you’ll be too scared to ever ride?”

Meghan resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Of course she’d heard that, even when she had fallen off a horse herself as a child.

“It’s not the same thing,” she insisted.

Nathaniel sighed. “If you were a Warden, I’d just order you to come. But I can’t. So as your friend, I’m asking for your help. You’re the best healer I know, and I’d feel better with you at our side.”

“Me, too.” Eira chimed in from across the table.

“Aye.” Gordie grinned at her from his spot next to Eira. “And you know you’re better with a blade now than Carver, love. That’s why he won’t spar with you.”

Carver choked on his ale, and the whole table burst into laughter. Even Nathaniel smiled.

As the laughter faded, Kethan leaned over and said quietly in her ear, “They are all correct. We are better off with you than without you.”

Meghan looked at Kethan, then back at Nathaniel. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response. She looked around the table one more time, lingering for just a moment on Carver.  He nodded, just a hint of a smile on his lips. And with a shake of her head, she turned back to Nathaniel and said, “I’ll think about it.”

“What’re we thinking about? Arm wrestling?” Bear plopped another mug in front of Meghan, the dark ale sloshing over the sides, and looked around at the group.

“Yes, Bear.” Meghan looked up at him. “I was just saying that I wanted to arm wrestle you.”

Bear whooped and quickly starting clearing the table.

“You do know what sarcasm is, don’t you Bear?” Eira asked with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, no.” Meghan said, “I was serious. I think I can take him.”

“Not likely, kid,” Bear said as he pulled Eira from her seat and settled in across from Meghan. “But I love that you want to try.”

Meghan placed her elbow on the table and waited for Bear to grip her hand. Gordie reached across the table, shaking his head, and held their clasped hands together.

“You sure about this, love?” He asked. Meghan nodded, and he started counting down. She shot a quick wink at Eira.

As soon as Gordie reached “one” and let go of their hands, Meghan released a tiny bolt of lightning from her left hand under the table. Bear jerked his head up, his eyes widened, and Meghan easily pulled his massive hand to the table.

The cheers and laughter that followed roared in Meghan’s ears. Bear, once he got over his shock, was shaking with laughter. After he caught his breath, he shook his head at her. “And that’s why you’re my favorite, kid.”

Chapter Text

Carver was surrounded. He knew Meghan and Eira had been pushed down a different corridor. He knew Nathaniel was somewhere behind him. He knew his stamina was flagging. And he knew that there were at least five bandits around him, maybe six. He was losing. He could feel it in his bones and in the blood trickling out of his body from various gashes. And, even with the flashes of daggers and sounds of metal on metal surrounding him, the most prominent thought in his mind was, I will not leave her alone. He needed to get out of this position. When his next swing only just pushed one of the bandits back a step, he amended his thought. If I must leave her, I will at least take as many of these bastards with me as I can.

Just as he inhaled and prepared for a wide, sweeping slice, he felt the air crackle around him. The first bolt of lightning hit at the same time that his blade cut through the first bandit. He continued his swing in a wide arc as the lightning snapped all around him. He had never seen magic like that before. He watched as the bandits in front of him fell, some from his blade, some from the storm of electricity surrounding him. He turned to focus on the ones who had been behind him, only to find them down as well. He spun again, looking at the bodies around him. There had been seven. But whatever that maelstrom of energy was had taken them all down.

When he finally turned back towards the main room of the bandits’ hideout, his jaw dropped. Meghan was standing there, armor covered in blood, sword at her feet, both arms in the air, little pops of electricity lingering at her fingertips.

She lowered her arms and met Carver’s gaze.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

Carver looked back down at the bodies around him. Was he hurt? He was bleeding, the most recent cut to his leg the most painful though something along his shoulder blade stung as well. And he was tired, so tired. But he was alive. And the bodies around him were not. Slowly, he looked back up at Meghan. He knew the magic had come from her but couldn’t wrap his brain around how. He’d never seen her do that before.

He stared at her for a moment. And she smiled at him, that brilliant smile, that single dimple, the one she hadn’t given him in months. But as he stared, the smile slowly faded. He saw concern flash in her eyes before he realized he hadn’t spoken yet.

“What in the Void was that?” For once, his voice was more awe than anger. Maybe she started to answer or maybe she did answer. But Carver didn’t hear anything. He dropped his greatsword to the ground and rushed towards her, pulling her into his arms. He couldn’t hold her close enough. 

“I thought I was gone,” he whispered.

He felt her laugh against his chest. She pulled away from the embrace and looked up at him.

“Good thing I was here to save your life again.”

Even as she said it, he could feel her healing magic coursing through his body. She was smiling again, and he found a smile creeping across his own face in response. And for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to feel her lips on his, to kiss her thoroughly, even in front of their companions. But that thought reminded them that they had companions, and he turned his head to look at them.

Eira wasn’t even trying to hide her grin while Nathaniel was just watching, one eyebrow arched. Carver reluctantly let go of Meghan, mumbled a thank you and went back to pick up his sword. When he looked around the bodies of the bandits who had nearly overwhelmed him, a memory flashed in his mind. Of another time he had embraced Meghan after a battle, another time she had pulled away with a joke. On the trek from Kirkwall to Ostagar. Right before she had started to avoid him. He shook his head. He knew something was there, something important. But he’d have to figure it out later.

Later turned out to be during the long march back to the Keep, trudging silently through the mud as an afternoon storm soaked them all to the bone. Carver took up the rear of the party, lost in his thoughts, trying to puzzle out what was going on between him and Meghan. She had told him that she was scared of something. He didn’t know what, but she hadn’t wanted to talk to him about it. So it had to be something to do with him. And when he really thought about it, he knew that he was the one to stop speaking to her. Not the other way around. At first, it was just that she kept avoiding him. But only when he came to her house or tried to catch her after training. She spoke to him when they were out with others, when there was a group. So she wasn’t always avoiding him, she was just avoiding being alone with him. And, with the exception of when her grief for Davis was at its highest, she pulled away from his embraces.

He looked up suddenly when the pieces finally clicked into place. He watched the back of her head, hidden underneath the blue Warden cowl. She was afraid of him. Maker’s balls. Maker’s bloody balls!

When Meghan turned her head to regard him over her shoulder, he realized he had sworn out loud. He shook his head.

“Sorry, I…shit. Mud. Just mud.”

She turned back to the road in front of her, a faint smile on her lips.

Unbidden, his brother’s words came to mind. His brother’s doubt in him, in his ability to take care of her. And Sebastian’s threat. They were worried about her, about him hurting her. And she was afraid of him. And by the time they returned to the Keep, his mind was spinning. He didn’t even remember to acknowledge her departure when she split off from the group and headed to her house instead of the Keep.

Chapter Text

Meghan was puzzled by Carver’s silence and dismissal when they returned to the Keep. They had been together every day that past week. He had cared for her, allowed her to grieve then pushed her back out, reminding her that she had friends. And he had come close to falling in that battle, and she had panicked. She didn’t even know she could make her lightning spell do that. She’d thought about it for years but never managed it. In that moment, she just knew she needed to get as many bandits off of Carver as possible.

“..it was this massive storm of electricity! And Meghan,” Eira was laughing as she retold the story. “Meghan just stands there with her arms up while those sodding bandits dropped, one by one. And she still had the juice to heal all those holes Carver had in him.”

Eira winked at her and held her glass up. “Davis would have been proud.”

Meghan rolled her eyes at Eira’s retelling of the fight, but she held her glass up as well, joining the small group of Wardens gathered in the common room in a toast to their fallen comrade. As soon as word spread through the Keep that the leader of the bandits responsible for Davis’s death had been taken down, Bear had shown up at Meghan’s door, begging her to come to the Keep to celebrate.

“Speaking of Carver,” Gordie’s voice appeared next to her. “Where is he?”

Meghan shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since we reached the Keep’s gates.”

Gordie sighed. “Thought you two were done fighting.”

“I think fighting,” Kethan interrupted, refilling Meghan’s glass with whiskey, “requires talking.”

“You’re not wrong.” Meghan closed her eyes and shook her head.  “And I have had too much to drink if I’m talking to you two about this.”

Gordie laughed, “It’s not like we don’t all know what’s going on, love.”

“Do you, though?” She tilted her head and looked at him. “Because I’m not sure I do.”

“Because you don’t talk to him,” Kethan said.

“Right,” Meghan said and downed the whiskey in her glass. “Let’s go find the stubborn git then.”

She swayed once when she stood, but managed to catch herself and march out of the common room, ignoring the laughter behind her.

Of course, once she left the common room, she had no clue where to look. She tried to think of where Carver might be. She decided to try the dining hall first. And just as she turned the corner to head in that direction, she bumped into him, nearly falling in the process.

“Meg! Are you okay?” Carver caught her elbow and helped steady her.

“I was looking for you. Wait. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” Even she could hear the slight slur to her words.

He narrowed his eyes at her, still grasping her elbow. “Are you drunk?”

“No. Well, maybe. A little.” No, she’d definitely had too much to drink. And now Carver was frowning at her.

He led her back in the direction he’d just come from, which turned out to not be the dining hall but the library, and eased her into a chair there. He pulled another chair over and sat next to her, still frowning.

She reached a hand out to his cheek and sighed, “I don’t like your frown much, Carver Hawke.”

He let out a small huff of air, and she dropped her hand to her lap.

“Maker, you are drunk. Who were you drinking with?”

“Everyone but you, I think. We were toasting Davis. Because of the bandits.” She shook her head, knowing that didn’t come out quite the way she’d meant it. But Carver nodded in understading.

“I heard about that,” he said. “But I didn’t know you’d be there.”

“Would you have come if you’d known?”

“Would you have wanted me to?” He looked down at his hands.

“Of course! What makes you say that? Is it because we don’t talk? Kethan says we don’t talk.”

Carver let out a bitter sounding laugh. “We don’t.”

“Why not?” When she asked, she didn’t take her eyes off his face, hoping he would look up again.

“Apparently because you’re afraid of me,” he grumbled.

“That’s ridiculous!” She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. “Who told you that?”

“You did.” He was looking at her now, lips pressed in a tight line.

“When? Why would I have ever said something like that?” She was still laughing, despite the grim look on his face.

“When you pushed me away today. When you stopped spending time with me. A week ago you told me you stopped talking to me because you were scared.” He shook his head. “I can’t figure it out. I don’t know what I’ve done to make you afraid of me.”

“I promise I’m not…oh. Oh!” She felt her cheeks burn as the whiskey finally allowed her brain to catch up. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from talking. He arched one eyebrow, clearly expecting more from her.

She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts, cursing Gordie and Kethan both for the whiskey and for not stopping her from looking for Carver in the state she was in. Without removing her hands from her face, she tried to explain.

“I’m not scared of you. Not like, not like you think. I just, I’ve never…you’ve…oh, Andraste’s sweet ass. I’ve had too much whiskey.” She sighed and dropped her hands back to her lap. But she couldn’t bring herself to look at him now, so she stared at the shelves of books behind him and started over.

“Owen, the butcher’s son back in Amaranthine, was the first boy I ever kissed. And then he told me he’d won 10 silver from his brother for doing it. And Patrick, one of my brother’s friends in the city guard, kissed me behind the gatehouse the summer before the Blight. He said he wanted to court me. But he never did, and he ended up betrothed to one of the other guards. And then, well, then I met you.” She glanced at Carver’s face. He was frowning again, but there was something else in his eyes.

She looked back at the books and continued, “And I know you had a girl at the Rose. And probably lots of girls back in Lothering. Because, well, you’re you.” She gestured at him with a wave of her hand. “And when you asked me to come here, to come with you, I didn’t even think about it. And then halfway here, I did think about, and I just…well, I wasn’t sure…” She took a deep breath, forced herself to look at him, and blurted that last out in a rush. “I was afraid that when I got here, when it was real, I wouldn’t meet your expectations, that I wouldn’t be enough.”

Carver didn’t react right away, and she found herself holding her breath. And when he just blinked at her, she felt her stomach twist and tears prickle at the back of her eyes. Definitely too much whiskey, or maybe not enough.

And then, slowly, he shook his head, and one side of his mouth twitched up.

“I can’t decide if I should be mad at those two for not treating you better or grateful to them for not snatching you up.”

“That’s not…That wasn’t the point.” She sputtered as he started to chuckle.

“I know, I know,” He said as his chuckle turned into a full laugh. His laugh was contagious, and soon their laughter was echoing through the empty library.

“Maker, we’re a mess, you and I,” He said when he’d finally caught his breath. And he leaned forward and held her face steady with both hands and added, “But I promise you that you are more than enough, Meg. You always will be.”

Chapter Text

Carver lounged in the overstuffed chair in front of the fire, one leg slung over the arm. He spun a small silver amulet between his fingers as he listened to his brother recount what happened inside Chateau Haine. Across from him, Garrett was sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, his back against a settee. Isabela was sprawled across the settee, one hand idly curling through Garrett’s hair, the other holding a half-empty bottle of rum. 

Carver hadn’t wanted to go to Orlais, especially not for Baron Paucity de Rochfort's grand fete. Or whatever it was. When he’d received the message from his brother, he’d debated going. Part of him hoped Alistair would just say he couldn’t go. But Alistair quickly pointed out that Wardens rarely get to see family and came up with some excuses to count the trip as Warden business. And even though he didn’t like to say it out loud, Carver knew it would be good to see his brother. So Carver got stuck going to some stupid, poncey party in Orlais with his brother, Isabela and an elf named Tallis. And, because it was his brother, it turned out to be so much more than a party. Wyverns and stolen jewels and spies and assassins.

Thinking about it now, Carver realized it hadn’t been horrible. Or, at least, once they got past the pinky-extending and moldy cheeses. If Meghan had been there, he might have even had fun. At least Isabela was willing to make fun of the other guests with him while his brother was sneaking around the chateau with the elf. But then, the more he thought about it, the harder it was to picture Meghan at an Orlesian party. In a dress. Without swearing. Or threatening one of the sleazy nobles with her knife. She would have enjoyed the wyvern hunt though.

Thinking about Meghan brought an involuntary smile to his face. He looked closely at the amulet his brother had given him, tracing its knotted strands of silverite and red steel. He wondered if Meghan would like it. Even though they had reconciled nearly six months ago, he felt like things were still tenuous. Late night conversations and stolen kisses in hallways were one thing, but he needed her to know that his affections were more enduring than that. Maybe he could put the amulet on a red ribbon. It was completely impractical, but he never saw her in the coat with the Amell red filigree anymore, having replaced it with the Warden’s blue and silver armor. He liked the idea of her in Amell red. He liked the idea of her in Hawke colors better, but the Hawkes didn’t have colors. Maybe he could find a red leather cord of some sort instead of a ribbon.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” Carver turned back to his brother. “Course I was.”

“Really? So how did I get past the third set of guards?” Garrett narrowed his eyes.

“With Tallis’s help.” Carver shrugged.

“Right,” Garrett drawled, shaking his head. “You’re away from her for three weeks, and you can’t even focus on a conversation with your own brother for more than ten minutes?”

“The sex must be fantastic,” Isabela chimed in.

“What? No, I…No.” Carver shook his head, feeling his cheeks redden. “I’m not talking to you about this.”

“Aww…you’re no fun.” Isabela pouted. “But seriously, did she figure out the electricity trick? Anders said he wouldn’t teach her, but—”

Carver groaned at the ceiling, “I really don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“And I really don’t want to hear it either,” Garrett added.

In an attempt to change the subject, Carver said, “Did I tell you I’m missing a visit from the Hero of Ferelden?”

Garrett raised an eyebrow.

“It’s true,” Carver went on. “Word came right before I left to come here. Even heading back tomorrow, I’m pretty sure I’ll miss her.”

“Why would she go to Ansburg?” Garrett asked.

“You remember Alistair, right? My commander? They’re married. Met during the Blight, fell in love, killed the archdemon, got hitched. But the First Warden wanted to build up ranks and the Free Marches didn’t have any official Wardens then, so Alistair got sent to Ansburg to recruit Marchers. He goes to visit her once a year, and she visits him in Ansburg once a year. I’ve just never been in Ansburg at the same time as her.”

“You know she’s a cousin of ours,” Garrett said.

“An Amell,” Carver nodded. “Yeah, Alistair told me she wants to meet us sometime. Well, you at least. The Champion and the Hero.”

 “You know,” Isabela interrupted, “I met the Hero before she was the Hero.” She took a sip from her bottle of rum then sighed, “She was gorgeous.”

“Really?” Carver asked, grateful that Isabela was running with the new topic.

“Really. She had hair the color of a sunset and eyes like the open ocean. And she smelled like strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” Garrett snorted, reaching up to take the bottle of rum from Isabela.

“Mmhhmm…strawberries.” She sighed wistfully. “Carver, what does Meghan smell like?”

“No, Isabela,” he grumbled.

“Oh, come on. Not even a hint? Just one tiny, little detail?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Ignoring her, Carver asked, “How did you meet the Hero before she was the Hero? That sounds like a good story.”

“Oh, it is,” she purred.

“Are you going to share?” Garrett asked as he passed the bottle of rum back.

“I might. But only if Carver shares in return.”

“Not bloody likely,” Carver rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” Carver grunted.

After a long pause, Isabela said, “I met Alistair once, too. He did not smell like strawberries.”

“Oh?” Garrett chuckled, “What did he smell like?”

“Leather and myrrh.” She took another drink of rum and handed the bottled down to Garrett.

Carver couldn’t help it. His curiosity was getting the better of him. He wanted to hear about his commander and the Hero, wanted to hear just a small piece of the “grand love story” Alistair talked about. He closed his eyes and thought about Meghan, and the last time he’d held her close enough to smell her, standing in the doorway of her house as he was leaving for Orlais. She was still half-asleep, having woken early just to say goodbye. And he could smell his favorite tea on her skin and the soap she used in her hair.

“Oranges and vanilla,” Carver said. “Now tell me the story.”

Chapter Text

“Why in Thedas would she want to meet me?” Meghan shook her head in disbelief.

“It doesn’t much matter why, love, does it? She’s the bloody Hero of Ferelden,” Gordie laughed.

“Oh no. No, no, no.” Alistair waved both hands in the air. “None of that. That is not a title we throw around. Ever. She’ll turn you into a toad, you know.”

Nathaniel smirked, “No, she won’t. But she does hate the title.”

“Always has,” Alistair sighed then looked at Meghan. “Just have dinner in the hall with us once. Please?”

Meghan had a hard time saying no to Alistair when he said please like that. She wondered if his wife was immune to it. Most likely, she wasn’t either. Meghan sighed and gave in.

Meghan ended up spending most of the week with Solona Amell, not just for dinner like Alistair said. She met her the first day she arrived in Ansburg. Meghan was sparring with her new partner, a woman who went by the name of Cooper. Cooper had just done a blackflip to dodge Meghan’s swing and was about to rush back in with her daggers. Meghan saw her coming a half a beat before Cooper took that first step and sent a small wave of energy to knock Cooper off balance. In a real fight, Meghan could have knocked her back a few feet, but sparring like this gave her more time to focus on her sword work as well as a chance to work on finesse and small spells, which she liked doing. Cooper stumbled back from the spell, swearing when she found herself sitting on the ground with Meghan’s blunted practice sword at her chest.

That’s when she heard the appreciative whistle from the side of the sparring ring. “I see Alistair wasn’t kidding when he called you a warrior mage.”

Meghan spun around to find Solona Amell and Nathaniel watching her. Nathaniel waved her over and made introductions.

“Nathaniel tells me you know Anders?”

Meghan glanced at Nathaniel, then back at Solona. Solona Amell. The Hero of Ferelden. Who ended the Blight. Who saved Amaranthine. Who hated the title. And who, Alistair had assured her, was a completely normal person. Meghan pushed the little bit of hero-worship aside and nodded.

“I lived with him for a while, back in Kirkwall.” And then Meghan thought about Anders and realized what that might sound like to someone who actually knew him. “Oh, no. Wait. Not like that. Maker’s hairy balls. Not like that at all.” Meghan sputtered.

Nathaniel chuckled, but Solona just smiled and asked how Anders was doing.

Before responding, Meghan looked back at Nathaniel. Evidence that he was just laughing had already disappeared. But the fact was that Nathaniel had laughed, something Meghan had never seen him do. And it probably had everything to do with the tall, willowy woman standing next to him. 

Meghan returned her attention to the conversation.

“When I left Kirkwall a few months ago, he was alive and healthy. And doing as well as can be expected, I guess. Things are difficult in Kirkwall for mages, and his last letter was, well, I’m worried about him, to be honest.”

“How so?” Solona gestured for Meghan to walk with her. Nathaniel hung back and struck up a conversation with Cooper, letting Solona and Meghan talk. As Meghan described the circumstances in Kirkwall and the unsettling, distant tone of Anders’s last letter, she could see at least part of why Alistair and Solona made a good pair. Her concern for Anders, and really for the entire situation in Kirkwall, was genuine. And, like Alistair, Solona was unflaggingly positive. Meghan only caught a few small remarks that hinted at any bitterness or cynicism. The conversation slowly turned from Anders and the mage’s plight to Meghan’s own magic, her dealings with Flemeth, and Carver.

“So that’s the story Alistair had been trying to tell me about,” Solona’s laugh was loud and cheerful. “Another ‘grand love story,’ he said.”

Meghan felt herself blush. “I think we’ve got a ways to go before that phrase will apply. Carver and I are both…stubborn,” she said.

They had wandered around the main building of the Keep and into the front courtyard. It was a quiet morning, only a handful of villagers milling about the merchants booths and a small cluster of Wardens, including the two Solona had traveled with, by the blacksmith. One, a new recruit who had only arrived at the Keep a few days before, turned away from the blacksmith and approached Meghan and Solona. He had a look of concern on his face.

“Orrin, right?” She asked, furrowing her brows. “Is everything okay?”

He ignored her and instead turned to Solona. “You’re the Hero of Ferelden,” Orrin said.

For some reason, the sword strapped to his back caught her eye when he had turned to speak to Solona. The hilt looked familiar. Meghan saw the shift in Orrin’s face at the same moment that she recognized the sword as a standard issue Templar longsword, just like the one named Maggie still tucked away with her potion crafting supplies. She also recognized the new look on Orrin’s face. It was definitely not concern anymore.

She braced herself just in time for the holy smite Orrin hurled at her and Solona, but Solona was caught off guard and stumbled back. The next three seconds felt like slow motion to Meghan. While Solona reached for a lyrium potion, drank it, and readied her staff, Meghan pulled the knife from her boot, spun around the recruit’s shield, and stabbed him in the neck. Orrin fell before Solona had even finished casting her arcane shield around them both.

The other Wardens in the courtyard reacted quickly to the commotion, drawing their weapons and rushing to defend Ferelden’s Commander of the Grey. There was, of course, little left to defend. Solona and Meghan were ushered back towards the Keep, and someone pressed a lyrium potion in Meghan’s hand. And as they walked up the front steps, Solona laughed, “’Healer of the House Amell,’ indeed.”

Meghan sat next to Nathaniel in Alistair’s office and watched Alistair fuss over his wife. She realized then just how young they both were. Their positions and the way they both carried themselves belied their age. Watching them now, Meghan figured them both to be only a few years older than her.  

There was a knock on the door, and Meghan turned to see Gordie.

“Think this belongs to you, love.” He hand her the knife, all evidence of its recent use washed away. “I heard it was a lovely move.” He added with a wink.

“It was.” Solona said from her corner. “I’ve only ever seen one other person move that quickly, and he was a Crow.”

Meghan shook her head. “I wasn’t that fast, I just saw what was coming.”

“That’s what she’s best at,” Gordie nodded. “Seeing what her opponent is doing before they do it.”

“It’s true. Don’t play Wicked Grace with her either,” Alistair laughed. “She could probably beat Isabela.”

“No,” Meghan shook her head, “Isabela cheats.”

Solona tilted her head to one side and asked, “How did you know? I mean, who ever expects a holy smite from anyone but a Templar? And you were braced for it.”

“I’m pretty sure he was a Templar. I saw his sword.” Meghan’s eyes slid to Nathaniel. “It looked just like Davis’s.”

Meghan felt Gordie squeeze her shoulder as Nathaniel quickly explained to Solona who Davis was. And then Gordie tossed some parchment on the table.

“We also found these in his things. Looks like it wasn’t a recruit gone barmy after all.”

Meghan caught a sketch of Solona’s face on one of the pages before Alistair snatched them up and started reading.

“Well,” he sighed, “aside from him hiding as a recruit, it was possibly the sloppiest assassination attempt you’ve had in years.” He passed the pages to Solona.

“You say that like it happens all the time.” Meghan said.

“It happens more than I’d like to admit, but it’s never happened here before.” Solona said as she tucked the pages in a pocket.

Meghan’s confusion must have been clear on her face because Alistair added, “There are plenty of people who would like to see Solona or me or both of us dead. Some think I might still try to oust Queen Anora, some don’t like a mage having as much power as Solona has, others are still mad at us for decisions we’ve made.”

“You mean that woman? The one with the child?”

Alistair and Solona exchanged a glance before Alistair nodded. “That’s part of it, yes.”

Chapter Text

Carver was stopped by one of the guards at the Keep’s gates.

“Warden Carver. We was told to watch for you. S’posed to let you know that the Healer is at the Keep, not at her home. Has been since the attack.”

Carver’s stomach dropped. “What attack?”

“Oh, she’s fine, the Healer is.” The guard chuckled. “Just that the Commander moved her to the Keep.”

Carver managed to stammer out his thanks before he set off across the courtyard at a jog, his imagination inventing a variety of potential “attacks” the whole way. His heart was pounding in his chest by the time he found Meghan standing in the common room, laughing with Bear and Gordie. She must have been able to see the alarm written across his face. Or maybe it was the way he shoved the door open and stormed into the room.

She just calmly smiled at him and said, “Relax, Carver. I’m fine.”

He dropped his bag and, in three long strides, had his arms around her, the force of his hug lifting her feet off the ground. He set her back down and held her at arm’s length.

“The guard said you were attacked.”

“More like she stopped an attack before it happened,” Bear laughed.

“She was bloody brilliant,” Gordie added. “But ask Eira for the story. Her version is quite spectacular.”

“Or ask me,” Meghan rolled her eyes. “I was the one who was there.”

Meghan walked with him to the barracks and told him about Solona Amell’s visit and the attack. And while he unpacked his bag from Orlais, she sat on his bed and explained why Alistair made her move into the Keep.

“I understand that he’s worried, but that’s my home. My bed, my kitchen, my stuff.”

Carver knew saying it out loud would only frustrate Meghan more, but he was grateful that Alistair had thought to move Meghan into the Keep. He knew that nine times out of ten she was capable of defending herself against most things, but that didn’t mean it was smart for her to be living in that house, right next to the gates, alone. Even if she wasn’t the target, knowing that an assassin had found his way onto the Keep’s grounds made him nervous. And a very selfish part of him knew that having her staying in the Keep meant he’d see her more often. But he kept all of that to himself and let her vent.

And then she made a joke about getting a mabari to guard the house for her.

“What about me?” The words came out of Carver’s mouth before he thought them through.

“What?” She laughed. “You want to play mabari and stand guard at my house?”

“Not exactly, but I could stay with you.” And then his brain caught up with what his mouth was doing and what that suggestion might mean. “I mean, well, I don’t mean with you with you. Unless you wanted me to. But I could make a space in the storage room. Or something.” He tried give a nonchalant shrug at the end, but he could feel his cheeks burning. And when he looked at Meghan, he saw that her jaw had dropped open, her lips in a small “o” of surprise.

“Nevermind. Stupid idea.” He mumbled and busied himself with refolding the shirt he had in his hand.

“No,” she said slowly, “it’s not a stupid idea.”

He looked up at her again. This time, there was the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips.

“Let me talk to Alistair. And…think about it.”

And she slipped off the bed and down the hall to see if the idea might appease the commander while Carver took a bath and scrubbed the week of travel from his skin.

Two days later, she still hadn’t decided. And he was still carrying around the amulet he’d brought back from Orlais, trying to find the right time to give it to her. They were sitting in the dining hall having lunch when one of the Margrave’s messengers flew into the hall.

“Is the Healer here? She’s not at the house!” The boy’s voice was panicked.

“I’m here.” Meghan waved him over. “What’s wrong?”

“The Margrave. Lady Enid. The baby is coming, but something is wrong. Please—”

Without waiting for the messenger to finish, Meghan stood.

“I’ll come right now. I just need to grab some supplies.” She turned to Carver, her eyes wide.

“I’m with you.” He stood and ran with her across the courtyard to help gather her potions and salves.

Even though Ansburg was a smaller city than Kirkwall, the Margrave’s palace was larger than the Viscount’s Keep in Kirkwall. Lord Vaughn and Lady Enid were well liked by the people of Ansburg, both noble and common alike. And it was common knowledge that Lady Enid had experienced a string of difficult pregnancies, each one ending before the babe was ready for the world, leaving the Margraves with no heir. This was the first time she had carried to term, but from the flustered report the messenger gave Meghan and Carver as they rushed to the palace, things did not look good for the child or for Lady Enid.

The screams coming from Lady Enid’s chambers made Carver’s skin crawl. If Meghan was unnerved by the situation at all, it didn’t show. She was composed as she listened to the midwife explain the situation, her voice was calm as she redirected the servants in room and asked for cold water and more towels, and her hands were steady when she placed them on the Margrave’s belly and reached out with her magic.

Carver followed Meghan’s directions as calmly as he could, passing her the salve in the brown jar, the orange potion, then the dark red one. At first, it seemed as though Meghan was making progress. But then something shifted, and Lady Enid lost consciousness. When her screams stopped, Lord Vaughn, who had been pacing on the other side of the room exploded, fearing his wife dead. And Meghan’s calm resolve cracked.

She snarled at the Margrave, “I will not let her die!” Then turning to Carver, “Get him out of here.”

So Carver grabbed Lord Vaughn by the shoulders and dragged him into the hallway. Once the door was shut, Lord Vaughn sagged against the wall and slid to the floor with a rough sob. Carver sat with him in the hallway, both listening to and trying not to listen to the muffled voices and strangled noises coming from Lady Enid’s chambers. After what felt like hours, they heard the clear, shrill cry of a baby. Lord Vaughn started to scramble to his feet, but Carver put a hand out to stop him, knowing Lady Enid’s life might still be in danger. It was nearly a half hour before Meghan opened the door and, with a weak smile, told Lord Vaughn that his wife and son were both fine.

Chapter Text

Meghan was exhausted. She had drained her magic multiple times to get Lady Enid through the difficult labor, to keep both her and the boy alive. The effort it took to keep calm through the process, to look past the weight of the situation she was in and keep her nerves steady, left her feeling bare.

As they walked down the steps of the palace and turned towards the city gates, Meghan slipped her hand into the crook of Carver’s elbow.

“Thank you for coming with me today.”

“Of course.”

She glanced up and studied his profile for a minute. He really had been perfect. He’d come without her needing to ask, and he’d done everything he could to help her keep her focus on Lady Enid, even little things like opening potions before handing them to her. And she was pretty sure she’d seen him holding Lady Enid’s hand through at least one of the painful contractions as well. And then he’d thrown Lord Vaughn out of the room and kept him out. She thought back to how the servants had reacted to that particular incident.

“Did you see the way he just grabbed him and pushed him out? Maker, I wouldn’t mind being grabbed by him.”

“So long as he was pushing you up against a wall and not out a door?”

“Or a bed. He’s worth a bed, I’d say. He’s gorgeous. Did you see his eyes? Like a Wintermarch morning.”

“Such a romantic, you are. I’m more interested in his sword.”

They’d devolved into giggles then, and Meghan had to ask them to keep it down, partly because the giggling was particularly obnoxious but mostly because it was Carver they were talking about. They were right about at least one thing, she thought as she looked up at his profile again. Gorgeous. And she was afraid to let herself think too much about the other comments made. Her thoughts had drifted in that direction a few too many times since he’d offered to move into the house with her. She did want him there. “With her with her,” as he’d so eloquently put it. She just hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet. Or figured out how to tell him.

She hadn’t even realized how long they’d been walking, still arm in arm, when she spotted the village where the Harkness Arms stood. It was about halfway between the Keep and the city, and Ianto’s beef and mushroom pies suddenly sounded like the best thing ever.

“Carver?”

“Meg?”

“I know it’s getting late, but I’m bloody exhausted. Would you mind if we stopped for a bit?”

He laughed, “I was going to suggest it anyway. You look like you could use a drink.”

The tavern was loud as usual, but they found a table in the corner. After a pie, which was as good as she’d hoped, and a pint of ale, Meghan leaned back, rested her head against the wall behind her, and closed her eyes.

“You know,” Carver said, “saving the Hero of Ferelden’s life then bringing the Margraves their one and only heir…if you’re not careful, you’re going to get named Champion of Ansburg.”

“Maker’s breath, I hope not,” she sighed. After a pause, she opened her eyes and looked over at Carver. He was watching her with a lopsided grin. “There were a couple of Templars following us when we left the city,” she said.

His grin faded. “I saw them, too.”

“Do you think they know I’m not really a Warden?”

“You mean do I think they’d come after you?” When she nodded, he continued. “I think they’d be stupid to try.”

“Just because I’ve been lucky with a smite or two doesn’t mean I could actually fend off real Templars.” She closed her eyes again before adding, “And the closest Circle is Kirkwall.”

“I wouldn’t let them have you.” Meghan felt the intensity of Carver’s voice in her bones. No, she knew he wouldn’t.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time they got to the Keep. While the break and the food had helped, Meghan was still aching for a good night’s sleep. They walked through the gates, and Meghan turned toward her house out of habit. When Carver’s step faltered next to her, she stopped and looked up at him, then at her front door. And sighed.

“One more night, because the Keep always has hot water for baths” she muttered as she started back across the courtyard, “but then I’m moving back into that blighted house. And you’re coming with me.”

“I…wait, what?” Carver hadn’t taken a step. She stopped and looked back at him.

“I should probably be nervous and awkward about this conversation, but I’m too bloody worn-out right now. I’ve wanted to say yes since you first offered. Move in with me. And not to play mabari and guard the door, but because I love you, and I want you to be with me with me.”

And without waiting for a response, she trudged off towards the Keep. It was only after she’d slid into a tub of steaming water that she realized she’d just given the least romantic proposal ever. And walking away the way she had probably didn’t add to her charm. She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t the only one who blundered about with stuff like this. 

“We are a mess, you and I,” she said to herself, echoing the words he’d said to her a few months earlier.

After she’d towel-dried and combed out her hair and dressed in the soft trousers and loose-fitting tunic she slept in, she headed back to her temporary room. And found Carver pacing outside the door.

 “I’m sorry I walked away like that,” she said once she’d caught his attention. “Want to come in?”

He nodded, and she let him in the room, closing the door softly behind her. When she looked up at him, only standing a foot or so away from her, she thought she saw something new in the way he was looking at her, something she didn’t think she’d seen before.

“You said something, back there. When you said you wanted me to move in. You said…”

As his voice trailed off, she noticed his eyes had dropped, too. She glanced down at herself, wondering what he was looking at. And that’s when she realized that the shirt she was wearing wasn’t laced up all the way, the collar just loose enough that the starburst scar at her collarbone was visible. She normally made a point to keep it covered. But when she reached to pull to collar closed, Carver grasped her wrist and stopped her.

“That’s from the arrow,” he murmured.

She just nodded and watched as he dropped her wrist and ghosted his fingers over the scar. She couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath at the contact. When his fingers lingered there, she responded in the only way that made sense to her fatigued mind. She slowly reached out and placed her palm against his side, where she knew his scar was.

The next thing she knew he’d slid his hand from her scar to the back of her neck, and his mouth was on hers, and she couldn’t catch her breath. And then his hands were tangled in her still damp hair and his lips were on her jaw and on her neck and…oh, sweet Andraste that’s what Isabela meant when she talked about her toes curling.

It was when Meghan whispered his name that he pulled away, and she met his eyes. Like a Wintermarch morning, she smiled.

“When we were outside, you said you…you said I didn’t need to be a mabari and you…you said…”

 “I said I love you, and I want—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Carver crowed, in the same way he often does at the end of a good fight. He swept her up in a hug, lifting her off her feet and, as he spun her around once, he said, “I love you, Meg. I always have.”

Chapter Text

Meghan almost always woke before Carver, so when he felt her sliding herself out from under his arm, he didn’t do anything other than grumble a little and roll over. But when he heard a shout and a something that sounded like glass breaking, he tore the blankets back and tumbled from the bed.

Carver quickly scanned the front room to find the source of the noise. His stomach dropped when he saw the front door wide open, a dwarf standing in the doorway twirling two daggers and staring right at him. Then he saw that Meghan was on the ground on the far side of the room. She was surrounded by a mess of broken glass and there was a second dwarf standing over her with a mace, but he could feel the magic building around her as she prepared for an attack. His own sword was too far away to be of use, on the weapon rack behind Meghan. But Davis’s old sword was hanging on the wall next to him.

He grabbed the Templar sword from the wall and tested its weight once just as the dwarf in the doorway started to charge at him. He hurled the longsword like a dagger at the dwarf. Just as the sword sunk into the dwarf’s torso, Carver felt the snap of one of Meghan’s force spells and the dwarf with the mace flew across the room in front of him. He leapt over to the dwarf, who was scrambling to get up, kicked his mace to the side, grabbed his breastplate with both hands, and lifted him to eye level.

“Who are you? What do you want?” He shouted.

All the dwarf said was the same thing the other one had shouted. “It’s the Hawke!”

With a growl, Carver reared back and smashed his head into the dwarf’s face then dropped him back on the floor. He skidded over to where Meghan was still on the floor. She was sitting up, but the left side of her shirt was bloody and she was holding her arm out at an awkward angle.

 “I’m okay,” she mumbled before he could ask. “I’m just...the glass…I can heal it, I just need to get the glass out first.”

He realized then all of the blood was coming from where several pieces of glass were embedded in her arm. He shot a quick glance back over at the two dwarves in the middle of the room, just to make sure neither was getting back up, before moving to her side to get a better angle.

“Right. One at a time, then.”

She hissed as he slid the first piece of glass out of her upper arm. He waited for her to heal the wound before moving on to the next piece.

“What happened?” He asked after the biggest pieces were out.

“Blighted crate of empty flasks. I fell into it.” She shook her head. “Who were they?”

“Don’t know.” Carver replied. “But it sounded like they were after me.”

He waited for her heal the last wound then helped her stand up. Meghan reached up to the lump forming on Carver’s head.

“Did you really just headbutt a dwarf?”

“I might have.” He closed his eyes as he felt a few small wisps of Meghan’s healing magic soak into his forehead, easing the throbbing there.

“Varric’s going to love that.” She let out a small laugh then turned her attention to the bodies. She rummaged around in their pockets while Carver pulled Davis’s sword out of the dwarf’s chest and wiped the blood off.

“Nothing here,” she sighed. “Guess we should tell Alistair. He’ll want to know someone else got past the Keep’s guards.”

Alistair came back to the house with Carver and Meghan to assess the situation.

“And you say they were after you?” Alistair asked, grimacing at the two bodies on the floor.

“Well, they were shouting my name,” Carver shrugged. Everything had happened so fast, but he was certain he’d heard both dwarves shout Hawke. He nudged one of the bodies with his boot. “You know, I think they might be Carta.”

 “Carta?”

Carver looked over to Meghan, who had stopped sweeping up the broken glass and was staring wide-eyed at him.

“They could be. Why?” He asked slowly.

“The last letter I got from Sebastian mentioned Carta. There were a couple of attacks.” She rushed into the bedroom and came back out with a letter. “Here. Carta attacked them twice. ’…they actually broke into Hawke’s estate. He is quite fortunate that Isabela was there that night…’ Sebastian says Hawke doesn’t think it’s anything, but if they’re after both of you…” She left that thought hanging as she handed the letter to Carver.

Carver took the letter and read it over. He wondered what in the Void his brother had done to piss off the Carta. And why they’d come after him, too. Carver shook his head. “I’ll need to get a message to my brother. See if they know anything else.”

A week later, Carver was sitting in Alistair’s office with a note from his brother. There had been another attack at the estate. And with Carver’s news, Varric had started sniffing around with his Carta contacts and discovered that they knew nothing about the attacks.

“So what you’re saying,” Alistair leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. “Is that this is a mystery that needs to be investigated.”

“I suppose so,” Carver said.

“It sounds like both family business and Warden business.”

“Meg’s going to hate this,” Carver sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Alistair arched an eyebrow at Carver. “You don’t want to take her with you? You two fight so well together.”

“You know as much as I do about the Warden’s history in the Vimmark Mountains. And everything my brother says makes it sound like we were supposed to be taken alive, not killed. So we’re likely walking into a trap. With darkspawn. If Solona weren’t a Warden, would you take her?”

Alistair frowned. “Ah, well, when you put it that way, I’m not sure I’d let you take Meghan.”

Carver let out a bark of laughter. “She’s done it to you, too, hasn’t she?”

“Done what?”

“Let me guess,” Carver said as he leaned forward in his seat and rested elbows on Alistair’s desk, “she’s like the little sister you never had? Feel like it’s your job to protect her? To make sure she knows everything she needs to know?”

When Alistair’s frown deepened, Carver laughed again and leaned back.

“I don’t know how she does it.” He shook his head. “We all know what she’s capable of, but she’s got a whole collection of older brothers who want to protect her. My brother, Anders, Gordie, now you. Did you know the bloody Prince of Starkhaven threatened me when we left Kirkwall?”

Alistair’s frown slowly morphed into a wide grin. “Huh. I always did want a little sister.”

Chapter Text

Carver had only been gone a week and Meghan felt herself going crazy. He had convinced her to move back into temporary quarters in the Keep. She argued, but it was half-hearted. The early morning attack in her own home had left her more unsettled than she wanted to admit. But even within the heart of the Keep, surrounded by Wardens, by soldiers, by friends, she had begun to feel uneasy. The last two days had been worse as she actually started to feel like she was being watched.

Nathaniel had escorted her to the Margrave’s palace to check up on baby they had named Gwaine. It was on the walk back that she mentioned her unease to Nathaniel. He was level-headed and calm in most situations, and she hoped he would be able to simply reassure her. Instead, he looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly, then said quietly, “We should talk to Alistair.”

By the time they reached Alistair’s office, she was even more anxious. She fidgeted with the amulet at her neck, the one Carver had given her just before leaving to meet up with his brother. He had threaded it on a braid of leather cords, dyed red. Amell red, he’d told her with a smile the size of Sundermount.

Alistair kept his face blank as he listened to her explain her concerns. If it weren’t for his eyes constantly flicking between her and Nathaniel, she would assume he was unconcerned. But something was off.

When she finished talking, he frowned.

“So you think someone’s been watching you? For how long?”

“Since two days before yesterday.”

“Maker, I’ll have to tell him he’s getting rusty.” Alistair laughed heartily, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Meghan. I have a confession. I had a friend keeping an eye on you. He—”

“is not getting rusty.” Meghan jumped at the accented voice that appeared behind her. “He just gets easily distracted by beautiful women.”

“Meghan, this is my good friend Zevran Arainai. Zevran…knock it off.”

Meghan stared at Zevran, who bowed with a flourish, nodded to Nathaniel, and sat in the last empty chair in the room. Zevran Arainai. The elf who had travelled with Alistair and Solona during the Blight. The Crow. After a moment, she gathered her thoughts and turned back to Alistair. “Why did you have him following me?”

“Zevran was bringing me news about the attack on Solona when she was here a few months back.” Alistair responded with a small shrug.

Zevran interrupted, leaning towards Meghan. “I understand that you are quite impressive with just a knife. I should very much like to—”

“I said, knock it off, Zevran.” Alistair repeated with a roll of his eyes. Zevran held his hands out in surrender and leaned back in his chair.

“After what happened with Carver, I just thought it might be wise to have an extra pair of eyes on you.”

Meghan noticed that Alistair wasn’t quite meeting her eye and that Nathaniel, while his face was stolid, was tapping his thumb ever so lightly against his thigh. Zevran seemed to be the only one at ease with the situation. But Meghan had heard enough stories to not trust his casual demeanor. Meghan looked at each of them warily. Something was going on.

“What are you not telling me, Alistair?” She narrowed his eyes at him.

“Wh-what do you mean?” His stammer completely ruined his effort to appear innocent.

“Did Carver put you up to this? No…no, he wouldn’t have. Something else has happened. Hasn’t it?” She turned her gaze to Zevran then. “Is she okay?”

The elf’s smile was earnest. “It seems you are as clever as you are stunning. Yes, our Solona is fine. I was able to stop the assassin before he got to her.”

“Another one so soon after the last?” Meghan asked.

Zevran answered for Alistair, who was beginning to look a little pale. “They have collected many enemies over the years. And it seems the stories of your involvement with the last failed attempt has attracted a bit of attention.”

“Attention?” Meghan felt a little light-headed as she looked from Zevran to Alistair to Nathaniel.

It was Nathaniel who broke the silence. “You and Carver both have been included in some of the more recent rumors we’ve heard.”

“Me and Carver both?” She directed her quiet question at Alistair who just nodded.

Again, it was Nathaniel who listed off her growing reputation as a healer, her new status as an ally of Solona Amell, and Carver’s family connection to Solona which was, of course, only compounded by Hawke’s reputation.

Zevran added, “The Amell family, which seems to include you and Alistair, is getting too powerful for some.”

Meghan leaned forward in her chair, focusing her attention on her hands as she thought through what she was being told.

She was surprised to hear she had a “reputation” as a healer. There was the situation with the Margraves of course, but she didn’t think anyone outside of the palace really knew she had been involved. Then again, servants talk. There was also that influenza outbreak in the alienage that she’d helped with during Satinalia. And she could imagine the stories told at the tavern about various patrols and missions she’d assisted the Wardens with. Ianto was as likely as anyone to repeat those stories while bragging about being the Wardens’ favorite bartender.

The association with the Amell family was even more of a surprise. Being associated with Carver made sense. Most everyone in the Keep, Warden and civilian alike, knew they were living together. And they did travel together to and from Ansburg most of the time, including to the Margraves’ palace and the alienage. And she knew Carver had a bit of reputation himself from all of his time tearing through the persistent darkspawn attacks in Ostwick and raiding slaver ships along the Minanter. Stories were told at the tavern about him as well. But most knew him as a Hawke or just Warden Carver. She wasn’t sure who knew he was a cousin of the Hero of Ferelden.

But as she thought about it, she realized that all it took was one person knowing and repeating it once for the story to spread. And then she remembered the night Varric asked her for the story of the Healer of House Amell, the title she’d unintentionally given herself. And Varric was never one to keep a story to himself.

She didn’t want it to, but it was starting to make sense. Add all of that to the stories of Champion of Kirkwall, who was definitely known to be an Amell, and the Hero of Ferelden, and the Amells did indeed sound like a very powerful family. It made sense that threats against Solona would turn into threats against them all.

She took a deep breath and looked back up at Alistair.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just us. And Solona,” he said.

Meghan turned to Nathaniel and asked, “And this is why you came with me today? Instead of Cooper or Kethan?”

He nodded.

Then she looked at Zevran. “So now what?”

“Now, my dear” he said with a grin, “we keep you safe.”

Chapter Text

Zevran had stayed in Ansburg just long enough for Solona to arrive for her yearly visit and then waited with her for Carver to return from his trip. It was long enough for Zevran to teach Meghan a few new tricks with her knife and to convince Alistair to explain just how complicated and how serious these assassination rumors were. And so when Carver returned from the Vimmark Mountains, he found himself huddled around the small table in the house with Meghan, Alistair, Solona, Zevran, and Nathaniel.

And the stories were told. Carver knew some of them—or at least enough of Warden history and lore to not be too surprised as Alistair, Solona, and Zevran recounted their time fighting the Blight. Until they reached the part where they explained how they both survived fighting the Archdemon. Carver had wondered about this for years, having heard that the Warden who delivers the final blow is supposed to die, but he’d never bothered to ask Alistair about it. Now, he was too shocked to respond. Meghan, on the other hand, was piecing together the stories.

“That woman I met outside Ostwick. That was her? Morrigan?” She turned to Alistair. “That was your son?” Then to Nathaniel. “And that message she gave me was about herself? ‘What you seek is no longer where you are seeking’…because she was leaving Ostwick?” Then to Solona. “And she is somehow connected to Flemeth?”

He watched as all three Wardens nodded solemnly at her rapid-fire questions, and Nathaniel added, “It seems you were wrapped up in this even before anyone started making connections about the Amell family.”

The stories then turned to Amaranthine. To talking darkspawn and broodmothers. Carver watched the sorrow creep into Meghan’s eyes as she heard Solona talk about Anders and Justice as separate and Nathaniel talk about the assault on Amaranthine, the one that ultimately killed the last of her family. But as they explained their deal with the Architect, Meghan’s expression changed, the sadness replaced by something more pensive. And Carver couldn’t help but watch Meghan in awe as she again started making connections, connections he didn’t see until she said them out loud.

“So these assassination attempts aren’t random. They aren’t about mages or the Theirin bloodline or some leftover Loghain sympathizers. You think it’s the Wardens.”

“Yes,” Solona said quietly, “we do.”

“And Alistair was ordered here to keep you both apart?” Meghan asked.

“We think so,” Solona answered.

Carver let that piece of information soak in. It made sense—trying to keep Solona and Alistair off balance, to keep their power in check by keeping them apart in a way that most wouldn’t question, in a way that appeared official and legitimate. But they were both still successful and still beloved by their Wardens, by the citizens of Ferelden, and now, with the help of Meghan and Hawke brothers, much of the Free Marches as well.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it? Here, I mean.” Carver’s question was directed at Zevran. When the elf nodded, Carver asked “So why don’t we go back to Ferelden?”

At this Zevran grinned. “That is what I have been telling Alistair all month.”

“It’s not that simple,” Alistair insisted, explaining that he would need some way to make his return appear as official as the original posting had been, some way to where the First Warden in Weisshaupt would have no way to stop him from returning.

Carver sat back as the others started tossing around ideas, missions or plans that might require Alistair’s presence in Ferelden. He quickly lost track of their elaborate schemes as he watched Meghan. He kept coming back to the idea that it was her connection to him that had dragged her into this mess. It was his fault. It wasn’t just about Alistair and Solona. Whatever plan they came up with had to ensure her safety as well.

He finally shifted his gaze to Alistair and, interrupting whatever debate they were currently having, asked, “Your original order was to build a troop of Wardens in the Free Marches, right?”

He could feel everyone looking at him, but he kept his eyes on Alistair. And when Alistair said yes, Carver continued with his thought.

“So, you’ve done that. You just need a new Commander here. Stroud or someone, some Marcher who’s been a Warden for a couple of years. Then you take the Fereldan Wardens back to Ferelden. There’s only us and Bear and Eira, right?”

Alistair opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but then he shut it and looked at Solona.

“You could send us to back Ostwick in the meantime,” Meghan added. “The outpost there is smaller, so it’s more secure.”

Nathaniel was nodding now as well. “It’s also on the coast, which makes it easier to get to Ferelden if we need a swift escape.”

“And,” Zevran chuckled, “easier to hide bodies.”

Carver was watching Solona and Alistair stare at each other, clearly thinking through every argument they could, when another thought occurred to him.

“You know,” he said, “we should also do that expedition to the Deep Roads. I mean, we’ve been dragging our feet on it, but it was technically an order from the First Warden, right? So we do that, map out that thaig my brother found. That’d make a pretty solid peace offering to Weisshaupt too, wouldn’t it?”

At that Solona smiled widely at Carver. “I am so very glad I finally got to meet you, cousin.”

The rest of the night was spent planning out their moves. It would take time, to do things right, to tie up every loose end in Ansburg, to make sure the argument for Fereldan Wardens returning to Ferelden was solid.

After everyone left, Carver and Meghan silently went about cleaning up the mugs of tea and cups of wine, putting out the fire and double-checking the bolt on the door. The whole time, Carver tried to ignore the little knot of guilt that had formed in his stomach. Neither of them spoke until they were both in bed, Carver on his back, hands folded loosely across his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. It was Meghan who finally broke the silence.

“You can’t have children,” she whispered.

Carver sighed. He knew that particular Warden secret was one she hadn’t heard until the story of Morrigan’s ritual came up. He hadn’t kept it from her intentionally, but they’d never talked about kids. Or marriage. Or anything like that. So he’d never told her. And now it added another twist in his gut.

“It’s…not that I can’t. It’s just…rare for Wardens.”

He felt her shift closer to him.

“I’m sorry.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re sorry?” He sat up abruptly, swung his feet to the floor, and dropped his head in his hands. “I should be the one who’s sorry. You deserve better. You should have a normal life...You deserve children and a proper home and…not having to run away every year and worry about…I can’t give you that. I’ll never be able to.”

From behind him, he heard her sigh and shift in the bed again. For a moment, he wondered if she was getting up to leave. But she just wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, one knee pressed into his back the other leg dangling off the edge of the bed next to his.

She rested her cheek on his arm and said, “You’re an idiot, Carver Hawke.”

Chapter Text

The end of the year had been quiet. After Solona and Zevran left, Carver and Meghan kept themselves busy with normal Warden business, sticking to the Keep’s grounds as much as possible. On Zevran’s suggestion, Alistair put them together on patrol, so they could practice fighting side-by-side. When she wasn’t on patrol, training, or working in the infirmary, Meghan spent her time reading the handful of books Solona had brought her.

One, a tome on primal magic, had helped her understand the lightning storm she had accidentally cast once and hadn’t been able to recreate since. But with the book and a little practice, she was able to recreate it as well as pick up a few new spells. Solona had been right when she gave her the book. The lightning that had manifested naturally for her as a child is in the primal school, so the other primal spells came easily. By the same logic, Solona had also given her two tomes on healing magic.

The last book Solona gave her was a different type altogether. A history of sorts. This was the one she was reading when Carver woke up.

“What’s that?” He asked as poured himself a mug of hot water and rummaged around for his favorite tea.

“One of the books from Solona. It’s about Arcane Warriors. Have you ever heard of them?”

“No. Who are they?” He settled into the chair across from her.

“Elves. Who fought with both magic and swords.” She passed him the book, open to a page with a small sketch.

“Like what you’ve been doing?” He scanned the page in front of him.

“Not exactly. They channeled their magic through their weapons. So they were special weapons, I guess. Probably made with lyrium somehow. Solona said she had a sword once, but she doesn’t know what happened to it. She said Bodhan might know.”

“Huh. We could ask my brother to find out. He owes me a favor or two anyway.” He pushed the book back towards her and gave her a lopsided grin.

She studied him for a moment. The way he was lounging in the chair, shirtless, hair sloppily scraped away from his face and tied back with a cord, and that grin. Like he hadn’t a care in all of Thedas. Sometimes it was hard to believe this was the same surly boy she met back in Kirkwall, always grousing about something, always worried about being in his brother’s shadow. She wondered if he saw his own shadow these days. She shook her head.

“Get dressed. Alistair is expecting us.” 

The trip to Ansburg was a short one, just a quick visit to the Margraves’ palace to check in on little Lord Gwaine and his parents before leaving for Ostwick. Meghan was surprised at the small wave of sadness she felt when she realized she would likely never see Gwaine again.  She made her farewells to Lady Enid and Lord Vaughn then snuggled the little boy one more time, ignoring the strange look Alistair was giving her.

Like on all of their visits to the palace, a pair of Templars followed them to the city gates. Meghan ignored them. Carver ignored them. Alistair, however, was surprised and a little tense.

“It happens all the time,” Meghan told Alistair once they’d left the city behind.

“I had no idea. I could have sent an official warning or something. Maybe found some threatening lines from the Chant of Light.”

Meghan snorted. “I forget sometimes that you were a Templar.”

“Templar-recruit,” he corrected her. “Never took the vows.”

“That’s right,” She said with a laugh. “Saved by the Grey Wardens from a life of standing stock still outside some country Chantry.”

“You know I thought about joining the Templars once,” Carver mused. “If my brother didn’t take me on the expedition with him, I might’ve.”

“So you could say the Wardens saved you from the Chantry, too.” Meghan said, looking between Carver and Alistair. “It’s like you’re twins.”

“Yes,” Alistair drawled. “Both almost Templars, both with nearly perfect hair, and both stuck with impossible women. If it weren’t for the size of Carver’s arms, I’d suspect people couldn’t tell us apart.”

“Stuck?” Meghan stepped in front of Alistair and reached up with the intention of ruffling his “nearly perfect” hair, a snide comment about his wife on the tip of her tongue, when a searing pain blossomed in her raised arm. For a split second, Meghan and Alistair’s eyes met, both of them registering that the arrow would have hit him square in the chest if she hadn’t moved right then.

Just as quickly as it came, the moment passed, and, with a shout, Meghan shot a bolt of lightning in the direction the arrow had come from and drew her sword. Alistair and Carver both drew their swords as a handful of assassins materialized from the trees and surrounded them.

One of the assassins snickered, twirling his ax in his hand. “Three of the Amell clan, all together. Easiest money I’ve made all year.”

One of his companions chimed in, “I thought one was a mage.”

“One is.” The archer limped up to the group. Meghan bit back her smile when she realized her blind shot had actually hit its target.

“Not a good idea to piss of a Warden, let alone three,” Carver growled. Meghan felt the shift in Carver’s posture as he said it and pulled at her magic. They both made their moves at the same time, Carver an overhead swing at the assassin closest to him, Meghan a shove of energy to knock down the two in her line of sight. Alistair lashed out with his shield just a moment behind them. The assassins didn’t fall quickly, but they did fall, the last one run through by Carver’s greatsword.

Carver frowned at Meghan’s arm. “You want that out?”

Meghan looked down at the arrow protruding from her bicep with a grimace. “Andraste’s lacy knickers,” she sighed and held her arm out to Carver. “I think I made it three years.”

“Almost,” he muttered. Meghan watched his face as he pulled the arrow from her arm and knew that he probably had been keeping track, probably knew exactly how many weeks it had been since she had last been shot by an arrow. She sent her own healing magic into her arm, grateful that she had enough energy to heal it fully and avoid another scar.

“Well,” Alistair said, wiping blood from his sword before returning it to its sheath. “I believe you can add my name to list of lives you’ve saved. You are keeping track, aren’t you?”

“I lost count after the eighth time I saved Carver,” she smirked.

Carver shook his head. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She grinned up at him then nodded down the road. “We better get going. We’ve still got a lot to do if we want to be ready to leave for Ostwick in the morning.”

As they made their way back to the Keep, Meghan tried not to focus on the fact that one of the things she needed to do to be ready to go was to say goodbye for Gordie and the other friends she’d made in Ansburg. No matter how many times she’d done it, saying goodbye never got any easier.

Chapter Text

It had taken months of research and letter writing, of collecting materials and taking secret trips to Sundermount. But looking at the sword now, it seemed worth the effort. Master Ilen had called it Dar’Mi Elgar. Merrill translated it to “blade of the sprit” or “spirit blade” or something like that.

In some ways, the new sword was similar to the sword Gordie had made for Meghan years before, the longer hilt that she could hold with both hands with the slightly shorter blade that matched her size and strength. The one Garrett said looked like a miniature version of Carver’s sword. But this new sword was different. Where her old sword had a slim, straight blade, this one had a slight curve to it, a slight leaf shape. And where her old sword had been simple and unadorned, this one had black walnut inlayed in the pommel and crossguard and a pattern of loops and lines along the central ridge, lyrium that glittered at the right angle of light. Or, as Master Ilen explained, in the hands of a mage.

The Dalish craftsman had been reluctant at first, unwilling to use ancient elven techniques to forge a blade for a shem. But between Garrett’s persuasion, Merrill’s charm, and Carver’s willingness to part with coin, supplies, and every book and scroll he’d found about Arcane Warriors, Master Ilen finally agreed. And now Carver just needed to find the right time to give it to her and to make sure she understood how much it meant for him to give her something like this before leaving.

He and Nathaniel were heading for the Deep Roads in a week, just before First Day. A repeat of the expedition he and his brother had taken nearly six years before. Almost everything about the first expedition had been a disaster. He’d made a mess of things with Meghan before leaving, and then he nearly died. Meghan hadn’t said anything to him, but he knew she was anxious about the trip. He’d figured that out when she suggested she stay in Kirkwall with Garrett while he was gone. She’d made her case by saying that Garrett and his companions would be a better distraction than wandering the halls of Ostwick’s outpost. But Carver heard the arguments she wasn’t making. That she’d be as close to the Deep Roads entrance as she could get, that Garrett wouldn’t hesitate to go down there after him if he took too long, that she’d want to be with Garrett anyway if the worst happened.

Finding the right time turned into talking himself into waiting one more day which turned into waiting for one more. And then he’d run out of days. The afternoon before they started their trip to Kirkwall, he dragged her with him to the armory.

“What are we doing here, Carver? I need to finish that last batch of injury kits for you and Nathaniel.” He could hear the exasperation in her voice. He probably shouldn’t have interrupted her potion crafting.

“I have something for you. Just…hang on.” He reached behind a stack of old, dented shields for the bundle of canvas. He suddenly wished he’d practiced what to say.

“I know we don’t…well, we don’t really do gifts. Not even for Satinalia. But I wanted to…last time I left you to go to the Deep Roads, I was an ass. I know we’re past that now, but I still…well I got you something. I just wanted to…it’s just…shit. Here.” He held the bundle out to her and waited for her to pull back the canvas.

“Oh. Oh, wow. This is...you got me a sword?” He couldn’t quite tell what her expression was.

“I…well, yeah. I did. I know it’s not romantic or anything…” He trailed off, hoping she’d say something or at least pick up the sword, so he didn’t have to keeping trying to talk.

“It’s beautiful. It’s…is that lyrium?” Her hands hovered above the blade, like she was testing the air around it. “It’s like it’s humming.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Remember that sword Solona told you about? I wrote my brother, and he asked Bodhan. It was called Spellweaver. But Bodhan sold it back in Ferelden.” Finally remembering that the explanation of where the sword came from was important, he quickly told her the story.

Her hands hadn’t moved from their spot over the blade, and her eyes were fixed on Carver’s while he spoke. When he finished, she looked back down at the sword, finally reaching for the hilt. But paused just before she grabbed it.

“Can I?” Her voice was almost a whisper. Carver wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or the sword. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, of course. It’s yours.”

And when she lifted it up, the lines of lyrium did glow, just like Master Ilen said. He watched her hold it out, inspect both sides of the blade, test its balance, take a few experimental swings, toss a bolt of lightning at the practice dummies across the way, and then look back up at him.

Before she had a chance to say anything, he grinned at her and jerked his chin in the direction of the training rings and practice dummies. “Go, try it out.”

Nearly an hour later, they were sitting on the front steps of the Keep, the sword lying across Meghan’s lap.

“Copper for your thoughts.” Carver hadn’t even realized he’d been silent until she said it.

“I’m glad you like the sword.” It wasn’t a lie, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about. And of course she knew.

“Very much. And?” She stretched the syllable out and nudged him with her shoulder.

With a sigh, he admitted that he’d been thinking about the expedition.

“You’re worried.” Like always, she knew.

“Only because it feels so much like the first one. Only this time I’m not following my brother around. This time, it’s on me.” He shrugged then added, “At least I’m not spending the night getting drunk and hiding from you.”

Meghan let out a small laugh, leaning into him again. “Yes, the sword is better than showing up at Gamlen’s and finding you not there. Compared to that, the sword is almost, I don’t know…‘romantic.’” And of course she wasn’t going to let that comment go.

After a moment, she added, “You know part of me is worried, too. But the rest of me, most of me, thinks you’ll be just fine. I mean, this is what you do, right? It’s what Grey Wardens do. And you’re good at it.”

“But that first time, it was my brother—” Meghan interrupted him with a beleaguered sigh and began a lecture she’d clearly had in her head for some time.

“And since then, you’ve been back to the Deep Roads dozens of times, torn through hundreds of darkspawn, spent years training recruits. You know, Cooper told me once that all of the younger Wardens wanted to work with you. Not Bear, not Nathaniel. They don’t know your brother. They just admire you. As a warrior, as a Warden. And I know how much Nathaniel respects you. How much he trusts you. You don’t even realize what you’ve become. Who you are.”

“But last time, I didn’t come back.” He hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, but there it was. What he was actually worrying about. And why giving her that bloody sword meant so much to him.

But Meghan just let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and said, “Well, if you don’t come back, I’ll come down there with Dar’Mi Elgar and kill you myself.”

Chapter Text

She’d been in Kirkwall nearly two months, waiting for Carver and Nathaniel to return from the Deep Roads. They’d guessed they’d only be gone for six weeks. After the seventh, Meghan had started to worry. Hawke convinced her to wait a little longer, reminding her that he’d been gone two months on essentially the same trip. He’d convinced her to give it another week, and then they’d run into Nathaniel’s sister in Hightown. She was worried, too. And Hawke said he’d go find them. Finally.

“You’re not coming,” Hawke said, like it was the most obvious thing in Thedas.

“Ha. Very funny, Hawke.”

“You’re not coming,” he repeated firmly, stopping and looking down at her.

“You can’t be—” she’d started to roll her eyes, but she saw the look on his face and knew in an instant that, yes, he was in fact serious. She clenched her fists as her side. “You think I’m going to sit around your blasted estate and, what, twiddle my thumbs?”

“I don’t care where you sit, but I won’t take you down there.”

“You’ll drag me along to fight a bloody high dragon, but you won’t let me go into the Deep Roads with you?” Meghan met Hawke’s glare with one of her own, unaware of the approaching Templar.

“How was I supposed to know it was going to be a high dragon?”

“That’s not the point, Hawke!” She shot back at him.

Varric interrupted then. “Maybe not the best place to get into it, boys and girls.”

“Is everything alright, Champion?”

Meghan and Hawke both turned in surprise at the new voice, but Hawke recovered quickly.

“Ah, Knight-Captain Cullen. Yes, everything is fine.” He nodded politely. Meghan felt the Templar’s gaze as he looked her over. She swallowed back the rush of anxiety at his scrutiny, thankful she’d chosen to wear her Warden regalia.

“I didn’t realize you had dealings with Grey Wardens,” the Knight-Captain finally said.

“Not necessarily by choice,” Hawke forced a smile at the Templar. “My apologies, Knight-Captain. This is Meghan, my younger brother’s…betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Meghan jerked her attention from the Templar to Hawke, whatever anger had been building up was completely forgotten.

The smile he gave her then was no longer forced but mischievous. “Well, what does he call you?”

Meghan rolled her eyes, “He calls me Meg most of the time.” Then, turning to the Knight-Captain, she bowed her head slightly. “Meghan Campbell, serah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He smiled politely and returned the greeting. “Do the Grey Wardens have business in Kirkwall?”

Meghan wondered if she imagined the slight suspicion in his voice. Or the way he eyed the sword at her back instead of looking her in the eye.

“I’m just here visiting family,” she shot a glance at Hawke, “as it were.”

Seemingly satisfied, the Knight-Captain made his farewell and turned back towards his original destination.

“’Betrothed?’ Really, Hawke?” Meghan shook her head.

“What?” He shrugged, “If Carver had any balls, it would be true.” Varric chuckled behind him.

Meghan ignored them both and returned to the more important issue.

“I’m coming with you,” she said levelly.

“You can’t,” Hawke sighed. “I made Carver a promise. I made myself a promise.”

Meghan opened her mouth to argue, but she recognized the look on Hawke’s face. The same one Carver got when his mind was set. She sighed, knowing it was a losing battle. “You’re both stubborn gits,” she muttered.

So Meghan stayed behind with Sebastian camped out in the guest rooms of Hawke’s estate while Hawke led a rescue mission to find Carver and Nathaniel.

“They should be back by now.”

“It’s barely been a week, Meghan. Hawke said ten days.”

Meghan stopped pacing and looked over at Sebastian, who was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, fletching materials spread around him.

“Please,” he smiled up at her. “Sit with me.”

She groaned and flopped down on the floor next to him, picking at a pile of feathers.

“I still can’t believe I let him go without me.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow at her. “Hawke or Carver?”

“Both,” she sighed.

Sebastian chuckled and returned to his fletching.

After a few minutes of quietly working, he asked, “Have you seen Anders much since you’ve been here?”

“No,” Meghan frowned. “He’s been…busy.”

“I see.” He reached over and pulled the feather Meghan had been playing with from her hand.

She nodded and absently picked up another. “I know you haven’t decided anything, but I put in a good word with the Margrave of Ansburg for you. Just in case.”

Sebastian took her new feather away from her. “Did you?”

“It was Carver’s idea, actually.” When she reached for another feather, he swatted her hand away.

“If you keep playing with all my feathers, my arrows won’t fly true,” he chided her.

With a grin, she reached for another feather. “That almost sounds dirty, Brother Seb—”

She was interrupted by the door to the estate opening. She froze, eyes locked on Sebastian’s.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

“Hawke,” Meghan whispered and turned towards the door.

He was there, covered in blood and grime, holding Isabela up, who was equally covered in muck and clearly exhausted. She caught a glimpse of Fenris and Varric both behind them. Despite her brain frantically searching for sign of Carver, she stood slowly, willing herself to remain calm.

“Is anyone hurt?”

Isabela shook her head. “No, kitten. We’re just fine.”

Meghan scanned the entryway again. It was just the four of them. She felt the color drain from her face.

“Not again.” Her vision blurred, and she turned back to Sebastian, missing the smile on Hawke’s face.

“There better be something to eat in your—why’s everyone standing in the bloody doorway?”

Meghan spun back to the door right as Carver shoved his brother aside and trudged into the room. He stopped when he saw her. And grinned like an idiot.

“Hi.”

She took a step towards him then paused and whispered, “Are you hurt?”

When he shook his head, she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He laughed and caught her easily, lifting her off the ground. When he set her back down, her hands fell to his chest and she grinned up at him.

“I almost forgot how small you are,” he laughed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“You smell like you’ve been rolling around in ogre shit,” she said, leaning back and wrinkling her nose at him.

Hawke let out a bark of laughter. “Maker, I’ve missed you two.”

Baths were had, food was gathered, messages were sent, and soon everyone was gathered around the large dining table in Hawke’s estate. Except for Nathaniel, who was at his sister’s house. And Anders, who was busy. Again.

“You’ve done something to my little brother, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Meghan blinked at Hawke.

“He’s different. He smiles.” Hawke said, like that explained it all.

“It’s true,” Varric chimed in. “He doesn’t hate everything anymore.”

“He doesn’t hate me,” Hawke added.

“He never hated you,” Meghan said, rolling her eyes.

“No, just my shadow,” Hawke chuckled. Then added, “Why doesn’t he hate your shadow? Seems like you’re the one saving everyone’s lives these days.”

“I’m telling you,” Isabela said, “it’s the sex. It’s got to be.”

Meghan felt herself blush but wasn’t about to let Isabela’s comment pass. She sighed dramatically and said, “Oh, Isabela, you have no idea. The electricity trick? Child’s play. You want to talk about exploring Deep Roads?”

In a fit of laughter and coughing, Isabela nearly fell out of her chair, and Hawke barely choked out “I don’t need to hear this.”

And Varric chortled, “And Little Hawke takes down the Rivaini.”

“What’s funny over there?” Carver asked from the other end of the table where he’d been talking with Fenris and Sebastian.

“It was something dirty, wasn’t it?” Merrill trilled.

“No, no. It was nothing at all,” Meghan said, even though she knew her grin told a different story. Carver narrowed his eyes at her.

But before Carver could ask again, Varric leaned forward and said, “Actually Junior, we were just wondering why you always bitched about being overshadowed by Hawke, but you don’t seem to care that our Little Hawke here’s got a reputation.”

Carver looked from Varric to his brother and then to Meghan, who just shrugged apologetically. He propped his feet up on the table, balanced his chair on its back legs, and put his hands behind his head. And took a minute to think about his answer.

“It’s not the same,” Carver finally said. “She and I are like…a package deal.”

 “Ah,” Varric nodded solemnly before turning his attention to Sebastian. “So Choir Boy, you can perform weddings, right? Make this package deal official in the eyes of the Maker and all that?”

While Meghan simply froze, eyes wide and cheeks on fire, Carver lost his balance, toppling out of his chair with a loud and resounding, “Shit!”

Chapter Text

The outpost in Ostwick received frequent messages from Alistair as he made progress in handing the command of the Free Marcher Grey Wardens over to Stroud and prepared a return to Ferelden. It had taken longer than anyone anticipated. There had been unexpected obstacles, extra orders from Weisshaupt, demands to be met before Alistair could leave Ansburg. Eventually, the First Warden ran out of ideas, and Alistair was finally on his way to Ostwick.

There hadn’t been any other assassination attempts, at least not ones they were aware of. Carver assumed that Zevran was working behind the scenes, so to speak. Varric probably was as well. Neither Bear nor Eira were aware of the assassination schemes, but they had both willingly joined the others in Ostwick and planned to return to Ferelden with them. When Nathaniel had presented the idea to them, they just looked at each other and shrugged.

Bear said, “Us Fereldans ought to stick together.” Eira grinned and said, “I’m with him.” So the six of them, Alistair and Nathaniel, Bear and Eira, Meghan and Carver would be catching a ship to Amaranthine as soon as Alistair arrived.

But, until then, it was business as usual in Ostwick, which, for Carver and Meghan, meant early morning patrols along the coast. It was halfway through their patrol, just before the spot where the road twists back north towards the outpost, that Carver heard the clanking of armor. Distinctly plate armor, a sound he’d been trained to recognize since he was a kid. He tried to grab Meghan’s arm to stop her, but it was too late. They found themselves standing in front of four Templars.

“Well, you’re a long way from home.” Carver tried to keep his voice casual, even as his hand twitched instinctually towards his sword. Templars on the coast made no sense at all.

“Just doing our job,” The shorter of the four, the one in front, spoke. His words seemed innocent enough, but his tone was clearly not.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carver raised one eyebrow.

“We know who she is.” The Templar jerked his chin in Meghan’s direction. Carver shot Meghan a glance. She looked calm, face impassive, but her feet were planted. Probably braced for a holy smite. He wouldn’t let them have her. He’d promised her that.

“Then I assume you also know,” Carver replied, “that Templars have no authority over the Grey Wardens.”

“Perhaps,” the Templar said, “or perhaps we just want to make sure you know she’ll only be safe if you come with us.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Confusion broke through Carver’s calm. They wanted him?

“We’re not here for her, but we’ll take her if you make us.”

Carver stared at the Templars, considering the situation and his options. He couldn’t figure out when Templars had become assassins and why their target would suddenly exclude Meghan. But he could really only see one option. He turned to Meghan and said, “Go.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Of course she’d argue with him now.

“Meg. Go.” He couldn’t say it out loud, but hoped she knew he meant to get help, to get Bear, to come back. He tried to ignore the shine in her eyes.

“Carver…”

“Please.”

The Templar finally interrupted. “I’d listen to him, if I were you, Healer.”

When Meghan finally turned and started walking away, Carver clenched his fists at his side, fighting the urge to draw his sword, to chase after her, to do something. And just as she turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, his world went black.

He woke up to a bright, midday sun, an ache in his chest, and sand in his boots. Coughing, trying to catch his breath, he stood and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The assassins had obviously failed to kill him. That was good. But he didn’t see Meghan on the ground next to him. He needed to find her. He didn’t know who was standing in front of him, but he didn’t care. He had to find her.

“Get out of my…what? Where am I?” He looked around suddenly, realizing he wasn’t on the same road near the outpost but somewhere on the coast between Ostwick and Kirkwall. And then realizing it was his brother standing in front of him.

“I thought you were better than this. A couple of lousy Templars and you’re down?” Garrett smiled at him, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Carver registered that his brother looked tired, worn. In a way he hadn’t seen before. Even his attempt at humor seemed weary. Isabela, Anders, and Fenris looked equally frayed.

“I had no reason to think they’d turn on me.” Carver shook his head. “I thought…I was just protecting Meghan.”

“This was…apparently about me. Not the Amells.” Garrett sighed. “Things in Kirkwall are…”

“More Templars,” Isabela muttered from behind Garrett. Carver and Garrett both turned to look, seeing the Templars making their way up down from the cliff above. That was when Carver noticed the dead bodies around him. Mages and Templars. He recognized the short Templar.

“Right,” Carver said. “I need to get back.” He shook his head and looked back to his brother. “It seems I’m in your debt—”

“No,” Garrett interrupted him, clasped a hand on his shoulder. “I owe you for this, brother. Stay away from Kirkwall. Keep Meghan away from Kirkwall.”

Carver nodded once and set off at a jog in the direction opposite the oncoming Templars. Just as he crested the first hill, he heard his name. Anders.

“Wait. Just…hang on.” Anders rested his hands on his knees, and Carver waited for him to catch his breath. “I…sorry. I just wanted to ask a favor.”

“A favor? From me?” Carver didn’t even try to hide his incredulity. He and Anders had never been close. The only things they had in common were his brother constantly dragging them around Kirkwall in the early days and Meghan.

Anders straightened and looked Carver in the eye. “Tell Meghan I’m sorry.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Just. Tell her. She’s been a good friend. Her support these past years has meant a lot. And I haven’t been very…well, things have been…difficult.” Anders shook his head and looked down at the sand, hands hidden somewhere deep in his robes. “Just tell her I’m sorry.” And he turned and walked away.

Carver walked as quickly as his armor and aching body would allow him, knowing Ostwick was at least a day away, maybe more. But it was only a few hours before he came across a couple of guards with horses. That was when Carver found out that Meghan had gone back for help, had organized scouting parties of both Wardens and guards to look. Carver had been missing for three days, Alistair had arrived on the second, and Meghan would probably be standing watch from the top of the outpost’s West wall.

Even on horseback, it was late by the time he reached the outpost. He was greeted by Alistair at the gates, who quickly explained that they’d talked Meghan into taking a sleeping draught. After peeking in at her, just to reassure himself that she was okay, Carver gave a report to Alistair about his kidnapping over a bowl of stew and an elfroot potion. Then he climbed into bed next to Meghan. Even through the sleeping potion, he woke her up. A little bit anyway.

“Carver?” She mumbled.

“I’m here. Everything’s okay.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, curling himself around her, breathing her in.

“Not dreaming?”

“Not dreaming, Meg. I promise.” He felt her exhale, like she had been holding her breath the entire three days.

“Stop leaving me behind.”

He smiled against her hair and closed his eyes. That seemed like a promise worth making. He just hoped he could keep it.

Chapter Text

Vigil’s Keep was full of ghosts. Amaranthine was full of ghosts. Meghan knew she wasn’t the only one who had them. Nathaniel stayed away from the Keep as much as possible, dragging Bear and Eira off on seemingly insignificant missions. And she watched Carver drift off sometimes. His smile would fade. The sound of his whetstone on his blade would slow. Memories she wasn’t privy too pulling him away for a moment. But Solona and Alistair seemed unaffected. Cheerful as ever. Meghan wondered if they were used to it or if their giddiness at finally being back together just overpowered the melancholy weight in the air.

It made Meghan restless. The family she had left behind taunted her. She tried to occupy her mind with reading, Vigil’s Keep’s library full of new books of magic and history and politics and the Black Fox. But she found she couldn’t concentrate, too often hearing her father’s voice reading to her instead of her own. In the courtyard, she saw Thomas leaving for Ostagar, waving like it was just a trip to the market. When she practiced in the training yard, Gregory reminded her that swords aren’t for ladies, especially lyrium-laced ones. Rhys’s laughter followed her through the halls.

She tried to escape by climbing the battlements, walking the parapets, finding an embrasure to sit in and study the land around her. She tried to find her old house, but it was gone. Burned to the ground and replaced by someone else’s stables. So instead she watched the horizon, knowing Kirkwall and her new family was just across the water, just out of range.

“Leave it to you to find the highest point in the Keep.” Carver laughed when he found her there. He brought a couple of apple pasties and a bottle of whiskey.

“I told Gordie I’d save that bottle for the next time you and I were not talking to each other,” she teased when she realized it was the one Gordie had given her when she left Ansburg.

“I think this might count,” he shrugged. And Meghan realized he was right. And that he wasn’t the only one who was aware of everyone’s ghosts. Of course he wasn’t. He always did pay attention.

She slid down and stood next to him, leaning their elbows on the wall, passing the whiskey back and forth. He told her about the year his family had lived in Amaranthine. She told him about her brothers.

“I think Thomas would have liked you,” she said.

“Just Thomas?” he deadpanned.

“And Rhys. I’m not sure about Gregory.” The thought made her smile. “He’d probably hate you for what I’ve turned into. Fighting with a sword, using my magic, getting shot by arrows, gallivanting around Thedas with Grey Wardens.”

“And that’s all my fault, is it?” Carver raised an eyebrow at her.

“Course it is,” she ignored his snort and added, “And Gregory would probably be appalled if he could see me now. I don’t think Thomas or Rhys would.” No, they wouldn’t be appalled. She idly wondered if either of them would actually be proud. Maybe they would. And maybe she was wrong about Gregory.

Carver’s next question interrupted her thoughts. “What about your father?”

“Would he be appalled? Or would he like you?”

“Both?”

“No. And yes. Very much, I think.” She smiled when she said it, knowing with certainty that it was true. She tilted her head to the side, considering for a moment. Then asked, “What about your father?”

“Would my father like me?” He grinned.

“Funny. But no.” She poked him in the side.

“I…yes, he’d like you. He’d adore you. And he’d want to spend all of his time teaching you new spells. If anyone could teach you to shoot fireballs, he could. But I think…” Meghan watched as Carver’s eyes drifted to the sky, looking for the rest of his comment. Just as he turned back to her and opened his mouth to speak, she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

“Did you see that?” She whispered abruptly.

“What? Where?” Carver turned in the direction she was looking.

“There.” She pointed. “South guard tower. Someone’s climbing the wall.”

“Shit.” He turned to the courtyard below them. “Solona.”

It was all he needed to say. They both ran to the stairs and rushed down them, Carver stopped to alert a guard while Meghan sprinted ahead towards the courtyard where Carver had seen Solona harassing Wade and Herren. She didn’t slow when she heard the bells ringing or the look of confusion on Solona’s face when she tore across the courtyard.

It didn’t matter. It was too late. Whoever was climbing the tower had reacted to the commotion already. Meghan watched Solona stiffen and fall to her knees. She barely caught her as she fell forward, an arrow lodged in her back.

Meghan shouted for guards, for anyone, quickly scanning for a familiar face. The first she was Alistair, face pale, jaw slack.

“Potions. I need my potions.”

When he didn’t move, still staring at Solona’s now limp body in her lap, she raised her voice, not a yell, just loud enough to shake him out of his shock.

“Alistair. Potions. Now.”

He ran for the doors of the Keep. Meghan took a deep breath and carefully set Solona on the ground, ignoring the crowd around her. She was vaguely aware of someone shoving through the crowd, pushing people away from her as she felt the arrow and the wound around it. Not barbed. But it had pierced the lung. And she could feel poison slowly seeping into Solona’s blood. She quickly weighed her options.

A Warden whose name she didn’t know was crouched next to her, offering help.

“I need someone who knows poisons.” She wanted Nathaniel but didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. The Warden nodded and disappeared. Meghan focused on pulling the arrow carefully and quickly. She set it in her lap, not wanting to contaminate it, knowing they needed to identify the poison. She shifted her focus to Solona’s lung, on getting her breathing under control. The wound was clean, an easy mend with her magic. Well, easier than it could have been. When the lung was healed, she tried to heal the next layer of tissue and found herself already weak. She didn’t know who was crouched next to her this time, but she reached out and called for a lyrium potion, not taking her eyes off of Solona’s wound. One was pressed into her open hand, stopper already removed. She felt a small flicker of recognition, of relief. Carver was there. She drank the potion, took a steadying breath, and began to work again.

Two potions later, Solona’s wound was healed and she was breathing normally, but she was still unconscious. And the poison was still slogging through her veins. Someone, probably Carver, had taken the arrow and passed it on to whichever poison expert had been found. Meghan sat back on her heels and turned to Carver. He was watching her, tension and concern clear around his eyes, waiting for an order.

“We need to get her inside. In a bed. And I need to know what the poison is.”

He nodded once, carefully scooped up the Hero of Ferelden, still unconscious, and carried her inside, followed by Meghan, a barely functioning Alistair, and a small band of somber Grey Wardens.

Chapter Text

Carver stood in the doorway as Meghan worked, bent over Solona’s prone body, fingers pressed into a spot at the base of her neck. One of the other Wardens, a mage skilled in entropy magic, cast a sleeping spell on Solona, keeping her body still, her breathing measured, her heart rate slow and steady. Skean, the elf Carver had given the arrow to, had identified the poison. It was something Carver had never heard of, a Tevene word he didn’t know the translation of, but whatever it was made Meghan nervous. Anyone who didn’t know her wouldn’t have seen the tiny twitch in her eyes, the slight hesitation before she gave her thanks. But he saw it.

And when she’d looked at Carver and nodded once in Alistair’s direction, he knew what she wanted. He silently took Alistair by the arm and led him out of the room, leaving Meghan and Skean to talk behind the closed door. Carver passed Alistair off to some of the other Wardens and waited by the door. When the elf came out, he’d looked straight at Carver. 

“She is a stubborn woman,” he said, shaking his head before walking away. But Carver already knew that. He walked back into the room, closing the door again behind him, and watched her work.

After a few minutes, she shook out her right hand, flexing and stretching her fingers. She took a drink from a water skin and looked over at Carver. She gave him a rueful smile as she replaced her right hand and repeated the stretching with her left.

“That elf, Skunk or Skank or whatever his name is—”

“Skean.” Carver offered.

“Yeah, him.” She turned back to Solona. “He thinks I’m wasting my time. Called it a ‘lost cause.’” She shook her head and muttered, “Bastard.”

Carver watched her for a few more minutes before asking what she was doing. Then he hastily added, “I mean, unless you can’t talk. Shit. Sorry. I should let you focus.” He shook his head to himself and sat in a chair in the corner.

She smiled over at him. “Yes, I can do this and talk. It’s not…well, it’s…I’m glad you’re here.” She looked back at her hands. “The poison is…it attacks the brain. But it’s moving slow. It’s like…sludge. Eventually, as it spreads…the blood sort of…dilutes it, breaks it down. I just have to…keep it from her brain.”

“So you’re…what? Controlling poison?” Carver watched her fingers closely, wondering if that was even possible.

“Not exactly…I can’t control the poison, just…tell where it is. It’s hard to explain…it’s more like…blocking it. Like barricading a road and…building a new one that’s safer.”

Carver nodded. “So you just keep doing that until it’s gone? Diluted or whatever?”

“Piece of cake, right?” She sighed. “Just don’t know how long it’ll take. It’s not hard work…not really. And if the poison is…weak, she’ll be fine in a few hours.”

And Carver knew that’s why Skean called it a lost cause. If it was a strong poison, Meghan wouldn’t be able to keep up what she was doing. Even if it was easy now, it would take its toll over time. And the only other mage at Vigil’s Keep with any real healing abilities was Solona.

“So you’ll need lyrium? And maybe some more pasties, so you can eat with one hand?”

She let out a huff of air. “I suppose so.”

“Anything else?” He stood, ready to get whatever supplies she’d need.

“Just tell Alistair I won’t let her go.”

Carver brought her potions, pasties, and water and sat with her while she kept redirecting the poisoned blood away from Solona’s brain. Nathaniel, when he and Bear and Eira finally returned from wherever they’d been, sat with them for a while, holding Solona’s hand. Another Warden stopped by with more food and some mugs of tea. The mage came back and cast another sleeping spell and dropped off more lyrium potions. And Carver tried to help Meghan any way he could. He massaged her hands, one at a time, then her shoulders. He told her every Templar joke he knew. He suggested a trip to Orlais to catch a wyvern and train it to guard the Keep. He lost track of time.

It was sometime after the third delivery of food that Meghan slowly pulled both hands from Solona’s neck and dragged them over her face. At first Carver thought she was giving up, and he felt like his heart had stopped. When Meghan dropped her hands to her side, her cheeks were streaked with tears, but her lips were curved up in a small, weary smile.

“Could you find Alistair? He’ll want to be here when she wakes up.”

When Alistair came, Carver and Meghan left him to wait for his wife to wake up. And a day later, there was a party. Carver watched the Wardens at Vigil’s Keep celebrate Solona’s recovery and praise Meghan’s skills. In the dining hall, they toasted the Hero and the Healer. And as the night progressed, they vowed vigilance, they called for justice. He tried not to scowl at the word. Instead, he leaned against a pillar in the corner and watched Meghan across the room. She had just reached up and ruffled Alistair’s hair. Alistair ran his own fingers through it to straighten it, then smirked at her and tugged on her braid. She shoved him lightly, and he shoved her back, laughing. Carver felt his own lips curve up when she wiggled her fingers in his face, knowing there were lightning bolts dancing around them as she did.

“Those two are insufferable together. I don’t know how you put up with them.” Solona was grinning next to him, watching as Alistair wiggled his fingers back at Meghan, probably reminding her of his Templar skills.

“This is nothing,” he glanced over at her, chuckling. “My brother would have frozen her eyebrows by now. Or just picked her up and held her upside down.”

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you. I understand it was your timely warning that allowed the guards to catch the assassin before she got away.”

“It was lucky we saw her in time to help,” he shrugged. “I heard there was a note.”

Solona nodded. “Written in Ancient Tevene. We translated it though. I actually wanted to talk to you about it.” She glanced around quickly. Carver followed her gaze, noting that no one else was in their corner of the room. “It confirmed our theory.”

“Maker…” Carver looked back across the room at Meghan who was still laughing with Alistair. He knew they had suspected the Grey Wardens, but he’d been reluctant to believe the order would be so corrupt. He knew Wardens were still human, prone to the same sins as any other human, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it.

“Ali and I are thinking of leaving,” Solona said quietly.

“Leaving Vigil’s Keep?” He drew his brows together and looked back at her.

“Leaving the Wardens,” Solona sighed. She continued in a low voice, “Ali’s probably asking Meghan the same thing right now. Do you…we think you should come with us.”

Carver let this sink in and returned his gaze to Meghan. She was watching him now, Alistair whispering in her ear. Her smile lingered, but Alistair’s face was serious. Without taking his eyes off of Meghan’s, Carver asked Solona when they would leave.

“Tonight.”

“Who else?”

“Just the four of us.”

“If I say yes, we…what, run?”

“We disappear.” Solona’s voice was firm. It sounded like they probably had a plan in place already. Like they had done more than think about leaving.

Across the room, Alistair was watching Meghan and shooting the occasional glance at Solona’s and his corner.  Meghan’s smile had faded completely. Even from across the room, he could see the question in her eyes. He tried to sort through his own emotions, to figure out what hers might be. They were both unhappy in Amaranthine. He knew that. It apparently wasn’t safer than the Free Marches, like they’d hoped. The assassins—the First Warden, he corrected himself—had gotten so much closer this time. Too close. It really had been chance, or fate maybe, that Meghan had spotted the shadow climbing the wall.

He idly rubbed a hand along his jaw as he thought about it. He had more questions. The how and the where and the what about Garrett. But then Meghan smiled at him. If he were closer to her in that moment, he knew he could see the dimple at the corner of her mouth and the crinkles around her eyes. And he returned the smile and nodded.

“We disappear,” he repeated to Solona, knowing she would hear the “yes” in it.

Chapter Text

When Meghan and Carver arrived in the basement of Vigil’s Keep, Solona and Alistair were already there, pulling clothes out of a crate, a mix of commoners’ clothes and nondescript light armor. Enough to protect them a little in a fight, but not enough to make them memorable to anyone they ran into.

Meghan had already pulled on her old Amell coat and was strapping Dar’Mi Elgar on her back when Carver asked Solona where they were headed.

“We’re going to Orlais!” Alistair interrupted. “To live in sin and eat cake until—”

“Alistair,” Solona groaned.

Meghan glanced over at Alistair and winked. “I like cake.”

Carver snorted and, gesturing at Meghan who was now adjusting buckles on Alistair’s armor, asked Solona, “Are you sure about this? About these two?”

Solona shook her head, “We’re not going to Orlais. Just the countryside. And if those two don’t behave, we’ll leave them behind.”

“Hey!” Alistair feigned insult. Solona winked back at him.

By the time they finished changing and neatly stacking their Warden armor, everyone had sobered. They were silent as they climbed through the basement’s tunnels and found their exit to the west side of the Vigil’s Keep. Meghan took up a spot at the rear of the group, only half listening as Solona explained to Carver where they were headed. She caught references to Knotwood Hills and Highever. And heard Alistair say something about the Teyrn of Highever owing them a favor.

“Do the Couslands know what we’re doing?” Carver asked, clearly bewildered by the idea.

“No,” Solona replied. “But if we get caught squatting on Cousland land, Fergus will let us go without asking questions. Zev is the only one who knows anything about this.”

It took three days to reach the abandoned farmhouse just outside a nameless little fishing village to the west of Highever. Solona had scouted the area months before, and, with the help of Zevran, managed to keep anyone else from appropriating it. Ghost stories and a few well-placed glyphs can do wonders, especially in the wake of a Blight, Solona had said.

Zevran met them at the house. He brought food and news, but he didn’t stay, claiming business in Kirkwall. His news was disturbing, and Hawke was clearly at the center of it all. Meghan watched Carver closely for those first few days in the house. The crease between his eyebrows never went away. He slept fitfully, if at all. And the fourth night, her own sleep was disrupted by dreams of fire and dragons.

She found Carver standing in the open doorway, arms crossed, staring across the dark and dead farm in front of the house. When she stepped beside him, he draped an arm over her shoulders and let her lean into him.

After a few minutes of silence, she finally said what she’d been wanting to say since Zevran left.

“The only way you’ll know for sure is if you go see for yourself.”

Carver just sighed and pulled her closer.

“I’m sure we can find some fisherman willing to take us across for the right coin,” she reasoned.

He still didn’t say anything.

“They don’t know what we look like. It’s Solona and Alistair who are recognizable here. Not you and me. If anything about us would give us away it would have been the Warden armor. But we left that back in Amaranthine.”

“You can’t go to Kirkwall,” he finally said.

“Oh.” Meghan knew he was right, knew it was the least safe place for her, for any mage. But she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. “You’re going to go without me, aren’t you?”

He turned to her then, wrapping his other arm tightly around her shoulders, drawing her to his chest. She could feel him take in a deep breath before saying, “You asked me to stop leaving you behind.”

She leaned back and looked up at him, wanting him to see how sincere she was. “But it’s your brother. It’s Hawke. If he needs you…”

 “I…no. We’re better together. I can’t just…Maker, I can’t believe I’m saying this.” He shook his head then added, “If I go anywhere, Meg, you’re coming with me.”

She blinked back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes and put her head back on his chest. And breathed, “Thank you.”

When they arrived at the docks and thanked the fisherman they’d overpaid to bring them, it seemed a quiet night in Kirkwall. But the moment they started up the steps to Lowtown, they sky erupted in red. Meghan felt the explosion in her bones.  And she knew.

She clenched her hands into fists as anger surged through her veins, overshadowed only by the wave of grief that followed. Meghan looked at the horizon, ablaze now from the explosion. Her skin crawled with the words of his manifesto, his strange apology, his growing distance over the last year. She met Carver’s eyes for just a moment. When she blinked, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Anders,” she whispered. Carver’s face darkened at the mage’s name, and he turned his face to the sky.

Meghan saw the set of his jaw and quickly brushed the tear from her cheek. They were there for Hawke. She needed to focus on that. She pushed her thoughts of Anders aside and placed her hand on Carver’s chest.

“Come on. Let’s find your brother,” she said, sounding much more composed than she felt. He looked back down at her and nodded once before drawing his sword.

“Stay with me,” he said firmly and turned towards Lowtown. 

The city around them had erupted in flame. The air was thick with ash and smoke, and the dark alleys of Lowtown were crawling with shades. It seemed like each time they turned a corner another pair of shades materialized. And the more they fought, the more desperate the situation felt.

The lyrium in Meghan’s sword flared as she thrust it at a shade to her right, just outside the Hanged Man. Not a second later, Carver shouted “Duck!” She dropped to her knees and could feel Carver’s greatsword hiss through the air above her head, slicing through the last shade. She stood and found herself facing Hawke.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought you were dead.” Carver’s voice was a mix of relief and accusation.

“Not a chance,” Hawke scowled. Then he narrowed his eyes at Meghan. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Meghan rolled her eyes. Then she leveled her gaze at him, “We’re family, Hawke. The only family either of us have got left.”

“Just say the word and you have both of our blades,” Carver added.

Hawke looked from Carver to Meghan and back, his frown slowly softening. “At least hers is pretty.”

Any comfort Meghan may have felt at finding Hawke diminished with each demon, each Templar, each blood mage they faced. By the time they reached the Gallows with Hawke and his companions, she couldn’t even bring herself to look Anders in the eye when he paused in front of her. She pressed her face into Carver’s arm as Hawke spoke to the man who had once been her closest friend. And she set her shoulders and stared straight ahead as she walked past his lifeless body. If she gave herself time to think about it, about what he had really done, she knew her heart would break. So she focused on keeping Carver and Hawke and everyone else alive as demons rose from the ashes and statues came to life.

When the fighting was over and the adrenaline wore off, Meghan was dimly aware that her side was aching and her head was throbbing. But she used the last of her energy to heal a deep gash on Hawke’s cheek instead of herself. And she felt more than empty. She felt cold and hollow.

It wasn’t until four days later—after Isabela declared herself captain, after she watched Alistair and Solona board Isabela’s ship and greet Hawke like an old friend, after they had turned east—that Meghan finally found a spot on the forecastle deck where she could watch the open ocean and clear sky in front of them. And it didn’t take long for Carver to find her there.

Carver leaned his elbows on the railing next to her. “Aren’t we supposed to be sailing off into the sunset? I’m pretty sure that’s how all of Varric’s stories end.”

She tilted her head towards him then and found herself smiling at him. “Maybe,” she said as she leaned against his arm. “But maybe the sunrise is more fitting.”

Chapter Text

She watched as they travelled by boat for months. Antiva and Rivain. A stop in Llomeryn. Then Estwatch and Bastion and Alamar. She watched as they split up and doubled back, making wide loops and leaving false trails. And one by one, the others left, found places to go, places to hide.

And the six who remained found their way to the Korcari Wilds.

She watched as they found the hut on the edge of the clearing. She saw the recognition. The apprehension. The resignation. And watched as they built two more shelters alongside, making a new home from an old one.

She watched as the Hero and her Warden found old friends in the forest to barter with. As the Champion and his pirate charmed the nearby Chasind into leaving them be and keeping their secrets. As the Healer and her warrior, not a boy anymore, defied the taint in his blood.

And from her perch on the top of the hill, she watched as they gathered that night around a fire to toast the beginning of a new year. Six lives drawn together by forces more powerful than the Old Gods themselves.

Awaiting a seventh.

Fate or chance, indeed, she chuckled to herself.