Tyrants and the Tyranny of Appearances (Dragon Age, f!Hawke, Cullen)

[sarasa_cat]

 

Title: Tyrants (and the Tyranny of Appearances)

Author/Artist: vieralynn

Fandom: Dragon Age (DA2)

Pairing/characters: f!Hawke/Cullen, Carver

Rating: R

Count: 5150

Prompt/challenge you're answering: Marian Hawke and Cullen, Tyrant.

Summary: Expatriates, secret relationships and awkward situations, control, power, and clothing
 

 Note: This occurs somewhere in the middle of DA2’s Act II.

 

 

Tyrants (and the Tyranny of Appearances)

 

 

When Marian entered her family’s Hightown manor, the foyer and drawing room were ablaze with festive lights. Easily a hundred men and women mingled, spilling into the library and up on the balcony, all of them dressed in a peacock’s array of colors, conversing elbow to elbow while sipping wine. For the past month, Marian had made up a series of excuses for missing this evening’s event. Her mother had expressed her discontent. This is what is expected of you, Mother had said. You are my oldest child, representing the next generation of the Amells. Hawke, Marian had corrected her, and then she told her mother that Aveline needed her that night. Mother had complained that Aveline always needed her for something and that, just once, Marian could put off all of her running around for a single evening. 

 

Had Marian convinced Aveline to put her up for the night, she would have just narrowly escaped. But Aveline refused, leaving Marian standing alone in front of her Hightown estate. After Aveline left her, Marian should have run across Hightown to see if Fenris was home. Spending an evening with him would have been far better than throwing herself to these wolves.

 

As the door to her estate shut behind her, Marian hoped to avoid her mother for as long as she could. She feared that as soon as Mother saw her, she would be told to circulate among the guests, taking on the role of a proper lady, letting herself be shown off to the families of sons who were waiting to be wed. She wanted none of them.

 

A stick-thin woman with elaborately coifed hair tittered behind her hand, her eyes mocking Marian as she brushed by. All of her mother’s guests modeled the finest fashions imported from Orlais. Marian was geared up to apprehend smugglers for the city guard. 

 

She squared her shoulders as she entered the drawing room. Her gaze fixed on the stairs as she willed her way through a crowd of strangers, families her mother must have known as a child. She slipped her way between these people, weaving like a hurried servant, never once meeting their eyes. For a hopeful moment, the path to the upper balcony and her private room finally appeared clear, but as soon as she started for the stairs her mother found her.

 

“Marian, why are you so late and you are not even—” her mother gasped her exasperation and nodded her chin up the stairs. “Please wash up and change into something nice. People are waiting for you.”

 

A prickle of rage burned up her neck. She marched up the stairs, ignoring everyone around her. The seneschal’s son was bound to be somewhere among the guests, waiting to pull her aside for a private conversation so he could assess her suitability as a potential spouse. It served Marian right for telling her mother that Saemus Dumar preferred men, words she proudly announced when her mother pried into her affairs with the Viscount’s son. While that tidbit had been meant to put matters to rest, her mother redoubled her efforts to see Marian engaged to ‘the right sort of man.’ The politics of matchmaking made Marian uncomfortably sick. She had never felt at ease with Kirkwall’s nobility, with their laissez-faire civil governance shaped by their carefully cloistered lives. They did little more than complain as they drifted from one social event to the next. Only on rare occasion had she found something in common with them to talk about, and she swore the worst of Hightown called her the daughter of a dog lord while barking behind her back.

 

As she reached the top of the stairs, one last cluster of guests remained between her and her goal. She tried to skirt around the group but Carver darted out of nowhere and grabbed her by the arm.

 

“I bet a whole sovereign you wouldn’t bother to show up.” 

 

“You can still win if I climb out a window.”

 

“You’re dressed for it,” he snorted.

 

Before her brother pulled her into a conversation she did not want, she wrenched her arm from his grip and pushed Carver away.

 

That was when she saw him. 

 

The Knight-Captain leaned against the wall to the right of the alcove leading to her bedchamber. Clothed in the templar’s dress uniform, rather than his regulation armor, he looked conspicuously out of place despite his garment’s fine tailoring. 

 

“Hawke,” he said, giving her an awkward smile. “It is good you have finally arrived.”

 

“What are you doing here?” she growled, low enough so only he would hear her.

 

He sidestepped into the alcove, walking backward as she stalked forward, him blocking the path to her bedchamber door. Without a single care of who might be watching, Marian thrust her hand beside his hip to grasp the doorknob immediately behind him. For a moment they stood frozen, the closeness of their bodies betraying their secret should an onlooker take notice. The Knight-Captain’s gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips. A dangerous automatic response.

 

“What are you doing here?” she repeated her question.

 

“Your brother extended the invitation. Although, I rarely frequent Hightown socials so it is good to see the face of someone I know.”

 

“Maker’s balls, Cullen,” she hissed. “This is my family’s house.” 

 

In response, he gave her the self-effacing half smile that he always made when they met in public, particularly at the Gallows. His smug little lie. A concealed act of defiance. 

 

“Just get in,” she said without looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. With one hand gripping the doorknob and the other firmly placed on Cullen’s shoulder, she plowed him into her room. He matched her steps as he moved backward, a partner in a dance, eyes locked with hers.

 

Marian closed the door behind them and flipped the lock. When it responded with a solid thunk, a small sense of relief loosened her muscles. She stood toe to toe with Cullen, letting him linger close for a moment, expectation charging the air they breathed. When she removed her hand from his shoulder he stepped back a comfortable distance, a light scent of cologne filling the empty space that opened between them. Marian could not decide if his eyes expressed mild hurt or if he was trying to entice her to seduce him. He shouldn’t be here.

 

“This is ridiculous.” She said, frowning at him.

 

In response, he turned and snapped his shoulders into a guarded soldier’s posture, strolled to her personal desk, and pressed his palms against its wooden surface. With his back to her, she could not get a read on his thoughts, although he appeared to gaze out the darkened window into the courtyard below.

 

Before this, Marian had never seen Cullen in regulation formal dressware. While the cloth of his three-quarter length jaquet was cut from the same material as a Chantry brother’s robe, the tailoring of the garment suggested the martial lines of a templar’s suit of armor. The jaquet’s blue cloth and the crimson gambeson he wore underneath were both richly embroidered in gold. Dressed like this, Cullen appeared far more imposing, as if he was flaunting his rank rather than stating it as fact whenever he wore his plated armor. Odd how clothing could make him look like someone else, someone far different from the unremarkable commoner, the man she met once per fortnight, someone who had always dressed in simple Ferelden clothing when meeting her at the ferry dock during his scheduled leave from the Gallows.

 

“I hate these parties,” Marian said, breaking their silence. 

 

Cullen turned to face her, shifting his weight to lean on her desk. He chewed on a suppressed grin while eying her head to toe and back again. “Your choice of dress gives that away. I overheard one guest saying, ‘street mercenary now appears to be Kirkwall’s high-end fashion.’”

 

“To the Void with them all.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “Cullen, why are you here?”

 

“I believe it was you who invited me into your bedchamber,” he said with a small sweep of one hand. When she glared at him, his shoulders shrank in apology. “Carver passed me an invitation. But, given my reluctance to perpetuate false political gossip with the guests, I mostly spoke with your brother while waiting for you to arrive.”

 

Her brother? What in the Maker’s name had Carver been thinking? Her brother was too much of an ass to do her any favors, not as if inviting one of the Order’s Knight-Captains was any favor at all. But what was done was done. Her only option was to make the best of it. Better she avoided the worst of Hightown’s socialites by claiming she had urgent business with the Knight-Captain. An ongoing investigation. Lyrium smugglers. Blood mages. Anything. Why couldn’t he have at least dressed the part, wearing plated armor pitted with use, and a templar shield slung across his back? 

 

Marian leaned her bladed staff against the wall and removed her gauntlets. Lines of dirt had dried in her sweat, marking the creases on her hands. She should wash before touching him, and not risk marring the elegance of his garments with her filthy skin. As she turned toward her wash basin, a splash of unexpected color caught her eye. A bright bouquet of flowers in an unfamiliar vase sat on her bedside table. “Where did these come from?” She walked toward the flowers, eyeing the small card propped against the vase.

 

“I believe Bodahn brought those up after I dropped them off earlier in the day. I thought you would have stopped by during the afternoon, that you would have seen them by now.”

 

Fear gripped her, catching her breath. Far too much of Cullen’s presence had been planned in advance. She snatched the card and read it. In appreciation of your support of the Templar Order, I hope you will accept a favor in return. 

 

“A favor?” she asked, not turning to look at him. Anxiety crept beneath her ribs.

 

His boot heals clacked across the room in a few quick steps. Pressing himself against her back, he took hold of her armored hips. “Would you like me to help you out of your armor?” 

 

“Of course,” she said, temporarily resigned. She closed her eyes, letting a familiar routine of touch and sound take over her senses. Cullen’s fingers worked the buckles and lacings on her padded leather armor. She never wore robes, never dressed in ways that publicly labeled her as a mage. Not only had she armored herself for physical combat, her staff doubled as a blade. Robes were the Chantry’s collar and leash, a public admission that one lived under their control. She will never do that.

 

Blind to anything beyond the boundaries of her reach, she moved with Cullen’s hands, lifting her arms when he asked her, putting one leg forward and then the other when coaxed. Once the last of her armor was gone, Cullen stood and cupped the sides of her face with his hands. She opened her eyes to a truth that was painfully wrong, a templar in her home, standing in her bedchamber. Every other time he had helped her from her armor, he had just been an ordinary man, a Ferelden, a commoner, a refugee like her, both of them making the best of their new lives in the Free Marches. Whenever they had met, they had left their roles behind them. They played the part of lovers meeting for friendship and physical comfort. For a small amount of coin, they purchased anonymity at dockside inns and private clubs near Lowtown. The illusion they had created shattered on the morning Carver discovered the nature of their affair. Carver should never have invited Cullen here.

 

“Dealing with smugglers this time?” Cullen asked, as if nothing about their situation had changed. 

 

“Yes, in Darktown.”

 

“Helping Aveline?”

 

“Sebastian lent us a hand, as did Merrill.”

 

“Merrill?” The way Cullen drew out her name felt wrong given how he was dressed.

 

“She’s fine.”

 

“Do you think she’ll ever go back to her Dalish tribe?”

 

“I don’t know. Varric and I keep and eye on her. Mostly Varric. As I said, she’s fine.”

 

“Of course,” he said, his voice trailing off as he traced a slow line of kisses across her cheek. She knew he had dropped the subject, but the touch of his uniform against her skin raised the stakes regarding the nature of their affair. 

 

Marian believed Cullen would never turn in her friends. He had even passed her subtle warnings, but he was merely one man in the Order. There were others who held the rank of captain, and others still who were ambitious lieutenants angling for promotions. 

 

“If you continue to kiss me it will be hard to keep my hands to myself,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to stain your uniform.” 

 

“Then we should get you cleaned up.”

 

“Or you should undress.”

 

“I might. But not for long. Not if you plan to put in your appearance with the sons and daughters of Kirkwall’s nobility.”

 

“What if I don’t plan on putting in my appearance?”

 

“Even if you don’t, we should nonetheless clean you up.” 

 

“You undress first,” she said, eyeing the gold and crimson sash around his waist, daring him with her eyes.

 

Even though Cullen stood inside her family’s home, as the din of the party seeped under her door, she needed to see him in the manner she preferred, devoid of the signs of his military rank, and the barriers that it placed between them. That had been their agreement from the start. For the better part of a year he had faithfully played by her rules. At first she thought him a hypocrite for seeking company with someone like her, but they had worked together on a few occasions, her handling matters beyond the city guard’s capacity, him merely doing his job. Despite their differences in opinion, they got along easily, perhaps too easily. The familiar bonds of culture and dialect trumping everything else that they were. Funny how certain loyalties outclass others. Had they still lived in Ferelden, they never would have allowed themselves to become close friends.

 

“I suspect, before long,” he whispered against her lips, “your mother will come looking for you if we continue to hide.”

 

“Why did Carver invite you?”

 

“I am here to offer you assistance.”

 

“Assistance? You mean cleaning me up and dressing me? Making me presentable to Mother and the few members of Hightown who are more forgiving?”

 

“I am here to do you a favor, if you will accept it.”

 

“And what kind of favor is this? I’m not doing anything until you tell me why you are here.” 

 

“At this moment, I am here to see you dressed in the finery of a noble lady.”

 

“Carver set you up to do this, didn’t he? He just wants me to do this for Mother. No.”

 

“It appears you leave me with little choice.” He walked to the basin of water, waiting at the far end of the room. There he wet a washcloth. “Take off your tunic, same with your breastband.” 

 

She glared at him, balling her fists. “Cullen? What do you think you are doing in my home? Why are you doing this?”

 

“Tunic and breastband off.”

 

She hardened her stance, digging her heels into the floor.

 

“Need I reprimand you like a troublesome recruit?”

 

“Unlike my brother, I am not under your command. What do you think you are doing?”

 

He shrugged as he stepped toward her. “I saw you lock the door. The faster you cooperate the more time for a reward later on.” He took her hand, surrounding it with the warm wet cloth, slowly wiping her hand clean. “Please, Marian, take your tunic and breastband off so we can get you clean and dressed.”

 

“I’m not going down there.”

 

“You will only make your mother upset, given what she wishes for you.”

 

The muscles in her arms tightened, rigid as blades. She glared at Cullen. “How do you know of my mother’s wishes?”

 

“Carver told me.”

 

“Oh? He did? Andraste’s flaming—“

 

“Marian, hush.” He kissed her, as if a deliberate kiss would ever shut her up.

 

“—ass cheeks! What did Carver tell you?”

 

“Only that your mother has ideas for your future and you find them quite disagreeable.”

 

“That would be the understatement of the year.”

 

“You’ve never mentioned this to me.”

 

“I’ve been trying to ignore it.”

 

“Moonlighting with the city guard and hiding in your bedchamber will not solve the problem.”

 

It took all of her control not to shout, not to scream at the top of her lungs. She screwed her eyes shut, held her breath, and bit the tip of her tongue.

 

Cullen’s fingers slipped around her arm. “I’m offering to help, if you’ll let me.”

 

“By doing what? Will you march me downstairs and publicly announce that the templars have arrested a wanted apostate who will be promptly locked away in the Gallows? I think that would stop those horny sons of nobles with marriage proposals drawn up by family lawyers.”

 

“I assure you nothing so drastic is needed.”

 

“Then what do you propose?”

 

“That we dress you to look your finest and you take my arm. Allow me to be your escort for the evening.”

 

“What?” The audacity of his suggestion stunned her. “Have you gone mad?”

 

“Allowing yourself to be seen with a Knight-Captain has benefits. The sons of noblemen will back off as they form their assumptions. We needn’t say anything one way or the other. It is all a matter of appearances.”

 

Maker, no. This was worse than anything Carver could have ever suggested. Cullen had gone ahead and changed the rules between them, all on his own. She shook her head in disbelief, fingers raking across her face.

 

“As I recall,” he continued, “your mother remembers her family’s former aspirations for the Viscount’s office. Am I correct that she wanted to see you with Saemus Dumar?”

 

“Saemus has no interest in women. Mother now thinks she can make a match between me and the seneschal’s son.” 

 

“If your mother seeks a sense of security by allying with the political powers of Kirkwall, I doubt she will be quick to pry you from a highly ranked templar’s arm.”

 

For all of the madness in his logic, he might have been right and at that moment she hated him for it. “People will talk.” 

 

“Let them. The Knight-Commander does not take any of their gossip seriously, I can assure you of that. And, as you know, your name has already been mentioned more than once in Meredith’s files. Given what little she can do to someone holding your position in society, I think she would find comfort knowing that I keep a watchful eye on your activities. Remember, the Knight-Commander sees the good you do for Kirkwall. As long as you remain supportive of the Order and as long as she thinks our relationship is nothing more than purely cordial, I do not see any problem.”

 

His words rattled in her head like chains clapped onto a slave. “You are mad. No. This is wrong.”

 

“Is it more wrong to allow your mother to marry you off to the highest bidder? I’m offering you freedom.”

 

“You offer to show me off in high society as the Order’s puppet. Nothing like a little fear to cow the nobility into silence. Particularly unwanted suitors. You know this isn’t fair to me.”

 

“Marian, please, I’ve always known why you refused to meet with me here in Hightown. I’ve respected that. It was your brother who asked me to do this but, please, before you take this out on him or yell at me, stop and consider what options you have.”

 

It took all of her control not to shout and push him away. Instead, she counted out one slow measured breath followed by another. A part of her still believed he was a hypocrite. Not that it mattered. Not any longer. 

 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, pulling her rigid body to his chest. “I don’t want to lose what we have.”

 

“I think it is already lost,” she said, her face buried into his neck. 

 

He breathed a series of pleas mixed with apologies while holding her, rubbing his hands against her back, pressing his face into her hair. She knew the force driving his broken whispers, the same force that compelled people in Lowtown to futilely grasp at what little they had while gambling it all away. Feeling weak from an absence of answers, she let her body slacken against his. Within the geography of their private spaces, she could create social and political alliances to her liking, just as long as neither of them trespassed into the city that lay beyond the door. 

 

“I just want us to be two Fereldens who meet whenever your ship returns to port,” she said.

 

“So do I, but that isn’t who we are.”

 

“Why did it have to be ruined?” 

 

“It was bound to happen.”

 

“You wish to play a dangerous game and you are asking me to take part in it.”

 

“You, Marian, have been playing a far more dangerous game for much longer than I.” 

 

She pulled back a half-step, eyeing the uniform he wore, and brushed away a patch of dirt on the shoulder of his jaquet that had rubbed off from her arm. “It seems I’ve already messed this up,” she said, picking at the fabric. 

 

“I don’t care about that.” He kissed her before stepping back to unwrap the red and gold sash from his waist. Folding the length of fabric, he laid it on her bed. He shrugged out of the embroidered blue jaquet, placing it neatly over the sash. He unfastened the three clasps at the neck of his ankle-length gambeson, and pulled the long crimson garment over his head. Reaching around to his sides, he unfastened the ties on his saffron-died shift and set it aside. Down to his undergarments, he knelt and unbuckled his dress shoes, stood to unfasten the thongs at his hips that held up his chausses. Once those were gone, he wriggled out of his smalls. Standing naked before her, he said, “It would only be fair if you did the same.” 

 

She removed the last of her garments, and let him lead her to where the wash basin sat. 

 

For those slow minutes that followed, Marian let herself believe that Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain was no more than a man the same age as her, born in the Ferelden bannorn, son of a farmer who had once worked a leased plot of land. Just another soul who had escaped the blight four years earlier, crossing the Waking Sea as his last resort. She pressed her body against his skin for warmth. He ran the washcloth along her limbs, down the length of her back, across her stomach, beneath her breasts, stopping between each of his ministrations to rinse out the cloth in the basin of warm water. Splashes puddled at their feet in rivulets, following the grout lines around the edges of the tiles. 

 

“Give me your hands,” he murmured. He brushed his lips against her knuckles, the heat of his breath and the sight of his nakedness raising Marian’s desire. She wanted him and told him this as she tugged him toward her bed.

 

“Later. Ask me to stay the night,” he said.

 

“You… shouldn’t. Should you?”

 

“Your family can graciously put me up in a guest room.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Ask me.”

 

“Stay the night.”

 

“I will. We should dress.”

 

Once both of them were in their undergarments, Marian stood in front of her wardrobe, Cullen behind her, one arm around her waist, as he picked through her formalwear. The red dress or the grey one? Grey. No, red. She let him help her dress. Once her hair was brushed out, they worked together to get him back into the dress uniform of a templar Knight-Captain.

 

“Ready, my Lady Marian?” Cullen offered his arm.

 

She looked away, even though she leaned into his side. “Ready for Hightown to gossip that I’m kept as a mistress by a tyrant’s right-hand man?”

 

“You know what is true and what is not. Let them say what they will.”

 

 

 

 

EIGHT DAYS EARLIER — Early Morning, Kirkwall Docks

 

“Andraste’s tits!” Marian cursed after she elbowed Cullen in the ribs to stop him from kissing her. She removed his arm from her shoulder with a shove.

 

Cullen yelped in response. His cotton tunic offered no protection from her forceful strike. “What was that for?” he whispered. “It’s hardly dawn. The dock workers don’t recognize my face.”

 

“My brother,” Marian growled as she nodded her chin in the direction in which Carver was approaching. Luckily he was looking at one of the boats in the harbor.

 

“Oh, my apologies.” Cullen straightened his posture and side-stepped away from her. 

 

“You are out early, Sister,” Carver said as he approached. “Good morning, Knight-Captain. I beg your pardon for interrupting your business.”

 

“Not at all,” Cullen replied. He gave Marian’s brother a curt nod before turning back to her. “Hawke, once again the Order thanks you for your assistance in our investigations. If you or the city guard find further evidence of interest, please let me know. Maker smile over you.”

 

With that, Cullen trotted down to a ferry boat waiting at the dock.

 

Marian forced herself to turn away and ignore the Knight-Captain’s departure. “I’m heading to Lowtown for something to eat,” she said to her brother.

 

“I’ll walk with you,” Carver replied. 

 

As they walked in silence, Marian almost convinced herself that Carver hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, until she saw that her brother was smirking.

 

“So, you were assisting the Order just before dawn? Must have been a secret investigation because I heard nothing about it. What was it this time? Tracking smugglers? Capturing blood mages? Banging the Knight-Captain?”

 

“Carver!”

 

“Unless the two of you were up all night comparing notes, neither of you are armed and dressed for a pre-dawn raid, that is, unless you were carrying on raids inside each other’s smalls.”

 

“Carver, it is not what you think.”

 

“What? That I think you sleep with him as a bribe for your protection and for Merrill’s?”

 

“That is not what I’m doing.”

 

“I never said you were. You implied that is what I am thinking, but I’m not.”

 

“Good.”

 

They walked a brisk pace in silence until Carver started talking again. “You know, I’m not stupid. For the past three years I’ve watched you go well out of your way to pick fights with the Knight-Captain, even when the two of you are standing right in the middle of the Gallows where everyone can see you. I’ve also watched the way he looks at you and how he responds. Had I one gold sovereign for every time you have pushed that man to the point of desperate exasperation, I would be the riches man in Thedas.”

 

Had it all been that obvious? Marian clamped her lips together in a thin line.

 

“For the Knight-Captain’s sake, I only hope that my sister is capable of offering him respite when alone with him, otherwise I pity the poor man.”

 

“He’s your commanding officer. Speak with some respect.”

 

“Yes, Ma’am,” Carver sneered. “So, tell me, who else knows?”

 

“No one.”

 

“Not even Varric? Aveline?”

 

“No one except for Varric, Aveline, and now yourself.”

 

“Mother has no idea?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“And you think that is for the best?”

 

“I’ve never once taken him up to Hightown, much less to our house.”

 

“How long has this been going on?”

 

“Long enough.”

 

“Well, if you want my opinion, the Knight-Captain is a far more sensible choice than some apostate like Anders.”

 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

 

“Too late, I’ve already given it. Not only is the Knight-Captain Ferelden, he’s a good catch.” Carver kicked a pebble on the pavement, watching it skip across the cobbles until it tumbled down a drain. “Does he treat you well?”

 

“Of course he does.”

 

“Then give the man a break. Don’t ram your elbow into his ribs when he’s trying to give you a goodbye kiss. That’s rude. ”

 

“Carver? Stay out of this.”

 

“I’m not allowed to be happy for you? Especially when you finally come around to show some sense.” 

 

“Show some sense? Did you really say show some sense? As an apostate, absolutely nothing that I do with that man would ever be considered sensible.”

 

“The Knight-Captain is someone with a future, not some Darktown rat running through the sewers or… or something worse.”

 

“Or something worse?” Marian laughed. “Who in your mind would be worse than a mage who runs a free medical clinic for indigent refugees.”

 

“Orlesians.”

 

“Unlike you, I choose not to hold prejudicial opinions about an entire nation of people.”

 

“Really? Tell me, Marian, how do you feel about sons of Orlesian nobles? Don’t forget that many of Kirkwall’s elite are originally of Orlesian heritage. Particularly the ones with parents shopping for a bride.”

 

“I prefer not to think about it.”

 

“That hasn’t stopped Mother.”

 

“It’s never going to happen.”

 

“Once family lawyers start drawing up legal agreements between the marriageable sons and daughters of nobility, it becomes a lot harder to stop the inevitable.”

 

“Mother cannot guilt me into such a ridiculous arrangement if I never take time to meet these prospective grooms she seems to fancy for me.” 

 

“Do you plan on giving Mother even more to worry about when you skip out on the big party she has planned for next weekend?”

 

“I plan to show up midway through, ripping drunk with Merrill, Fenris, and Anders, each of us swigging from bottles of rare wine.”

 

“Even you will never do anything like that.”

 

“Are you daring me?”

 

“No. I’m not. If I was, I would, oh… just forget it.” 

 

Marian knew Carver well enough. Once exasperated and deflated, he stopped pushing. Saying nothing more would assure that he remained silent. Thus, Marian said nothing.

 

After another long flight of stairs, they reached Lowtown. “I’m joining Varric for breakfast at the Hanged Man,” Marian said. “Do you want to join us?”

 

“I already promised Mother that I would see her and then I have a complaint to deliver to the city guard.”

 

“Don’t be an ass. Or does being a templar make you believe you can backstab friends who have helped you in the past?”

 

“Right, right, whatever.”

 

“Charming, Carver. I’ll see you around.”

 

“I believe we’ll see each other next weekend.”

 

“Oh, that.”

 

“Just for once, Marian, could you show up next weekend looking like a proper lady?”

 

“You must be joking. What’s in it for you?”

 

“Just… Just do it. Do it for Mother.”