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Water pounds in her ears; it has gone cold and the suds have all but dissipated. Still, she sinks to the bottom of the tub, looking up through the murkiness.
Any moment now –
A fist bangs against the door to the washroom.
The guard calls her name, “Elaine Montbelliard, by order of the Comtesse of Chureau, you are to accompany us to the crossroads.”
Breaking the surface, Elaine retrieves her dagger from the marble floor. Just as the guard jostles the handle, she flings the knife into the door, jamming it shut.
Her name is shouted, the door is pounded, but Elaine closes her eyes and dunks her head beneath the water again, drowning out the sound. She will not give Solange the satisfaction of seeing her dragged off the estate in naught but her skin.
Elaine counts backwards (dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, une) and emerges, dripping as she dons her leather armor and layering a robe overtop. She cannot say she was not prepared for this eventuality; it was all a matter of time.
Wrenching the dagger out of the woodwork, Elaine meets the guard, face to face. Men and women, she has known for a lifetime, have come to take her away. Some of them taught her how to use knives; now they disarm her with detached indifference.
“I demand to speak with my sister.”
“The Comtesse has no desire to see you.”
“She must realize I will not go quietly. Is my making a spectacle of myself an embarrassment to the family she is willing to endure?”
The guards are at a loss, but their allegiances still lie with the family’s reputation, not Solange, as Elaine expected. They escort Elaine to the study, Solange already comfortable at her new desk.
Solange snaps at the captain, “Your orders were to deliver her –”
“If you must blame someone, blame me – what am I saying? You already do blame me.”
“Have you no manners, sister?”
“It’s ‘sister’ now, is it?”
They stare coldly at one another. The guards step back as far as they can.
“I presume you have a purpose for disturbing my bath,” Elaine breaks the silence. “If you want me gone, I will go, but I will not be thrown naked from this house.”
Solange sits straighter; chin held higher, so she is looking down her nose at Elaine. “As Comtesse, I have concluded there is no place for you in my household. Much as I regret it, I have made arrangements for you elsewhere.” She sangles her risen station over Elaine’s head, making a play of it as much as anything else.
“You need not have gone through the trouble. My brother, Comte Brevin de Chalons, has kindly offered me a spare room in the past. It should be no trouble for him to do so again.”
Solange’s lips curl. Elaine’s spine goes rigid, resisting the urge to shiver.
“You have not heard then? Comte Brevin has revoked your open invitation.”
She overestimated Brevin; she thought blood ran deeper in his veins than Solange’s. Apparently, Elaine’s does not count; only half-Montbelliard, half-Monfort. Brevin and Solange are gripped with the same petty paranoia.
The bath water disguises the sweat beading on Elaine’s skin. Stone-faced, “Has he?”
“Such a cruel thing to do to one’s family.”
“I expect it is no crueler than what you intend for me.”
Solange narrows her eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of your ungratefulness. After all this family has sacrificed to let you bear our name.”
“The Montbelliards have sacrificed no more than any other noble house with a bastard roaming their halls. Count yourself fortunate that I am not elf-blooded.”
Solange snarls; Elaine considers it a small victory, but the battle will inevitably end with her defeat.
“The Grey Wardens have accepted my request to take you as a recruit.”
“The Grey Wardens?” Elaine balks. Nobility have not offered sons or daughters to their ranks since the days of the Fourth Blight.
It is no longer the chivalrous sacrifice it was once considered. It is not fashionable. Elaine cannot think where Solange came up with this plan to be rid of her – unless…
Solange cannot have her outright murdered. Elaine may bear the authority of the Montbelliard name, but their mother yet lives; her father still lives. No marriage came to fruition, but Elaine’s birth is the tenuous contract between houses.
“Yes. The Grey Wardens and they are expecting you with or without your dignity,” she eyes Elaine’s robe.
Pulling the robe closer around herself, “Allow me fifteen minutes to collect my personal affects and I will go. You will never see me again.”
“Agreed.” Nodding to the guard, “Fifteen minutes, no more.” Rising from her desk, Solange strides towards Elaine and embraces her coldly. She whispers, “Die screaming with a darkspawn blade in your belly, salope.”
Elaine has no chance to retort. A hand clasps her shoulder, pushing her out of the study to her chamber. It hardly takes fifteen minutes for Elaine to gather her belongings and full don her armor.
Her hair is still damp when she spies the griffon standard.
----------
Carver does not relish taking his watch with the recruit, any more than he relishes the orders which sent him to Orlais.
He does not speak to the recruit except to give her directions. She does not speak to him except to confirm that she heard him. He swears he could choke on her haughtiness.
The night is maddeningly silent, not even a rustle of trees in the breeze. The fire has long since died down to embers, so there is no crackle either.
Carver starts to fidget, spinning his sword hilt.
The recruit – Elaine eyes him, irritated; her glare only encourages him to do it faster.
“Will you desist?”
“No.”
She mutters something under her breath in Orlesian.
Carver only catches a few words. “This ‘Ferelden dog’ is the ranking warden on watch, so you better hold your tongue.”
She rolls her eyes, “I said ‘Ferelden shit’ not ‘dog’.”
Carver keeps twirling his sword. Mabari – merde, it’s close enough.
Elaine continues to glower, reminding Carver of his first few months as a warden. Maker, he knows the prospect of the Joining is bleak, but it’s not his fucking fault. Of course, if not for Alistair, Carver would have remained miserable for a lifetime.
He tries to imagine what Alistair would say if he were here instead. Nothing sounds genuine coming from Carver, even in his own head.
Groaning, he makes an effort, “Look. You don’t have to be happy about it, but you could at least think of becoming a warden as an opportunity to start fresh.”
“What if I do not need a fresh start? What if I am happy as I am – was?” She flinches when she corrects her own tense.
Carver stops himself before he throws her health in her face. She doesn’t know what the Joining entails; he does.
He may have been close to death when he was passed the chalice, but he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Her life may only be a few days more, if she does not survive. Even if she does, thirty years is nothing compared to what she might have had.
Attacking from another angle, “If you liked your life, why become a recruit? Why pick this then wallow in your decision?”
Elaine breaks eye contact, staring into the remaining embers. Carver sighs, jamming his sword into the dirt. She is impossible.
“Your self-pity act won’t get you very far among the wardens. After all, some of us didn’t have the luxury of a choice.”
“You think I had a choice in the matter?”
“Prisoners usually do.”
“I was no prisoner.”
Carver’s brow wrinkles, “But the guard escorting you –?”
Elaine’s laugh is hollow. Musing, “What Solange would not have done to have me arrested. Do not preach to me about choice. All of mine have been made for me. Such is the lot of a bastard of noble families.”
Her situation clicks in place. It doesn’t make Carver any more sympathetic, but he gets being led by the nose.
“Sounds like my sister,” he scoffs. (He is pleased knowing Marian would hate the comparison.)
Interest peaked, “Are you also a bastard? I thought those thatched barns you call a kingdom touted its bastards as kings.”
His bark of laughter is so loud it nearly rouses his fellow wardens. If only Alistair were here.
“I do not see what is so funny.”
“Nothing – just tell that to Alistair if you meet him.”
“So, you are a bastard,” she answers her own question incorrectly.
“No. Not me. My sister – almost.” Muttering to himself, “A bastard and a bitch.”
Elaine’s head tilts curiously, but her stare is blank. “I’ve forgotten what the constable said your name was.”
Carver’s jaw clenches. She hasn’t forgotten, she wants to hear him say it. There is not a soul in Thedas whose head would not turn at the name. Maker damn Marian.
“Carver Hawke.”
Like she’s solved some great mystery, “That’s it. You’re the Champion of Kirkwall’s little brother.”
“I haven’t been smaller than Marian since we were children,” he lashes at her so quickly he strains his neck.
The corners of her mouth twitch in amusement, “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“You have no idea what it’s like.”
The slight smile vanishes instantly, but Elaine says nothing.
In a moment, all of his frustration and resentment with Marian rushes back, Carver raves, “My entire life has been ‘Marian this’ and ‘Marian that’. And even when she did something stupid, she always got away with it. Nobody gave a shit about me.”
“Ta gueule.”
As he ranted, Elaine’s expression deepened into a scowl.
He scoffs, “Are fucking with me? You’re going to defend her now too?”
“I do not give a damn about the Champion of Kirkwall or your petty squabbles. Did she banish you from your home? Has she actively sought your death?”
“No,” he admits slowly.
“So then: ta gueule.”
Her mouth drawn taught; Elaine says no more. Her silence is wrapped in more bitterness and anger than Carver thinks even he could muster up towards Marian.
Still, Elaine knows fuck all about his life. She knows fuck all about Marian. She has no right to judge him.
The rest of their watch passes without a word, Carver stewing in his annoyance.
----------
The cup is prepared by the grim-faced Commander Stroud. The accompanying wardens are no less somber. Carver Hawke avoids Elaine’s gaze specifically, keeping his eyes trained on the chalice.
To Elaine’s one side, the other recruits attempt to puff out their chests and look as stoic. Elaine rolls her eyes at them, which makes the elf woman on her other side chuckle.
The wardens are none too happy with the disturbance to their ritual, but Elaine smirks. She may have one friend once they’re through all this dismal ceremony.
“Drink now of the taint,” Stroud instructs the first man in line.
Elaine knows only a little of her fellow recruits: they were released from a prison in Val Royeux. Murderers and thieves most likely, each of them dirty and scarred, conscription probably saved them the noose.
The first among them chokes to death all the same.
Elaine recoils; whatever humor she found in the proceedings has gone. Solange’s wish for her death may come true, if not in the manner she wished it. (Either way Solange wins.)
Stroud honors the man’s name. (Elaine will not remember it.)
The second man swallows with a pained expression on his face until he passes out.
“Pierre, hence forth you are a Grey Warden,” Stroud recites over him.
The chalice is cold to the touch when it is passed to Elaine. Darkspawn blood swirls in the bottom, practically black; she tries not to sniff at it and show her disgust.
Lifting the cup to her lips, Elaine catches Carver’s eye over the rim then her vision is blocked as the contents pour into her mouth. The blood burns in her throat.
“Mon Créateur!” She spits with a long string of Orlesian curses, trying to get the taste off her tongue. Retching, her knees buckle, but she stays conscious.
“From this moment forth, Elaine, you are a Grey Warden.”
When her coughing finally slows, they pass the chalice to the elf woman. She manages to gulp down the final drops, but is overwhelmed and falls to the ground, thankfully breathing.
“Hence forth, you are a Grey Warden, Unae.”
No more ceremony to stand upon, the wardens see to the dead and unconscious. Elaine herself is a lesser priority, though she can’t seem to fill her lungs completely.
A hand reaches down to her. “Three out of four. That must be a record.”
Still coughing, Elaine glares up at Carver, “Is that your twisted way of congratulating me?”
Carver shrugs, “It’s my way of saying your sister’s gonna need to try harder to get rid of you.”
She almost laughs at that, but hacks instead.
His offered hand finds a new purpose, slapping her back. “I would suggest getting some sleep, but some of the earliest dreams are the worst.”
Dryly, “Spectaculaire.”
----------
Trenchers and spoons clank together with the rise and fall of every warden’s hand as they eat. Elaine stirs her stew with the faintest sound of ringing, waiting for it to cool.
Another day, another darkspawn patrol. They cannot locate where the damn things spring forth from the ground, and it is wearing their squadron thin. Their senses lead them in all different directions; among the lower ranks they whisper they are being led the wrong way, though they cannot agree which way is correct.
Unae and Pierre squabble.
“We were getting closer, but we should’ve taken the east road.”
“Nonsense. We’ve been getting further away since we left Lydes. We should have stayed there.”
Elaine bites her tongue. Her senses tell her south, not east or north.
“We’d be better off splitting up,” Carver interjects.
Exploring all their options does not sound like a bad idea to Elaine, but Stroud steadfastly refused. (“Better to stay together at a time like this.”) Something about Stroud’s response makes her believe he is at a loss, waiting for some instruction that is not coming.
The argument falls into rhythm with the clanking of the tin. A disorganized pattern that causes more of a headache then it should.
Burying her face in her hands, “Would you all shut up?”
Their mouths snap shut; Carver’s jaw clenches as he is prone to do when irritated. But the silence does not help at all.
She wakes with the same headache. No one else fairs any better, groaning and massaging their temples.
On the road, they meet another squadron. Stroud nearly sighs in relief when they are led by a higher-ranking officer. Anxious tension rises as he confers with Warden-Commander Clarel.
“Our ranks will combine for the time being. Clarel and I are in accord, we must continue west.”
Headaches grow more intense with every day (worse than a morning after the opera), a hollow melody lingering at the fringes of Elaine’s mind.
Pierre starts humming the same song as they march. Elaine’s head is not the only one that whips in his direction, identical horrified expressions on frozen on their faces.
“I knew the Calling was coming for me soon,” Gerard shakes his head, resigned, “but it is too soon for the rest of you.”
Stomach plummeting, Elaine resists the urge to reach for her dagger and threaten Gerard to take his words back. (It’s only been two years.) Others do not.
There is more yelling than before. More anger. More confusion. None of them want to hear the Calling. Not now. Not ever.
“What do we do?” Unae whimpers.
“Deliver the first blow,” a foreign voice answers, clear over all the fighting.
For a moment, all eyes are on the newcomer, but even with their senses in disarray, it is obvious this man is no warden, and the shouting begins again.
It is enough to want to tear her hair out. The shock worn off; Elaine adds her voice to the chorus of the desolate.
“What is the meaning of all of this?” Clarel’s voice pierces the din, emerging from the officers’ tent with Stroud at her shoulder.
All too eager to fight a moment before, the wardens stand at attention. They cast glances, hoping someone else will speak up first. Clarel groans, before anyone has a chance; her head in her hands.
“I believe I can explain, Warden-Commander,” the mysterious man steps forward; his voice too smooth, too soothing against the unending racket in their heads.
“Who are you?” Clarel snaps.
The man bows low, “Lord Livius Erimond, at your service.”
A ripple of whispers float through the ranks. “A Tevinter magister here? In Orlais? It’s not possible.”
Steel rings as it is unsheathed, Carver puts his blade to Erimond’s throat, “What business could you possibly have with us?”
“You are hearing the Calling, are you not? If nothing is done, every one of you will die and there will be no one to protect Thedas from the next Blight.”
Elaine shivers. Carver’s sword falters, falling away from the magister’s throat. The wardens are at a loss for words; their individual lives may have been their first concern, but a world without the Grey Wardens… it is unthinkable.
“I offer a solution.”
Clarel stares long and hard at Erimond. Stroud’s lip twitches in distaste under his moustache.
Even silent, there is no quiet amongst the wardens. The Calling rattles its haunting tune in their heads, weakening their resolve.
‘Cut off his head!’ and ‘Hear him out!’ are the cries most heard.
“I do not guarantee I will heed your advice,” Clarel narrows her eyes.
“A moment of your time is all I ask,” Erimond raises his hand in offering of truce.
Clarel draws back the canvas to allow Erimond and Stroud into the tent. “Ruth, Gerard – you have the first watch.”
Unease settles over the camp as they retire.
Elaine tosses and turns; the faint echo grows louder when she closes her eyes. Whether she sleeps or not, it is difficult to say. She is roused for her watch, and it is a relief to have a task instead of staring at the roof of her tent.
She joins Carver by the remains of the fire. He grunts in acknowledgement, but says nothing. The silence is different from that of their early watches together; edged with less animosity and more sleepless dread. In the low light, she can see his eyes are bloodshot; Elaine imagines hers betray a similar exhaustion.
“I can’t believe she’s letting herself be duped by that Tevinter son-of-a-bitch.”
Following Carver’s line of sight, Elaine finds herself staring at the commanders’ tent. Elaine hums in accord, “He cannot possibly have anything to offer her to stop this infernal sound.”
“I should have cut his neck when I had the chance.”
“It would not have made a difference.” She spits, hoping the bitterness on her tongue will be expectorated as well.
“Would’ve made me feel better.”
Elaine glares at him from the corner of her eye, “This is not about you.”
“Maker, you don’t think I know that? You said it yourself: there is nothing he can offer Clarel. He’s up to something.”
She will not admit it to Carver: there would have been something satisfying in slitting the magister’s throat, but she also believes he knows something.
“Obviously, it was no coincidence Erimond appeared now, but can you explain why we are all hearing the Calling?”
Carver’s mouth opens and closes dumbly.
Against hope, Elaine is desperate for answers, but mostly for relief.
The sliver of a moon dips behind the trees as hushed voices rise from the officers’ tent; there is one with particular vehemence she cannot place.
Carver is rigid, “It can’t be – when did he get here?”
“When did who get here?” Just as she asks, a man storms from the tent.
“Alistair!” Neglecting his post, Carver chases after him; Elaine on his heels.
The man halts, looking back; the griffon emblazoned on his breast plate catches the remainder of the moonlight. A mixture of worry and loneliness line his face, but relief floods his voice.
“Carver. Thank the Maker.”
“What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
“I’m not certain, but I have a hunch.”
Edged, “Are you hearing it too?”
“Yes.” Looking over his shoulder, “I should be going. I don’t think I made a good impression on Clarel’s guest or with Clarel herself, for that matter.”
“She’s not actually listening to that bastard, is she?”
Alistair swallows, “She’s terrified – can’t say I blame her for that.”
That is not how Elaine would have described their Warden-Commander, but she hardly knows the woman. She could be as easily led by fear as by reason, for all Elaine knows.
“Don’t trust a word Erimond says.”
“No need to worry on that account.”
Half-chuckling, “Take care of yourself, Carver.”
Disappearing with the last of the stars, Alistair is gone and they are none the wiser. Carver looks stricken, staring down the road after him.
“What sort of lead do you think he has?” Elaine wonders aloud.
“I don’t have a clue.”
----------
Stalling, that’s just about the only thing Carver can think to do. Stall until they hear something (anything) from Alistair.
Only that doesn’t seem to be the problem; the amassing forces are. They are moving slower than he can drag his feet and every day more wardens arrive, out of every corner of Orlais. Wardens who have not seen another warden since their Joining follow Clarel’s slow march west.
Word cannot possibly have reached them so quickly. But then the Calling’s song has changed somehow; against his own judgement, it beckons Carver to follow Clarel to the desert. Everyone must be hearing the same thing.
He tries his best to get to the new arrivals before Erimond does. It is usually already too late. They want answers, they want a solution; Carver has neither.
The best he can offer is Alistair’s hunch, but that is not enough for the other wardens, especially not for those who don’t know him or Alistair. Elaine was there and even she seems hesitant to put her faith in him.
But Carver won’t doubt Alistair. The panic in his eye struck a minor chord in the Calling’s melody; it resonates still. His persistence earns him nothing but wary looks and whispers as he passes. Worse than questioning his loyalty, they question Alistair’s.
Carver is summoned to the officers’ tent. Erimond lurks in the shadows.
Clarel doesn’t look up from the map, “Have you been in contact with Warden Alistair?”
“No, ser.”
“He’s lying,” Erimond slithers.
“We’ll see who the liar is,” Carver starts towards the magister snake, but Stroud lays a hand on his shoulder with a warning shake of the head.
“We know you spoke to him while he was in camp. What did he say to you?”
Pulling away from Stroud’s grip, “Nothing of consequence.”
Clarel finally meets his eye, “Warden Alistair has disobeyed orders and abandoned his post. For all intents and purposes, he is a traitor. You should not feel compelled to defend him.”
“I’m not. He didn’t tell me anything that would be of interest to you.”
“And yet you attempt to rally the wardens to his name.”
“Better his name than your new master –”
“Enough!” Clarel dashes the maps to the ground in a fury. “I will not have you sewing discord under my nose. Lord Erimond has a plan. That is more than I can say for Warden Alistair.”
“You would trust him over one of your own? Over a hero of the Fifth Blight?”
“There is no evidence to his claims. We need to take action.”
“If you would just –”
“If you utter one more word, I will consider it insubordination.”
Carver’s mouth snaps shut, fist and jaw clenched. Whatever Clarel has in mind to punish him, what awaits Alistair can only be worse.
Clarel sighs heavily, “One last time, do you know where Warden Alistair is hiding?”
His eyes dart from Clarel to Erimond to Stroud, back to Clarel. “I don’t know.”
She studies him intently. “I believe you, but one word out of line and I will have you detained.”
Nodding, Carver stomps from her presence. He will be silent, but not willingly.
Too preoccupied to realize, but attempting to convince others of Erimond’s treachery and Alistair’s allegiance kept the sound of the Calling at bay – gave him focus. Without it – gagged by Clarel’s orders – the Calling echoes deeply; he can almost understand why they are so willing to cower behind the magister’s robes.
This is her command and there is nowhere else for him to go. Maybe if he knew where Alistair was…
Carver tries to busy himself with whetting his sword, but it is not enough to block out the ringing in his ear.
“What did the Commander want with you?” Elaine joins him, her knives over sharp already, but it gives her hands something to do.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“When has that stopped you before?’
“I really can’t talk about it.”
She examines the blade from all angles, “I must suppose it had something to do with Warden Alistair. I cannot say I am surprised. All your talk is no better than the Grand Duke challenging the Empress for the throne.”
Carver laughs bitterly, “You think Alistair has designs on Clarel’s post?”
Elaine shrugs, “I do not know the man. Only that Clarel is as Orlesian as I, and we do not take threats to what is rightfully ours lightly.”
“Even unfounded threats?”
“Even unfounded,” she sighs.
Growing cautious of Clarel’s threats, Carver doesn’t push further. He eyes any passing warden he doesn’t know by name; Clarel may have more ears in the camp than he knows.
Elaine must sense his wariness and changes the subject. Anything to keep themselves talking, to muffle the noise which would be enough to drive them mad.
The darker it gets, the more wardens settle around fires for the night. Unae and Pierre join them with complaints: the camp is too crowded, they can’t hide the shit stink in the woods, the Calling feels like drowning.
“I can’t tell which you think is worse, Pierre, the Calling or the shitty woods.”
Elaine snorts just as the first watch takes their post, armor clanking as they patrol the camp.
“This is all a joke to you, isn’t it, Carver?” His head snaps up at the familiar voice. Aveline looks down at him with cross disappointment only mother could surpass.
“Aveline? What the shit are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take you back to Kirkwall.”
“You’re joking,” he says flatly.
“Hawke’s request.”
Carver’s face burns. His hands ball into fists, knuckles turning white. The Calling seems to respond too; getting louder, urging him to run towards the desert and not look back.
Unae and Pierre are slack jawed. Elaine is positively livid. And those are just his friends; he can just imagine the reactions from the rest of the wardens.
“I don’t take orders from her. And frankly, I’m surprised you do.”
Aveline ignores the jab, “She’s worried about you.”
He snorts, “Then she can come and get me herself.”
Her sword rings as it is unsheathed, piercing the night’s silence. The cold tip finds its way under his chin, but Carver doesn’t flinch.
“We know what’s happening to the wardens. So help me, if I have to knock you over the head and carry you home, I will.”
“She has no right to interfere.” This isn’t his usual anger; this isn’t who he is. Carver hits and shouts; he doesn’t coolly tell people to ‘fuck off’. He stands up slowly, sword pointing at his chest. “I don’t care how worried she is. She doesn’t get to choose when she can protect me.”
“Don’t be a stubborn ass.” Aveline’s too smart not to realize she’d lose a fight if the others joined in, but no one has moved a muscle.
Carver’s not dumb enough to go up against her by himself. He’s been down that road before; it’s nothing but a whole lot of pain and bruises. He casts a hopeless glance at his friends.
Unae and Pierre look anywhere but at him or Aveline. Then there’s Elaine; Carver could kick himself for expecting any sympathy from her; according to her: Marian cares about him.
“I’m not going.”
Aveline shakes her head, “Then you leave me no choice.”
Carver’s reflexes are not quick enough to reach for his sword before Aveline has slammed her shield into his stomach and brought down the hilt of her sword on his head.
----------
A hunt was ordered for Warden Alistair after he appeared in camp.
There is none after Carver is spirited away. They are not questioned about his disappearance; Elaine does not offer up any information, neither do Unae or Pierre. The matter seemingly at rest.
The world is not; an explosion destroys the Conclave and shakes the foundation of the world. The masses turn their eyes towards Haven as the wardens prepare for the final push west.
Elaine keeps looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Carver. But he does not come back.
(She can just picture his outrage upon coming to consciousness. Judging by the quick work his sister’s friend made of him, it is unlikely he will be rejoining them any time soon. She doubts he will count himself lucky someone cared enough to come for him.)
As they march, the rhythm of the Calling’s song changes. It grows louder, but gentler at the same time as though they are acting in accordance with what it wants. For once the melody is soothing.
Her mind may be at ease, but in her heart, Elaine senses something is terribly wrong. She pukes up her dinner on the side of the road.
She is not alone in sensing the Calling’s change. Others accept it as a good sign. Those who were stupid enough to let Carver get through to them struggle to hold anything down.
Holding Unae’s hair back, Elaine silently curses Carver. She hopes he’s still suffering from the Calling as much as the rest of them.
Morale sinks like sand pits when they reach the Western Approach, even those with confidence in Clarel waver. Every day they spend in this wasteland, it is becoming more apparent who is in control. Stroud is barred from the officers’ tent. Clarel’s bearing weakens; Erimond demands more of her than she is willing to give.
A morning comes when Erimond does not march with them. When, at last, Clarel addresses them, her eyes are drained and vacant. Her words do not sound like her own, but like orders she is reluctant to follow.
“If the Calling takes the Grey Wardens there will be no one left to defend Thedas against the Blight. We have but one course of action: we must launch an assault on the Deep Roads and slay the remaining archdemons before they awake. To do so, Lord Erimond has proposed a solution.”
A warden not far from Elaine shouts over their heads, “Then why has he abandoned us now?”
Swallowing, “He has gone to prepare his part of the plan. Since our numbers are too few, the unthinkable is necessary. We must raise a demon army.”
The former Circle mages cry out in distress. The cost for a demon army – it cannot be worth it. Not even at the risk of another Blight. Elaine’s nails dig into her palms.
Clarel waits for the angry and fearful muttering to die down, “This is not a decision I have made lightly. Now, more than ever, I implore you to remember your oaths.”
Their oaths.
Words chosen for them, put in their mouths after some fluke of survival. What good are they?
They are beholden to words most of them never would have chosen to utter. How many of them volunteered for the Joining or had no other option?
What part she must play is not yet clear, but the Calling will not relent, of that much Elaine is certain. It will drive the wardens to their doom or it will drive them mad.
----------
Battered by the Inquisition’s trebuchets, the walls of the fortress shake. Next to her in the cell, Elaine’s companions shudder with each pounding. Her knees do not keep still so well either.
Clarel’s – Erimond’s solution came together piece by piece, but when the warriors and rouges’ purpose was revealed, it was too late. Both frightened and powerful, the mages cast anyone who resisted into the holding cells.
In vain, Elaine tried to speak reason to Unae. (“We have no choice.”)
The marching of several hundred soldiers on Adamant is at once a blessing and a curse. If they break through the walls, the Inquisition can put an end to this madness. If they break through the walls – Elaine will not dwell on how great the Inquisitor’s wrath is fabled to be.
Whatever the outcome of the battle, their guard has abandoned them. Pierre picks at the lock backwards.
Elaine cannot stand still any longer, “Let me try.”
She has not needed to use this skill since she was a child, when Solange would lock her in her bedroom to keep her out of the way, but the subtle tricks and muscle memory are still there.
The lock clicks open, “Voila!”
They race stumbling out of the cell towards their gear. If the Inquisition has come to eliminate the wardens, they will not go down undefended.
In the bailey, it is chaos; there are no clear sides to the battle: Inquisition fights demons; wardens fight wardens. Elaine knows not where to turn or who to raise her knives against.
“Lay down your arms! The Inquisition has no quarrel with the Grey Wardens! If you fall back now, you won’t be harmed!”
Elaine’s head spins around, eyes landing on the shining white and red armor of a woman with a bow. The hand that grips the weapon glows a sickly green.
“Listen to her – please! The Inquisition will spare your lives!” Elaine almost does not recognize the warrior, but Alistair’s pleas are enough to convince a few of the would-be sacrifices to stand down.
The wardens lower their weapons, allowing them passage to the battlements. The Inquisitor takes the lead; Alistair on her heels and trailed by three others, none of which bear the mark of the Inquisition but follow without question or commands.
She should do as her fellow wardens and lay her weapons down, but Elaine grips her knives tighter and breaks into a sprint towards the main courtyard.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” Pierre shouts after her.
She does not shout back; because she is too far away, because she is not rightly sure herself.
There are other sacrifices who need rescuing. She cannot be certain the Inquisitor will make the distinction between hostile and unwilling sacrifice again, or be so merciful a second time.
Unlike the rest of the fortress, the courtyard is eerily reminiscent of a chantry sanctuary. The mages watch in deference as Clarel paces up and down, proselytizing about their duty. Only Erimond bristles under the threat of the Inquisition’s siege.
Elaine moves silently along the walls towards the sacrifices on the far side of the courtyard. A mixture of the willing and the most troublesome opponents await their fate; Elaine counts herself lucky she bit her tongue when she did.
Enraptured by Clarel, only the sacrifices notice when Elaine deftly picks at their cuffs; for the moment, they act as though they had not been freed. If only she had weapons to offer them.
She struggles with a tricky lock when an old warrior joins Clarel and Erimond on the wall.
“It has been many long years, my friend.”
“Too many, Clarel. If my sword arm can no longer serve the wardens, then my blood will have to do.”
Clarel’s whisper is barely heard over the scraping of oak and iron against stone, though Elaine is the only one to turn away. The Inquisitor charges in moments too late; the warrior’s blood spills to the ground.
“It’s done, Clarel! There will be no ritual, and no demon army!”
Listening intently, Elaine works quicker. The argument is just the distraction she needs to complete her mission.
Clarel stands her ground against the Inquisitor, even with only a fractured army to oppose the Inquisition’s full might. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them!”
“And then he binds your mages to Corypheus!” Alistair speaks the impossible.
Every warden shivers at the name; Clarel most of all. No one dares breathe; Elaine forgets to keep picking locks.
But Erimond’s grip on Clarel is stronger than her fear of Corypheus. “Bring it through!”
The Inquisitor takes cautious steps forward, but one of the others raises their voice: a mage with a streak of blood smeared across the bridge of her nose, the Champion of Kirkwall. “Please, I have seen more than my share of blood magic! It is never worth the cost!”
Elaine suddenly remembers what she came here to do and clicks the last few sacrifices free; they do not bother to hide their unshackled hands now. The Inquisitor’s companions have the yard’s undivided attention.
Alistair lends the weight of his service at Denerim, imploring Clarel to remember he is not the enemy, “If this were a fight against future Blights, I would be at your side. But it’s a lie!”
Slowly, the fog lifts from Clarel’s eyes. She takes a step back from the sacrifice.
Erimond hisses, slamming his staff on the stones. The approaching roar is deafening.
Elaine’s heart leaps into her throat. She did not think she would face an archdemon in a hundred years. It ought to be ages more til another one rose from the depths. It crashes down onto the fortress’s walls, causing more destruction than the Inquisition’s siege towers. Clarel is the first to turn on Erimond.
“Help the Inquisitor!” she commands before tearing after him as he flees and it is like waking from a terrible dream.
But the real world is just as much a nightmare. The archdemon blasts fire into the courtyard and demons spring forth from the rift left by Erimond. Wardens, uncorrupted, armed or unarmed, rise up.
Abandoning stealth, Elaine buries her daggers into the nearest rage demon. It wails in anger, thrashing against her stabbing.
The fight lasts minutes and abruptly ends. Demons vanish into the fade rift; corrupted wardens lay down their staffs. The sky is empty of the archdemon. Confused, everyone else waits for something – for someone to give an order.
Without resistance, the Inquisition’s forces flood into Adamant. Their commander marches through the courtyard, demanding to speak with whoever’s in charge; no one dares answer.
“The Inquisitor, where did she go?”
A handful of others point him in the direction Erimond and Clarel went.
Beckoning several soldiers to accompany him, the commander climbs to the upper battlements. He returns shortly, an unconscious Erimond in tow.
With an air of authority the present wardens desperately lack, “Warden-Commander Clarel is dead. Adamant is now under Inquisition control. You are to remain here while we secure the fortress and await the Inquisitor’s return.”
He watches the inactive but still looming rift, concern lining his face. Inhaling, “Do you have any other senior officers among you?”
The commanders were the first to be sacrificed or corrupted. Erimond would have no challenge to Clarel’s commands (his demands).
“Warden Alistair was with the Inquisitor,” Elaine offers after a long stretch of silence.
“Then we must await his return as well,” the commander nods.
And wait they do. The commander is in and out of the courtyard, overseeing the securing of their new holding, but it is an hour since he last appeared. Elaine finds a place out of the way where she can sit, but keep an eye on the tear.
Unae joins her, dazed still, “I am sorry.”
“The fault was not yours.”
“All the same.”
Elaine accepts the apology. Mostly relieved Unae did not complete the ritual.
They wait another hour in silence. The wardens start to fidget with uncertainty. While the commander has not returned to give them any other instructions, agents flit to and fro. There is no sign of the Inquisitor or Alistair.
Redoing the buckles on her armor, Elaine takes her eyes off the rift. It is just for a moment, but the rift snaps and cracks awake.
The Inquisitor’s companions stumble out, coated in undiscernible grime and muck.
A woman with an old scar on her cheek orders one of the agents to find Commander Cullen.
A dwarf helps the other man to his feet. Trying not to groan in pain himself, “Let’s get you cleaned up, Sparkler.”
Though they occupy themselves with healing, the new arrivals do not go far. The wardens wait anxiously, never taking their eyes off the rift; the others cannot be far behind.
Alistair falls out, breathless. A few wardens step forward to aid him.
Immediately behind him, the Inquisitor leaps out of the Fade. With a great crash, the rift is sealed behind her. She wipes the sweat from her brow on her sleeve, but no one dares approach to tend to her.
Brushing the attending wardens aside, Alistair steps forward. The half-cocked grin that spreads across his face must use all his remaining energy. “They just saw their Inquisitor work another miracle.”
“They need something to believe in,” her voice is horse, but firm.
Elaine cannot hear Alistair’s response over the dwarf pushing his way back through the crowd, pursued by the warrior woman. He looks around wildly, “Where’s Hawke?”
For the first time, Elaine notices the Champion did not return through the rift. She must have kept pace with the Inquisitor. It is odd she would not have gone with them wherever they went or not come back by the same means.
The smirk slips from Alistair’s face. He stares down at his feet.
The dwarf’s voice breaks when he asks the question again.
Never breaking eye contact with the dwarf, the Inquisitor speaks for all to hear, “Hawke sacrificed her life to save us and strike a decisive blow against Corypheus.”
The rest of what she says is drowned out by the gasps and muttering; no one dares block the dwarf’s path.
Unae mummers, “The Champion is Carver’s sister, is she not?”
Elaine can hear his derisive ‘More like a pain in my ass,’ but nods. “That does not make her invincible.”
She feels strange, like she should grieve Hawke on Carver’s behalf. She does not think he would; after all, Carver’s regard for his sister is not much higher than Elaine’s for Solange.
She is more concerned with what will become of the wardens. Around them, others are asking the same question. The wardens are in disarray; the Inquisition likely will not trust them to their own devices.
The look Alistair gives the warden who informs him he is now their most senior officer would make the archdemon flee all over again, but he has no answers.
“You leave. By the authority of the Inquisition, you are banished from southern Thedas,” come the command. The Inquisitor raises her chin, daring anyone to challenge her.
----------
Adamant vanishes behind them in a sand storm. Their footsteps blown away by the gales, there is no turning back.
At least, clear skies ahead make the prospect of journeying north far more appealing than it was a week ago when Inquisitor Trevelyan ordered it.
The wardens march divided. Though they follow Alistair, those who condoned Clarel’s choices chafe under his command. Those who resisted find it difficult not to resent him for abandoning them.
Most nights Alistair isolates himself from the companies rather than be scrutinized from all sides around the fire. He takes more watches than he should. The shadows under his eyes are darker every morning.
Elaine begrudges him as much as the rest of them. They needed as many voices as they could get to sway Clarel from Erimond’s influence, but he ran instead. If he did not require their aid to investigate the False Calling, he does not need their support now as their commander.
Alistair emerges from his tent to assign duties. Elaine does not look up when he calls her name for first watch alongside himself, though Pierre does pat her shoulder for luck when he turns in for the night.
Neither broaches the silence.
Staring into the night, Elaine stretches her neck. Créateur, what did I do to deserve this punishment?
The fire dims to embers, when Alistair exhales. He muses, “That’s a wonderful sound.”
“I do not hear anything,” Elaine replies testily.
“Exactly.”
Elaine lets the silence wash over her again. No Calling – not even a pulsing rhythm. For the first time in a year, her head is not threatening to split open.
She wonders what broke its spell: the roar of the archdemon or the slaying of the Nightmare or if Corypheus simply realized his grip was slipping.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It was better when we were not speaking.”
Alistair chuckles, “I’ve never been much good at holding my tongue.”
“Then I presume you have written to Carver already.”
He sobers, “I thought I recognized you from somewhere. He isn’t usually very fond of spreading personal details around – who his sister is least of all.”
Elaine shrugs, “I figured it out. We were serving under Stroud until one of his sister’s associates came and, quite literally, dragged him back to Kirkwall.”
“Then Hawke was able to protect him,” he says, not speaking to Elaine. Then, face in the palm of his hand, “I did try. I just – couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he does not answer the question.
“Someone should tell him. And you were there.”
“Varric will convey the message better than I ever could.” Scoffing at himself, “There’s always someone better suited to the task then me.”
“Confidence inspiring words from our warden-commander.”
Alistair winces, “You see what I mean?”
Elaine rolls her eyes, “Ferelden is fortunate you were not crowned king.”
“Oh. You know about too then. Well, on that front, you and I are in agreement.”
Elaine buries the toe of her boot in the sand; something else plagues the back of her mind. It has no melody, so it is not the Calling which troubles her. What lies ahead is a mystery.
Breaching the silence, “What sort of welcome should we expect at Weisshaupt?”
“A cold one. First Warden Alberic doesn’t much like me. If Faun were here –” he cuts himself short.
“Someone else more capable than you?”
“The Hero of Ferelden or my darling wife, as I call her. She would know what to do.”
She may not know Faun, but Elaine cannot help but think Alistair a coward for wishing he could hide behind her. Suited for the task or not, it has fallen on him.
Someone ought to smack some sense into him. If Alistair were not her commanding officer, Elaine might do so herself.
She settles for a stern talking to, “Ferme ta gueule. If I were your Faun, I would be ashamed of you. You are wallowing, instead of taking action. Since she is not here, act as you think she would.”
Alistair’s taken aback, “What if I don’t know what that is?”
“Je m’en fiche. Figure it out. Tu me gonfles.”
Elaine is quite satisfied when their watch ends and Alistair is still bewildered.
----------
The further Aveline took him from Orlais, the softer the Calling became. That alone was reason enough not to return.
Distance, however, couldn’t make it fade completely. Though no one else will say they noticed a change in his temper, Carver was always on edge. His teeth may never recover from all the grinding.
But suddenly his jaw goes slack and he no longer feels the need to stuff his ears with cotton. The Calling is gone.
Word from the Western Approach trickles in slowly. Carver waits for a litany of the dead.
He is just returning to his bunk when Aveline calls him into her office. She shuts the door behind them and circles behind the desk.
Not much has changed over the years, only a few personal touches here and there. Her first husband’s shield adorning the wall is a painful reminder of the day they fled Lothering.
“You may want to sit down, Carver,” Aveline gestures to the chair behind him, heeding her own advice.
Her face is drawn tight; her usually squared shoulders slump. Her demeanor makes him nervous.
“Why? What is it?” he demands, but he doesn’t sit.
“This came from Varric,” she holds out a letter to him. “It’s about Hawke.”
Carver’s jaw clenches. He can’t seem to extend his arm to take it from her.
“She was a causality at Adamant. There was an incident in the Fade, Hawke stayed behind –”
Ripping the letter from her grasp, Carver cuts Aveline off. His eyes dart down the page. It’s not true; he cannot be all that remains.
He is so absorbed, searching for some catch, he does not hear Aveline’s soft, “I’m sorry,” or the door clicking shut.
This is just fucking typical of Marian. A chance for some daring heroics and she leaps at the opportunity, only to leave him behind as usual. He could just hit her – only he can’t.
She’s gone – lost in the Fade. He stares at that particular phrase a long time.
She had to be the one sacrificed, didn’t she? She couldn’t let anyone else take the glory, could she? She couldn’t have let anyone else stay behind – it’s not in her nature.
Varric was there, couldn’t he have dissuaded her? Alistair was there, couldn’t he have pushed her out? The Inquisitor was responsible for their lives, why didn’t she make sure they all made it through? He blames them all – Marian included.
Beyond Varric’s tailored condolences, he writes of the fate of the wardens, those who survived at any rate. Banished, they march for Weisshaupt under Alistair’s command.
Crumpling the letter, Carver storms out of Aveline’s office to the barracks. He collects his kit and other belongs, leaving behind anything he won’t need on the journey.
Aveline finds him there, arms crossed.
“I’m leaving,” is all he offers by way of an explanation.
“Take care of yourself, Carver.”
He nods and doesn’t look back.
----------
She was surrounded by grand villas and theatres and curios her whole youth. But all those structures, no matter how large or lavishly designed, would crumble to dust if faced with the reality of another Blight.
Weisshaupt, however, was built to withstand; Weisshaupt was built to last. Elaine is awestruck by its intimidating presence on the horizon.
Mercifully, they are spared its First Warden’s immediate condemnation upon arrival; Alberic away in Hossberg, negotiating with the King of the Anderfels. Travel weary and mistrustful, the Orlesian wardens settle uneasily into the fortress.
Fights break out, nearly hourly. Elaine helps Pierre restrain Unae when she is accused of aiding and abetting Erimond.
Elaine seethes, “And when we were all hearing the Calling, where were you?”
They were not there; they do not know how maddening it was. If they had been there, they would have succumbed too.
“Defending Clarel now, are you?” Siegfried jeers.
“Clarel was just trying to do her duty,” Unae breaks.
“To the wardens or to Corypheus?”
Elaine’s grip slips from Unae to her dagger; steel rings against steel.
Without Elaine to help him, Unae knocks Pierre off her and blasts Siegfried backwards. She does not wait for him to recover; she grabs Elaine by the elbow and pulls her away. Pierre trails behind.
When they finally stop retreating, Elaine puts her hand on Unae’s shoulder, “They do not know what they are talking about.”
“But they’re right. Clarel was serving Corypheus, even if she didn’t know it.”
“I doubt they would have fared any better in our position. Nobody knew Corypheus could influence the blighted like that.”
“Yes, they did.” Alistair joins them. “The First Warden didn’t think it was necessary for more than a handful to know.”
“You knew?” Elaine spits.
“Not until it was too late.” He at least has the decency to look ashamed.
“How could Alberic not think that was pertinent information? We could have been prepared!” It is the first Elaine has ever seen Pierre this livid.
Alistair shakes his head, “To cover their mistakes.”
Elaine’s fingers curl into a fist. It seems it is all the wardens are: secrets and death traps (if Solange knew how many times she’s already avoided them).
“What else has he refused to tell us?”
“Plenty, I’m sure.”
“What do we do now?”
Alistair glances over his shoulder, “Keep your heads down. You were right not to trust Erimond, but the others will condemn you for following Clarel’s orders. Don’t let them rile you.”
There is a tentative truce. Lines are drawn, but are only meant to hold until Alberic’s return. A few scuffles still break out. Elaine notes Alistair has difficultly heeding his own advice, being the target of most of the attacks.
“Alistair, you bastard!”
Alistair mimics the taunt under his breath, “Like I’ve never heard –”
Elaine turns just in time to see the right hook that cracks Alistair’s nose and knocks him to the ground.
For a moment, the whole yard is frozen. Elaine almost does not recognize Carver, standing over Alistair, unshaven and seething with anger.
Still rooted to her spot, Elaine catches Carver’s eye. “About time you showed up.”
He rolls his eyes at her as the baily comes to escort him to a holding cell.
----------
First Warden Alberic firmly back in his seat, they speak less openly of their discontent. All except for Alistair, who calls out Alberic for his transgressions rather publicly.
“I will be interested in transparency talk from you, Warden Alistair, when you and Warden-Commander Tabris deign to inform any of us how you managed to defeat the archdemon and yet are still here to bother me to no end.”
Alistair can only swallow.
Elaine must admit, it had not occurred to her the wardens who ended the Fifth Blight survived where no other warden in history has.
“The secret is not mine,” he explains later to a small group of followers. “It would put Ki – someone I care about at risk.”
“You owe me, Alistair,” Carver folds his arms. “Twofold.”
Alistair may not hold the punch against Carver, but Carver’s grievances are not satisfied.
Alistair’s inability to bear the news of Hawke’s fate was not a lack of words, but an overabundance of guilt. For once, Elaine does not test Carver’s dislike for his sister against her own. There is no need to make his foul mood fouler. But twofold, she does not agree with.
“I find it difficult to believe you cared for your sister that much.”
“It has nothing to do with Marian,” Carver retorts.
“Carver,” Alistair says weakly, “I’m not the only one of us with secrets.”
Carver’s eyes narrow at Alistair, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “The wardens threatened my father into performing blood magic to help them keep Corypheus imprisoned. My sister and I were tricked into freeing him.”
Gasps and muttering ripple through their small cluster of allies, but who can say how loyal they will remain. Some of them whisper ‘traitor,’ but the word hardly holds water amongst them anymore.
Elaine’s own blood runs cold, divided. All this grief and suffering, and Carver was responsible all along.
“We thought we killed him,” he explains further. “We didn’t know he could possess blighted people.”
It is not enough to absolve Carver entirely, but no one storms out.
And as if they did not remember, Alistair reminds them, “And Hawke gave her life so we could fix our mess and rebuild.”
After surveying the gathered, Alistair’s gaze lands back on Carver. A silent challenge is issued; if Carver can lay bare his transgressions against the wardens, so too can the man they would follow into rebellion.
He chews his lip, carefully considering his words, “I still do not understand the full nature of the ritual Morrigan offered to us, but it was rooted in old magic. The result was protection against the final blow to the archdemon.”
“What sort of ritual?” Helga demands.
“That I cannot say – not until I know the person I care about is safe,” Alistair insists. “But it gave us hope there may be a cure for the Calling.”
Not a word is uttered.
“That’s where Faun’s been all this time – out west, searching…”
His voice trails off. Warden-Commander Faun’s inexplicable absence from their ranks almost does not matter in comparison to what she may achieve. If she does succeed, Alberic is sure to keep that knowledge to himself (all the more reason to rise up).
Others still seem uncertain, fidgeting in place.
“If we find a way to protect the person you care about, will you tell us everything you know about the ritual?” Elaine suggests.
“Of course,” Alistair agrees. “I may already have an idea how to protect him. Give me time then you can all decide if this fight is worth it.”
----------
In the days that follow, Carver feels like a dying animal, vultures circling overhead.
Some of their allies were none too pleased with his confession; some of them may have turned sides. Others thought it was courageous. Either way, he hears the whispers, but their numbers do not swell.
Passing along coded notes feels like something out of one of Varric’s novels, but they could mean the difference between making their move and biding their time.
They keep an eye on one of the lesser armories from the yard, just in case.
Carver spins the hilt of his sword, tip in the ground.
“Can you actually use that thing? Or do you just play with it?”
He looks up at Elaine twirling her knives. He wonders if she’s always had that nervous habit or she’s picked it up from spending too much time with him.
“Are you looking for a fight?”
Elaine has the audacity to laugh, “Not with you.” Then prodding, “Come on.”
Carver shrugs her off. “I’m not in the mood.”
“We should do something.”
“We’re keeping a look out.”
“Hardly,” she scoffs.
She’s right, annoyingly. There hasn’t been much point to guarding the armory; it’s so small and poorly supplied, Alberic could probably let them have it and the rebels still wouldn’t be much of a challenge, even if their numbers beyond Weisshaupt are increasing.
Carver scratches at his chin, not used to the scruff he hasn’t bothered to shave, yet pleasantly surprised how fully it’s grown. (Only once has he ever let one grow; it was sparse and uneven. Marian mocked its patchiness, even Bethany couldn’t help but laugh.)
Offhand, “That is a good look for you.”
“You think?”
“Hides your awful Ferelden chin.”
Something between chuckle and a growl escapes Carver’s throat.
Elaine is baffling to him; she is friendly and coy. His admission of guilt seems to have made her more willing to speak to him, where it’s had the opposite effect on nearly everyone else.
Abruptly, she hurls one of her daggers at the target across the way. It sinks deep into the well-beaten straw just left of dead center.
She groans, “This waiting is insufferable.”
“Well, what else would you suggest?”
“Baise-moi,” she snaps, hand flying up over her mouth as soon as it escapes.
Confused, “You know damn well, I don’t speak any Orlesian.”
“Seins des Andraste. I said ‘Fuck me,’ you imbécile.”
He’s pretty sure he only heard the middle part and he must have heard wrong. There’s no way Elaine just asked him to fuck her. “What?”
“Instead of wasting our time here, fuck me.”
“Are you serious?”
Tired of repeating herself, “Do you want to fuck me or not?”
Looking her up and down, in a way he hasn’t before, “I may be an idiot, I’m not a lunatic.”
Elaine drops her second dagger in the dirt and digs her nails into the back of Carver’s neck, her mouth slamming into his. Her tongue is so far down his throat, Carver is fairly certain he’ll choke, but it’s deft at more than just languages.
It doesn’t take much coaxing to draw his hands about her waist then drop them lower.
Not that he isn’t enjoying himself immensely, but he breaks the lock on their lips long enough to utter, “You know it’s been a while –”
“Do not ruin this. I may never ask again.”
Hint taken, Carver tightens his grip on Elaine’s ass, so she involuntarily squeals. If this is a onetime deal, he’s going to make the most of it.
Carver slings Elaine over his shoulder and carries her to the nearest empty barracks. She is just as easily tossed on the bed as he is pulled on top of her. They work at each other’s armor til it all falls off, clanging to the floor.
It’s harder work than Carver remembers, though strangely he’s only too willing to oblige. Elaine knows what she wants, nor does she allow herself to be pinned for long.
Hooking her legs around his hips and flipping him on his back, she sits upright. Carver can’t resist the urge to feel her curves beneath his fingertips; a shiver shoots down her spine. All the tension from his muscles releases as well.
“You were right,” he murmurs later when they are spent, Elaine’s head on his chest. “This was a much better use of our time.”
“I knew you would see it my way,” she grins.
“Any chance we’ll do this again sometime?”
“Peut-être de temps en temps.”
Carver groans, “Damnable woman.”
Frustrating as it is when she slips into Orlesian, there’s one phrase Carver’s interested in committing to memory.
----------
Elaine should feel ashamed of herself for fucking Carver Hawke – more so for actually enjoying it, but she does not.
“You aren’t pity fucking me, are you?” he asks after their second time.
“You hardly need my pity,” she scoffs. “Maybe if you were actually fond of your sister.”
“Thanks for making me feel better,” he rolls his eyes.
Perhaps a little too harsh, but Carver has not mourned the Champion nor does it seem as though he actually will. Either way, the rebellion is more pressing on his mind these days. As it is for all of them.
Alistair finally receives the news he was waiting for (Spymaster told Crow; en route to Dragon); now more than ever they wait for the fall of Alberic’s hammer.
Their distraction finished; Elaine collects her things – back to reality.
Carver lingers on the bed, leaning his head against the wall. He muses aloud, “It’s a new place for me to be.”
Snorting, “Never let a woman on top before?”
No immediate retort. Carver is not one to let a taunt like that pass by.
Elaine hesitates; the intensity of his gaze makes her nervous. She almost does not want to know the end of the thought, but he seems to be looking through her, rather than at her.
Coming out of his trace, “Usually Marian was the superior asshole.”
Her heart beats again. She laughs, relieved, “I would not be so sure about that.”
There is a mischievous gleam in Carver’s eye just before he launches himself out of the bed.
His attempt to tackle her is easily evaded and Elaine gets a clear view of something she had not noticed in the dark. She laughs harder at the mabari permanently inked on his ass.
If she was unsure whether she wanted to hear it moments ago, Elaine is absolutely positive now the last words she ever wants to hear from Carver Hawke are a declaration of love.
----------
She does not hear or see what instigates the fight, but Elaine can guess. She cannot deny she admires Alistair’s willingness to defend his bastard son, even if it forces them to flee Weisshaupt earlier than anticipated.
The sun beats down on them as the fortress grows smaller in the distance.
Unae drops to the back with Elaine. “It’s finally happening.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Though it would have been better if we did not have to give up so much ground.”
Unae gives her a quizzical look. “Oh. You mean Weisshaupt.”
“Of course, I mean Weisshaupt. What else would I mean?”
“Nothing. Just I wasn’t talking about the rebellion.”
“What did you mean?”
Unae’s eyes flit towards the front of the group, where Carver trudges, leading them towards the designated rendezvous point. She raises her brow.
“That is hardly relevant at the moment,” Elaine scoffs.
“Fine,” her friend dismisses the topic. “I just thought we could use the distraction.”
Someday, Elaine will fill Unae in on the scandalous details, but she would rather not be watching over her shoulder as she does. (Well, maybe not all of them.)
Unae hangs her head, “I never thanked you for sticking by me.”
“What do you mean?”
“During the Calling when all the mages were affected more than anyone else. You could have let me follow Clarel blindly, but you didn’t. You made sure I still doubted my actions.”
“To be honest, I was not so clear what I was doing myself.”
“It was enough. Thank you.”
“De rien.” Elaine squeezes Unae’s hand.
The terrain does not get any easier to manage as the time wears on. Most of them did not sleep a wink before Alberic tried to have them all detained.
When Elaine looks behind her, the desert haze plays tricks on her eyes. She no longer sees the warden fortress, but the Montbelliard estate.
What surprises her is how little she regrets not fighting for a place in that household. She had no legitimate claim there. Solange rejected her and spat her out; Alberic would do the same to the rebels, if given the opportunity.
But Weisshaupt and the Grey Wardens are the home she will fight for. Elaine will not let herself or the others be cast aside so easily.