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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.
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.
As the afternoon stretched into evening, Fenris reveled in the quiet time alone with Quinntus, their bodies intertwined in his tiny bed. They continued to converse about a number of things, some banal and some serious, occasionally slipping into Arcanum and Orlesian when their words became too intense to express in Common. Long stretches also passed in comfortable silence between them, with no sound but the wind echoing through the empty mansion and the whisper of flesh against flesh. Eventually, darkness fell, and Fenris indulged in one more kiss from Quinntus before sitting up with a sigh. “I… imagine Donnic will be arriving shortly. We should dress, and perhaps eat.”
Quinn sat up, and reached out to brush back Fenris’s bangs for a moment, “I am a bit peckish. Hopefully the raid he was talking about went well.” He reached up and scratched his hair, looking about for something to tie it back with.
Fenris stood up and stretched his limbs a bit jelly-like from hours of disuse. He slipped on the red silk finery, tying it around his waist, and ran fingers through his hair. “I fear that my only offerings will be similar to breakfast.” He gave an apologetic little shrug. “I haven’t much variety, as a rule. But perhaps we can ask Donnic about having guards retrieve goods from your larder.”
Hawke slid into a pair of leggings, a dark purple patterned with large diamonds. He uncovered his black finery, and slid into it, smiling a bit at their matching plumage, so to speak. “It’s fine. Soon you’ll be growing your own herbs and vegetables to go with your meals.” He grinned over at Fenris.
Fenris tossed some more wood into the fireplace, jabbing it with his poker. Turning back toward Quinntus, a smirk touched his lips. “I am still curious to see whether you can truly make it through the entire game of Diamondback without cheating.” He was of half a mind to give Quinntus his reward that evening, regardless of the outcome, though he didn’t voice that fact. He began to walk toward the doorway, “I shall return momentarily with food. Is there anything you need?”
Quinn shook his head, “Nothing other than what you’re bringing up.” He curled his hand around the handle of his brush, and combed out his hair, so that it wouldn’t seem like he had spent the whole evening in bed.
Fenris descended the stairs cautiously, as if there might somehow be Carta dwarves lingering in the corners, though he knew that was not the case. He made his way into the kitchen and put together a large platter of food to share with Quinntus. He made a couple of sandwiches using fresh manchet bread, dry cured ham and hard cheese. He dug through his pantry and located some savory herb spreads choosing two pick from, one mustard seed and one thyme. He spooned a generous portion of honey and figs onto a small side plate, a warmth filling his chest as he recalled Quinn’s first taste of them. Finding two apples he had picked up earlier in the week, he decided to add those to the tray as well. He thought they would pair well with the figs and honey, as well as appease his lover’s sweet tooth, perhaps. Finally, he placed two empty wine goblets on the tray, figuring they could choose from the supply of wine and liquor he kept in his sitting room, before heading back upstairs with his hands full.
Silently, Fenris took Quinntus’s hand, not caring who might be around to witness the gesture. He would not have let go, either, except that he felt it important that they both remain guarded. He was relieved when they finally reached his mansion, and he hastily unlocked the door.
Quinntus breathed a soft sigh of relief when he was safely inside. He hadn’t realized how nervous the excursion would make him. “Well, what do you want to do? I suppose we could read, or start clearing a space for that garden. Or I could start cleaning this place,” Quinntus twisted his lips into a wry smile.
Fenris stepped toward Quinntus, wrapping arms around his neck and claiming his mouth in a firm, eager kiss. It was filled with residual relief, gratitude, that they had survived those two attacks the previous day. He pulled back, breathing hard. “That… is what I have been wanting to do for the past hour.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “We could look at possible spots for a garden, or read. However, cleaning would be… let us not.”