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![[autumnyte]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/avatar_1d3b0a6e6ee4_30.png "Take the Plan, Spin it Sideways. (autumnyte)")
![[liquidlyrium]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/avatar_c4181865cc80_30.png "NERD ALERT O: (liquidlyrium)")
Carver wiped off his sword and re-sheathed it. He gave Fenris the side-eye. “I’m ready.”
Fenris nodded. “Lead the way, Hawke.”
Quinn nodded and took the lead once more, “Right, I want to get to the bottom of this.” He glanced over at Varric, the dwarf had been suspiciously quiet all morning. “Something wrong Varric?”
The dwarf shook his head, “No, just… thinking.” The short man kept his own counsel for a long time.
It was another solid hour of walking before they neared their destination.
“I think this is it,” Varric said quietly as they approached the spot on the Warden’s map. The bard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “This doesn’t make sense though, none of my contacts in the Carta know about this place—it shouldn’t be here. I don’t like having blind spots in my network of information.”
Quinntus looked around, there was definitely some sort of structure here, but he couldn’t tell what it really looked like yet, due to the rocky outcroppings everywhere. The path they were on had once been paved with flagstones along a natural, meandering gap between two such outcrops.
“Well, it is here, and so are we,” Quinntus finally said.
Varric rubbed at his chin again, “A fine point. Just.. let’s be careful. Bianca agrees with Junior. Something weird is going on here.”
“I do have a bad feeling,” Carver looked around at the strange site. “But ultimately, does it matter? We just need them to stop trying to kill us.”
Fenris curled his fists, “Whatever the reason, they won’t get the chance to attack again.” He planned to eliminate every last one.
Varric conceded the point, “True. So, we have a plan or what?”
Quinn smirked, “Oh I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Later we’ll have tea and laugh about it.”
Varric shook his head, “‘Oh your name is Hawke? I thought it was Locke, heh heh heh!’” His impersonation of a generic bad-guy was fairly accurate, in Quinn’s opinion.
”Yes, we were looking for some other combination of general and ringmaster.” Carver quickly added, figuring if they were going to joke about everything he might as well join them.
Quinntus and Varric exchanged a quick look. The dwarf raised his brows. Quinntus shrugged with a bewildered shake of his head. He’d half-expected Carver to object to their jesting. “….Let’s go.” Things suddenly seemed more.. serious to Quinntus. And he wondered if it was truly wise to bring his baby brother on such a venture. He bit his lip and glanced at Carver.
As if reading his brother’s mind, Carver raised his chin proudly and added, “Good thing the wardens let me come. An attack like this, you need my help.”
“That’s… good,” Carver mumbled, shivering beneath Anders’s touch. Even as the marks got erased completely from his skin, he could still feel the ghost of them there. It was a vivid sense memory, and one he wouldn’t forget any time soon. As he came down further from the hazy adrenaline rush, confusion continued to whirl through Carver’s mind. What was Anders thinking? Had Carver simply been convenient, a warm body, or had he unwittingly served as some sort of stand-in for his brother? The thought, the likelihood of the latter filled him with a wave of nausea, and he could taste a hint of bile in his throat.
For his part, Anders was surprised at how little he’d actually thought about Quinntus during the entire thing. His mind had been consumed in the present, with Carver, wonderful Carver. Don’t get infatuated with him, just because he’s the first person to sleep with you in an age, Anders sternly told himself. You’re through with Hawkes. Even though he’d just let one seduce him. WE SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE THIS, Justice intoned in his mind. IT IS A DISTRACTION. It was harder to tell the spirit to be quiet, to keep his place when he was healing like this, borrowing his powers. Anders cleared his throat softly, and tried to say something to alleviate the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “So..uh…your second time with a man. How was it? Was it… Were you.. curious?” That.. seemed safe enough, yes. Civil.
“Are you joking? That… was bloody incredible.” Carver blurted. He had a tendency toward loose lips after sex, even moreso when he was feeling a bit nervous. Cringing, he cleared his throat and struggled to filter his words before they left his mouth. “I mean, uh, it was… better. Than the first time. Much better. I never…” He laughed nervously. “I never used to think I’d sleep with a man. But it’s… good. Different. But good.”
Anders could see his hand visibly shaking, he swallowed hard, and placed his hand on Carver’s neck, running the cool glow of healing energy down the man’s shoulder. “Good,” the mage’s voice was thick. “I’m glad it was good for both of us.” DISHONESTY, Justice blared through his thoughts FOR WHAT PURPOSE? THIS VENTURE HAS CORRUPTED YOU ANDERS. “I mean, better than good,” Anders hastily affixed to the end of his statement, in part to please his passenger. “ Much better than good.” The healer reached around, and ran his hand over Carver’s back next, soothing the numerous scratches he left behind. “It… is different yes, but if you do it right, like that.. then…” Anders trailed off a bit lamely. He desperately wanted to ask, So why did you want to do it with me, but he wasn’t sure Carver even had an answer for that.
“I was worried I might screw it up. I’m glad I didn’t, then.” He smacked his forehead. Smooth, Carver. Very smooth. Anders’s callused fingers and the chill of his magic against bare skin sent a tiny jolt straight to Carver’s groin. Maker, calm down and give it a blighted rest! He realized he’d been ruined for traveling with Anders now. He’d never be able to so much as look at those hands without going half-hard at the memory of all this. His mind wandered in the sudden silence, and curiosity began to overwhelm Carver. Before he could stop himself, he asked. “Did you ever think that we’d… that you and I might… do this?” He doubted such a thing had ever occurred to Anders, but he was desperate for some indication of what the mage was thinking about what had happened.
Anders smiled softly. It was sweet, the way Carver was so nervous, so concerned with his enjoyment. The question, however, made his heart beat a little more frantically. “Honestly? I was with you, I didn’t think you were… inclined towards men,” the mage felt proud he’d found a better way to phrase it than ‘like your brother.’ He didn’t want to bring Quinntus into this, for once. He was tired of having his life ruled by the other man, even if he was unaware of his power. “If I had known before… then.. perhaps I would have thought about it.” Carver certainly was cute, back then, and now he’d grown up and become handsome.
Varric handed the pots to Quinn, who made quick work of cleaning off the dishes, with a smart quip that they could dry everything off on Varric’s chest hair. Quinntus got to his feet, and brushed off his thighs as he stood. Bed was starting to sound good now, but more than anything, he wanted to curl up against Fenris, to be close to him. The long day of light, insufficient touches had been agonizing torture.
“Well, I’ll see you all after I catch some beauty sleep,” Varric said with a small salute and a smile.
Quinntus shot the dwarf a crooked smile, “Ah, don’t get any more beautiful Varric! Kirkwall couldn’t take it!”
Anders shook his head with a small snort of laughter, and decided to join Carver in the tent. This was going to be interesting, a broadsword and a staff and two full grown men all trying to fit into one tent.
Carver had stripped out of his armor and was wearing his undertunic and a pair of leggings. He set his sword at the very corner of the tent and curled himself up into a ball against the right side, feeling awkward due to his large form and not wanting to encroach on Anders’s space.
Fenris turned to Quinntus, suddenly concerned. “Should… someone take watch?”
Quinn shook his head, “Hang on…” He dug through the heavier of the packs and took out several tripwires and traps. He spent the better part of half an hour going around camp and concealing traps and setting up wires. He finished tying off the last wire and adjusted it so that it wouldn’t catch on the intermittent moonlight. “There,” he said softly.
“Good,” Fenris murmured, and since the others had long-since retired to their tents, he slowly wrapped his arms around Quinn’s neck, clasping them behind his head, and pulled him down for a kiss.
Hawke felt his breath burn in his lungs like flames. It had felt like an eternity since he had Fenris had last kissed. He hooked his arms about the man’s waist, pulling the elf flush against him, the hot spark against his lips taking him completely by surprise. He’d thought it was going to be a simple kiss, an innocent kiss, but it ended up being anything but. He pulled back with gasping breath and a slight moan leaving his chest.
Any remaining illusions that Fenris might have entertained about restraining himself and spending a night chastely slumbering beside his lover were instantly shattered with that kiss. He laced his fingers through Quinn’s hair, and grabbing two fistfuls, whispered roughly in his ear, “Get into the tent.”
The terrain on the way to Vimmark was rough and craggy, largely uphill. As the sharp rock passed beneath his bare feet, Fenris found himself wishing he wasn’t so clumsy and awkward in shoes.
The sun beat down on the party as they moved further outside the city limits, and they all found themselves guarded, prepared for a possible Carta ambush. Carver kicked into Warden traveling mode and nursed his flask of water, even though he was parched. Varric and Anders kept smirking at his back, and Carver could not figure out why, but he was too embarrassed to ask them about it.
Quinntus smirked at his brother’s back from time to time, but largely he was concerned about spotting an attack. He was able to ignore the burning in his shoulders for a long time, only becoming truly aware of how much they hurt when he bent down to adjust his boots, and his pack rode up onto the back of his neck for a moment. He shrugged it off, and borrowed a sip of Fenris’s elfroot potion, which made most of his back feel better, but the places beneath the straps still burned. Quinntus realized he could feel blood trickling down his back, and he bit his lip.
Fenris noted Quinn’s discomfort, and his face looked a bit pale. When he saw Quinn take the elfroot potion, he stepped over and whispered, out of earshot of the others, “Do you require healing?”
Quinn nodded slowly. “Yes, I think my shoulders are bleeding.. all the chafing probably disturbed the scab forming there.” He smiled apologetically, “Only I would decide to do something like this before setting off on an excursion, right?”
Carver had spent the night blissfully unaware of the goings-on between his brother and Fenris—Quinntus having been relatively subdued and their room having been sufficiently separated from his own that the sound did not carry. Between the comfortable bed and the warm fire, he slept better than he had in weeks. Although he was plagued by nightmares, mostly about Darkspawn… one about his mother, they only woke him thrice during the night. When he arose the next morning, he felt largely refreshed. He shucked off his tunic and examined his fresh tattoo, pleased to find that it had healed even further during the night. After washing up, he dressed in his armor and headed downstairs to see if his brother or the elf were up and about yet.
Quinntus was clinging stubbornly to the bed, wrapping the sheet tightly about his naked body like a cocoon. He didn’t want to move. He was tired, and sore all over. His face was buried in the pillow, his hair a hopelessly tangled mass of red. He didn’t even want to get up and wash his face.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up, Fenris took the opportunity to spend a few moments silently studying Quinn’s new tattoos, now, in the brighter light of morning. He found himself surprisingly drawn to them, and he looked forward to a time when they would be healed and he could explore them directly, with his hands, with his mouth. He placed a hand gingerly on the back of Quinntus’s head. “We must rise, so that we can get going.”
Quinntus grumbled pulling the pillow over his head, as though that would somehow dismiss the morning and make it disappear. “Tell the Carta ‘m sleeping,” he mumbled into the sheets.”
With a roll of his eyes, Fenris shifted and started to stand, letting out a loud, painful groan the instant he tried to move. He was immensely sore, not just his backside, which ached as if he’d been split in two, but also his torso. He looked down and saw several purple bruises in the shape of Quinntus’s fingers, where he’d been gripped so tightly in the heat of passion. He sighed and smiled. It had been worth it. If the soreness persisted when they were ready to leave, he would take an elfroot potion, but for the moment, he rather enjoyed the tangible, persistent reminder of the previous night. Sticky and sweaty, he ambled across the room to prepare water and towels for washing up. Walking created a newly painful sensation, causing him to groan once more.
Quinntus lifted the pillow, and looked over at Fenris, recognizing that walk, “…I… I’m sorry. I should have prepared you more thoroughly.” His face was flushed a deep red. He felt bad, that his lover was so obviously sore from their activities. Slowly, Hawke pushed himself up, sitting on his knees as he gazed at Fenris in concern.
Once the dishes were cleaned, Fenris unrolled his sleeves and stepped into the pantry, emerging with a small jar of dried figs preserved in honey. He fixed Quinntus with a bit of a sheepish expression as he opened it and plucked a fig from the top with two slender fingers. “I’ve… been craving a taste of these,” he explained, biting into the fruit and darting out his tongue to catch the honey that dripped from his fingertips.
Quinntus smiled, his eyes darkening, “Smart of you not to expose them to my brother.” He reached over and gently took Fenris’s hand in his, taking over the job of cleaning up the sticky honey. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste of everything—his lover, the fruit, the honey, and the lyrium. He’d been craving Fenris as much as the elf had been craving his figs.
Fenris whimpered at the feel of Quinn’s warm tongue against his fingers. He set down the figs with a shaky hand and stared lustily at Quinntus’s mouth—wanting him, but unsure where he could touch, what he could do. He took his lover’s hand and brought it to his own lips, brushing them against the knuckles. “I would… take you to bed,” he rumbled, his voice low, “but I do not wish to harm you.”
Quinntus thought for a moment, “I could… ride you,” he said after a moment. “If you think you could take my weight. If not I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” Quinn smiled at Fenris.
Fenris let out a soft moan and took Quinntus’s hand in his own. “Come upstairs, then. Please. We shall… figure something out. This could be our last chance for… days.”
Quinn whimpered at that thought, “Maker’s Bride, I don’t know if I’ll survive.” He hated the Carta with a fiery passion at that moment. He bent down to kiss the tall and lanky elf soundly on the lips, his tongue teasing and sweeping along the crease between, searching for hints of leftover honey.
Quinn kept his daggers out, “Right, I have a feeling we’ll find him sitting at the bar in the Rose… ugh. We’ll probably see our uncle there as well. I suppose we ought to tell him you’re in town at least.”
“Maker, it’s always so awkward running into Uncle Gamlen at the Rose. I wonder if any of the girls I used to know are still working there.” A dazed look crossed his features and he was clearly lost in deep, deep thought.
It was dark, when they stepped outside, night had fallen, so the ‘market’ was mostly empty. The short walk up the stairs and through the doors of the Rose seemed rather long indeed, as his armor chafed against his freshly inked wounds. “And now I’m in a brothel, my day’s complete,” Quinn said with light sarcasm as he entered the doors. It had been some time since he’d last stopped in. He saw Donnic chatting at one of the far tables with a whore, and he thought he saw Isabela through a small throng of ‘performers.’ And there was Gamlen, standing at the bar, as usual.
Carver felt incredibly peculiar being back in the Rose. It had taken on a kind of distant, dream-like quality in his memories. After looking around for friendly, familiar faces, of which he saw none, he decided to go over and greet his uncle. Carver hoped to avoid witnessing anything untoward involving his uncle. He walked over with a half-smile. “Uncle.” He nodded once in greeting.
Gamlen did something of a double-take when he saw Carver. He set his wine down on the bar. “Carver m’lad!” His face seemed to hold deeper lines than when they’d first come to Kirkwall, but the bitterness had been replaced by an air of sadness—perhaps because the man was deep in his cups. He seemed a bit unsure about how to greet Carver, if he should clap the boy on the shoulder or shake his hand. He did neither of those things. “Thought I’d somehow missed the shakes and started seeing things. Here on Warden business are you?” He gestured to the blue and white armor Carver wore. Quinntus was over by Donnic, patiently waiting for the man to finish up his…. conversation. Quinn took several steps back after letting Donnic know they were there.
Carver found himself a bit overcome with feeling toward Gamlen, upon seeing him. His uncle had, after all, been the only one to bother telling him about his mother’s death. He nodded. “Uncle, I hope you are well.” Deciding it wouldn’t do Gamlen any good to fret about the situation with the Carta, he went with the explanation offered. It wasn’t strictly a lie. The Carta had attacked the Wardens, thereby making it Warden business. “Yes, Warden business.” He was about to ask what his Uncle was doing here before he remembered where they where. Maker, this day had really knocked the sense right out of him! He gestured to Porfiria for a drink. Clearly recognizing Carver, she brought over a tankard of his favorite ale.
“Hmph. I’m alive at any rate,” Gamlen said glancing over at Carver’s brother for a moment. “Don’t suppose you could have a word with him on my behalf could you? I could always use any extra coin he’s got.” As if the allowance Hawke gave him wasn’t enough to indulge in all his vices.
“I’m not getting involved. But it wouldn’t help, anyway. My brother never takes my advice about anything.” Carver shrugged. He figured that Quinntus’s money and what he did with it was his own business.
Quinntus was spellbound as he watched Saveth work. He had sketched out a few sets of designs quickly, against a rough outline of a body, Quinntus found himself picking and choosing pieces of them to blend together. Saveth pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.
Without the slightest hint of modesty, Carver began to unbuckle his armor. He was proud of his physique, the finely developed muscles. He was even proud of each and every scar. He carefully set aside his chest piece aside and peeled off his under tunic.
It was a move that threw Quinntus for a moment. Carver used to be so sensitive about sharing a room, he’d make Quinnn wait outside before he let his elder brother in to change for bed. He supposed that living with so many people, or perhaps just people who weren’t related to him, finally stripped him of that bit of modesty. He looked down at Savath’s drawing and drew in a breath. It was… perfect. Strong bold overlapping crescents and stripes twined across the back, some places symmetrical and some not. And on the left side, hidden amongst the markings was a subtle letter ‘F.’
Teth was examining Carver’s arm. Slowly, he got up and took a small bowl of powder from Elda. He took out a stylus and began drawing on Carver’s arm, dipping the blunt instrument into the light pigments and sketching out the insignia from Carver’s breastplate, but also adding a background for it to stand out against. And underneath he wrote out the Warden’s motto in elegant script. In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice.
Carver craned his neck and looked down as best he could, studying the outline. “That’s bloody brilliant,” he said, feeling genuinely proud at the prospect of having such a thing displayed on his arm. He also felt a thrill when he realized how impressed some of his fellow Wardens would be at the quality of workmanship. “What do you think, brother?” He looked at Quinntus, trying to sound casual, but ever seeking his brother’s approval.
Quinntus looked up and widened his eyes, “Maker, how did he get all those little lines with just the powder? It’s amazing.” He chuckled after a moment, “I bet the lady Wardens will probably swoon when they see it.”
“Maker, I hope so,” he blurted, unthinking. He scratched the back of his neck and his cheeks colored slightly. Quickly, he amended his statement. “What I, er, mean is I hope the other Wardens appreciate the art. The meaning.”
Carver looked at Quinntus and then at Fenris. He looked at his hands. He found he didn’t want to be apart from his brother, as much as drowning his woes in an oblivious night at the Blooming Rose appealed to a part of him. “Thank you. I… I’ll stay. And tomorrow we’ll go to Vimmark, right?”
Quinn nodded, “Right.” He lifted his goblet to his lips, but then paused. He set it back down on the table. He was staring at his brother, hard. He felt the gap between them more keenly than ever, their age, the lack of contact, the emotional baggage that they each carried. “Carver,” he said slowly, “you remember at Ostagar, when our lieutenant had us all get these?” He gestured to the tattoos on his face. Quinntus remembered very little about that night, as he had been blitzed out of his mind in order to block out the pain.
“Yes,” Carver said, biting back a laugh. He would never forget that night. “What of it?”
Quinntus stared down into his drink. It sounded…. foolish to his own mind, but it was something he wanted. “We got these and we came out of Ostagar all right, didn’t we? Before the Deep Roads…maybe if we’d gotten inked up again, you wouldn’t be…” He trailed off lamely. “It worked one time, didn’t it? It might work again. Besides, you’re a Warden now. You should have a griffin to go with your Mabari.”
“You… want us to get tattoos?” Carver asked, confused. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it seemed a strange idea at the moment. He shot a sideways glance at Fenris, who had never responded favorably to his tattoo before. Although, he supposed the elf must like tattoos somewhat, since he and Quinntus were… oh, Maker. He didn’t think about that.
The next few days passed strangely. At times, Quinntus was content and relaxed, and others he felt an inescapable cloud of tension hovering over him. There had been a small skirmish, on their way to the market when they went to buy plants—with no survivors to question unfortunately. After that, Quinntus threw himself into gardening, and otherwise making improvements upon Fenris’s place. He’d filled the crack in the tub, and went on the prowl, looking for other cracks and fissures to repair around the house. He’d even done a bit of cleaning, behind Fenris’s back. Currently, he was sitting atop a somewhat rickety ladder, trying to clear out some old raccoon nests and repair a ceiling beam.
Fenris had begun to go slightly stir-crazy with no missions and Quinntus a constant presence. He was not used to being in anyone’s continual company, and he found himself retiring to an abandoned room in the mansion on occasion, simply to clear his head. Moreover, the household improvements Quinn was making were appreciated, but nevertheless, they made Fenris somewhat… unsettled, for reasons he had difficulty giving form to, even in his own mind. In spite of all this, he genuinely enjoyed having Hawke around. He was somewhat surprised at just how easily he had begun to think of Quinntus as a permanent fixture. Although he wanted the problem with the Carta resolved for Quinn’s sake, he had to admit, deep down, that it made him rather melancholy to imagine the mansion empty again. At least he would have the garden. Fenris was thrilled by the progress he and Quinntus had made, and he loved watching the other man work on it. The focus, the confidence, and the calm he displayed. Presently, Fenris stepped to the bottom of Quinn’s ladder and looked up. “This is appreciated, but I have already told you, there is no need to do all of this.”
Quinntus looked down, and saved the sprig of gladiolus behind his ear from falling down to the floor. The blossoms were a rich and vibrant creamy orange. He shook his head with a smile as he pulled down a mess of branches, parchment, and leaves. “It’s fine. I used to do this all the time in Lothering. I was always climbing on everything, so people would ask me to climb up into their lofts or on their roofs and help patch holes or get rid of critter nests.
“Well, I… thank you, I suppose.” Fenris knew a losing battle when he saw one. He smirked when he spotted the gladiolus behind Quinntus’s ear. Even in moments when the man drove him just slightly crazy, he couldn’t deny his depth of feeling. He loved Quinntus. “Are you hungry? It has been quite some time since breakfast.”
“Once I fix this beam, we can eat,” Quinn was standing atop the ladder now, using his long arms to clear away the last of the nest, when there was a loud pounding from the front door.
“Were you… expecting anyone?” Fenris said suspiciously, moving toward the foyer to grab his sword.
Quinntus shook his head, and slid down the ladder, netting a splinter for his trouble. “No.. but would an assailant knock…? Maybe it’s Aveline?”
“It is probably the Seneschal’s tax collectors yet again,” Fenris groaned, lifting his sword and moving to peek through the crack in the door. “Ordinarily, I sneak out the window rather than alert them to my presence.”