ussevensuprise requested tiny carver trying to lift a swordd
i.
His brother’s shadow is longer than the swords the templars wear on their backs, but one morning Carver wakes and realizes there’s only a staff slung over Father’s shoulders, carved wood lighter and softer than steel, not nearly as heavy as it’s always looked.
ii.
He practices with logs. Fallen branches don’t have the right weight. He remembers a story Mother told him in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep because the midges kept biting him, about a brave warrior who learned patience and power among the roots of a massive tree stump. Gripping the dirty, rough wood at the base and prying it loose from the earth, fingers blistered, heart full.
‘I think Carver wants a staff, too,’ Garrett says, laughing. ‘That log’s too big for a staff, Carver!’
‘How long’ve you been watching?’ Carver asks, and throws the log Garrett’s way, but of course, it lands closer to his own feet than anywhere else.
iii.
They come across the fallen warrior a ways off the road. In the distance, the wilds look like a shadow on the sky—or the Blight itself, creeping towards them—plenty of witches in the branches, which look like tangled hair.
‘Why, Carver, you’re white as a sheet,’ Garrett says. ‘You’re not afraid of being turned into a toad, are you? You’re sure to be cuter if you were—why, a witch would only be doing you a favor!’
Carver kicks the same rock in circles around their camp. When it clangs off hollow silverite, he almost trips over his own feet at the suddenness of the sound.
Shield. Breastplate. Helm. The insignia’s been worn away by time, the shield half-burnt and splintered now, but the sword only has one chip in the blade.
A greatsword. Two-handed. Twice as big as Carver.
He wonders if they’ll be able to stay long enough that he can practice with it. Like the brave warrior and the great tree stump. But they pull up their roots and move on the next morning, and Carver leaves the sword behind.
iv.
There are other swords. Plenty of them.
Carver practices until his arms ache. He doesn’t tell Mother. He doesn’t want her to rub them for him or Father to heal them. He stares at the calluses on his fingers at night under the blanket, where it’s only shadow, but he knows they’re there, because he can feel them.
v.
He’ll never get bigger, Garrett thinks. He does’t have to know Garrett’s watching. Garrett asks Father why he bothers, why he tries so hard when he’s obviously too little for it, and Father laughs, rolling up his sleeves, washing the dishes.
Mother hates washing dishes.
‘He’s a brave one, our Carver,’ Father says. ‘Maybe even the bravest.’
‘His head’s already huge,’ Garrett replies, ‘so we probably shouldn’t tell him.’
*shrieks*
It’s more upsetting if you look at it with ThiS haHAA little brother is always a little brother, no matter how times change, or how wounds don’t change.
No matter how much more the soles of the feet ache. No matter the new holes in old boots. No matter the distance between scrapes and scars, between home and tomorrow. No matter the depth—from the shallows to far, far below the surface. From the ripples to the darkest spots of shame, hot cheeks and pink ears and a scowl like a mabari mid-snarl.
Just not as fierce. Go on, then. Run along.
From the wooden shield to the practice sword to the heavy blade, the chips along the shaft like the chips carried on a broad shoulder. From a squalling baby, half-formed like unbaked dough, to a strapping lad, they forge themselves, but somehow allow themselves to be forged.
If only they were always so strong.
From the bloody nose and the stubborn, short shadow to the sullen shrug.
From the time Hawke held him to the chest and shielded him from the sun to the moment it first occurred to Carver Hawke, blinking his eyes straight into the light, that the lullaby meant someone else must’ve thought he was little. Small. Young.
When you were a boy, Hawke thinks, just a baby bird, you might’ve been mad at me for being older, but at least you looked up to me.
Well, if only because you had to.
A little brother is always a little brother. Bloody knees and bloody noses. Bruised knuckles and tiny fists. Never a match for the bullies or the butchers. Never one to step in any footsteps other than his own. Which leaves a narrow path, doesn’t it?
Well then. It’s no wonder he’s been so cranky for so long.
i’ll always be with you, carver
He wasn’t, though. Not at Ostagar—even if Carver wouldn’t wish being at Ostagar on his worst enemy, much less his own father. Not when dawn rose over the quiet battlefield and it might’ve been nice to hear someone say survivor, not deserter.
Not in Lothering when they buried Bethany next to a strange templar. Not when they could have used an extra pair of hands; not when Carver’s bled from tearing at the earth and the ashy dirt stayed for weeks under his fingernails. Not when Mother turned her grief on Garrett and Carver hated having to feel bad for someone other than himself that day; not when he saw the color of his only sister’s eyes in his own eyes and not when he heard the sound of her voice in the waves.
Not on the boat from Gwaren when Carver was sick. Not in Lowtown when Carver slept on a bed with fleas. Not in the sewers during a year of chokedamp and shit deals and more dirt on Carver’s hands, the kind of dirt you couldn’t see. Not when dawn rose over the festering city and it might’ve been nice to hear someone say survivor, not sell-sword.
Not when someone old enough to remember another man looked at Garrett sideways and crosswise and told him he was the spitting image of someone they used to know. Not when Carver thought the same thing about his own brother’s face.
Not when he was denied his adventure. Not when Mother begged him to stay home while Garrett found gold and glory to carry back like greatness. Not when home didn’t exist at all, just a door and an uncle who spat out his name.
He wasn’t even there when Carver found his namesake in the Gallows records. Another shield. Another man. A different time but the same place.
He was there by a little boy with a runny nose and red cheeks when it was easier to cry for lost things, bruises and scrapes. Not like now. When he was son, not survivor.
It was there Carver kept him.
It was there Father stayed.
Probably already reblogged this once but reblogging again because AUGH
What time is it?
It’s time to doodle Carver and cry over him!
If he were real I would shower him in love and confidence boosters because I just have enough patience to put up with him and his nearly constant brooding.
Some people aren’t heroes. Most aren’t, in fact. They can be little brothers or big ones or both at the same time, a contradiction of terms. Broad shoulders with plenty of chips on them. And bare arms, but a few tricks up their sleeves even so. And a stubborn chin and blue eyes and hair that a champion’s hand used to tousle, pretending to muss it up, when really it was the only way to pull a leaf or twig out without Carver throwing a tit of a fit about it.
They don’t go down in history. They aren’t written, either, save for a footnote. They’re the great sweaty sword-armed masses of Thedas, familiar as the hills but not quite as big, one of countless voices chiming in to gossip in the taproom, or snort, or chuckle, if only begrudgingly, because the only jokes that ever hit home are the ones that hit below the ribcage, below the sword belt.
Where you’re soft. Vulnerable. Where only family knows you hurt every night, clenching your jaw until it cracks when you yawn.
The steps you’ve traced—back and forth, the same paths forged by other, better men. Not bigger. No one could be bigger than you, Carver. Always hitting your enormous melon of a head on low-hanging beams and skinny little Lowtown doorframes. Always stubbing your toe or banging your knee, or charging into a fight you just can’t finish. Somebody else throws a fireball and there it goes, up in flames—grand, burning things wielded so easily, licking at the sky, devouring every other chance in sight. Until only the fire remains.
And you don’t think about the sturdy oak that was chopped up for kindling, or the acorn it once was. Simple. And so many of them no one would think twice before kicking them out of the way. Not worth even a copper, those. The tree branches practically give them out for free, don’t they?
Only one or two take root. And even the ones that do have lightning to look out for. The axe. Birds building nests. Hawks in their perches, so much finer with their feathers than the dependable branches and their regular little leaves.
You only notice when one falls. When it doesn’t offer the unnoticed comfort of a bit of bloody shade. And you never thank it for the respite, do you? No. You don’t notice it at all.
And people are like that. Well, most of them. Living their lives. Laying down their roots. Being torn up, replanted, repurposed. Thinking they’re important; knowing they aren’t. But that doesn’t keep them from taking up their fair share of space. While castle keeps are built and bards sing stinking ballads and heroes fight dragons and little Hawkes are hungry for leaving the nest, but they might as well eat worms.
All you can ever really see, from wherever you are, is your own small patch of the great big sky.
and then things devolved to chibis but I’m okay with this
Bonus:
RIVALRY SOUL MATES for realz
(I love the Merrill/Carver ship because they’re the only characters either of my Hawkes ever scored full Rivalry with. X3)
I’m on a DA kick… third replay time? :D
I wish this comic were a person so I could smooch it.
Carver and Merrill 5EVA
(via cheesiestart)
i’ll always be with you, carver
He wasn’t, though. Not at Ostagar—even if Carver wouldn’t wish being at Ostagar on his worst enemy, much less his own father. Not when dawn rose over the quiet battlefield and it might’ve been nice to hear someone say survivor, not deserter.
Not in Lothering when they buried Bethany next to a strange templar. Not when they could have used an extra pair of hands; not when Carver’s bled from tearing at the earth and the ashy dirt stayed for weeks under his fingernails. Not when Mother turned her grief on Garrett and Carver hated having to feel bad for someone other than himself that day; not when he saw the color of his only sister’s eyes in his own eyes and not when he heard the sound of her voice in the waves.
Not on the boat from Gwaren when Carver was sick. Not in Lowtown when Carver slept on a bed with fleas. Not in the sewers during a year of chokedamp and shit deals and more dirt on Carver’s hands, the kind of dirt you couldn’t see. Not when dawn rose over the festering city and it might’ve been nice to hear someone say survivor, not sell-sword.
Not when someone old enough to remember another man looked at Garrett sideways and crosswise and told him he was the spitting image of someone they used to know. Not when Carver thought the same thing about his own brother’s face.
Not when he was denied his adventure. Not when Mother begged him to stay home while Garrett found gold and glory to carry back like greatness. Not when home didn’t exist at all, just a door and an uncle who spat out his name.
He wasn’t even there when Carver found his namesake in the Gallows records. Another shield. Another man. A different time but the same place.
He was there by a little boy with a runny nose and red cheeks when it was easier to cry for lost things, bruises and scrapes. Not like now. When he was son, not survivor.
It was there Carver kept him.
It was there Father stayed.
Oh holy MAKER Shimmy, this is good.
- Isabela: You certainly fill out a skirt Carver. A shame, I suppose you're all religious and such now.
- Carver: Do you know how long the Chant of Light is? How much stamina it requires?
- Isabela: Go on...
- Carver: With passion'd breath comes darkness, but with many against Her, She finds His light untiring as it parts the Veil.
- Isabela: Not sure if I'm aroused or scared. I like it.
- Sebastian: Don't do that to the Chant!
- Isabela: Shush, you.
Holy crap, a Dragon Age ficlet from Flutie? WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?
Just playing around with these two adorable lugnuts, trying to indulge some nostalgic feels and get a sense for their voices again. A sequel, of sorts, to this, an AU college!verse in which Merrill’s a science and public policy major,Carver’s an undeclared science major, and Marian’s the physics genius who’d wise-cracked her way into a 4.0. Enjoy!
***
Unlike Marian, who’d scored a full-ride scholarship to U of Kirkwall, of course, Carver has had to bust his ass to pay for school. He keeps a couple part-time jobs: one slinging burgers at Meeran’s, another slinging lasers and spectrometers in the physics department stock room. They don’t usually give those jobs to kids outside the department, but in his interview Carver had apparently impressed the supervisor by knowing the difference between a lathe and a table saw, as if the distinction were some ancient Mayan secret, forever lost to the ages. Of course, to most of these spoiled rich kids, it probably is. But with a famous physicist for a father, Carver had seen his fair share of power tools and soldering irons, and he probably knows more about lab equipment than most of the professors. Those boneheads wouldn’t know their ass from an optical mount. No wonder Athenril hired him.
Of course it had nothing to do, nothing at all, with that one time Marian walked into Meeran’s, wrinkled her nose at Carver’s paper hat, and proceeded to blather on (and on, and on) about how for her baby brother’s sake, she might be able to pull a few strings with her department head.
Stupid Marian. Always helping, always having to be the center of the damn universe. Maker save him from his older sister’s help.
omg is it request time? Yay! Modern AU! Carver taking Merrill to go see the Avengers. Maybe there’s cosplay involved. GO. :)
Oh Carver stop being so embarrassed you’re totally into the tshirt…
Aaah I just saw this now! Thank you for messaging me about it I would have missed this gem!
I am going to put it into my Drafts so I can look upon it always
this is just wonderful, I love all the little details (the bicep! Mrs. Marethari! looking at her lips! AND GARRET OMG you would and the car and hammers and oooh maker)
asdfdfbgg Let me just melt into a puddle of gratitude and fffft man I would really love to see this story continued that involves hemlet-grabbing
ifyoukknowwhatImean
or you know I can just draw it and leave it up to imagination that works too
betcha dont think its such a silly getup NOW huh Carver? This is worth dealing with your brother
AUGH! I love it! So here’s a sequel (of sorts) to this:
Carver had been wrong: Garrett hadn’t planned on sitting next to him and Merrill at the theater. Oh no, his troll of an older brother sat behind them instead.
“Don’t you think you’re taking this chaperone joke too far?” Carver hissed, not even caring anymore if Merrill overheard.
Garrett grinned viciously before rearranging his expression into one of mock horror.
“Never,” he gasped, splaying his hand over his heart. “It’s my solemn duty to be your lord and cockblock.”
Next to him, Anders choked on his soda.
“Our solemn duty,” amended Garrett. “Sorry, Anders. Not leaving you out. Don’t be angry.”
“You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” offered Anders.
“You’re walking home,” growled Carver. “Both of you.”
“Yeah right. Like I’d leave you two alone.” Garrett slung an arm easily around Anders, who shifted closer. “You’re not showing her your hammer again on my watch.”
Suddenly, Merrill slapped Carver’s bare bicep, her palm making a loud, unmistakable crack in the hushed theater.
“Carver!” she snapped, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Tease your brother later. The previews are on!”
Sheepishly, Carver turned back around and settled in his seat. Rubbing his stinging arm, he tried to ignore the snickers behind him—but it was easier said than done, especially when Garrett began kicking the back of Carver’s seat in time to the trailers’ swelling music.
As the last preview finished and the lights dimmed, Carver began to turn toward Merrill, only to stop short when he realized her mouth was much closer to his than he’d originally thought.
“Isn’t this great?” she whispered. Her breath fluttered on his cheek.
A piece of popcorn pelted the back of Carver’s neck.
“Awesome,” he grunted.
***
The movie went uneventfully enough, much to Carver’s dismay. Every time he tried to take Merrill’s hand or even shift closer to her, he’d be met with a shower of popcorn, or obnoxious soda-slurping noises, or Garrett’s whispered yet piercing commentary on the movie. Once, when Carver finally heard tell-tale smacking sounds behind him and thought his brother sufficiently distracted, he almost managed to get his arm around Merrill—only to have Garrett’s boot abruptly kick the back of his seat.
“That’s it.” Carver stood and wheeled on his brother. “Quit it, you—“
Carver’s voice died in his throat. As quickly as he had stood up, he sat back down again.
“Goddammit, Garrett,” he said, face burning. “You’re in a public theater.”
“Science boyfriends,” Garrett reminded him, and kicked the back of Carver’s seat again, this time on purpose.
“Carver, quit it, you’re missing the movie,” hissed Merrill. Steve Rogers was on screen, looking baffled by something, and she sighed happily. “Isn’t this just the best ever?”
“Awesome,” he mumbled.
***
Merrill’s house was on the way home from the theater. Carver parked as far as he could from her front door and still be in her driveway. Then he rushed out to open her door for her and walk her inside.
“Stay,” he commanded Garrett, who grinned back at him from the back seat.
“I’ll make sure he does,” Anders said with a smirk.
When they’d gotten some distance from the car, Merrill finally spoke. “I don’t know why you encourage him.”
“Me? Encourage him?” Carver felt his face grow hot again. “He’s the one who crashed our date, remember?”
“He only does it because you react,” she said, frowning. “If you just ignored him—“
“—he’d go away? Hah.” He shook his head emphatically. “You obviously don’t know Garrett. Ignoring him just makes him work harder.”
They walked a moment in silence. “Why do you let him get under your skin anyway?”
Carver frowned. “What? I-I don’t let him—“
“I mean, you’re bigger than he is. Stronger. Smarter. Better looking.” Merrill continued, rattling off the compliments like she was reading a grocery list. “You don’t have to feel inferior to him just because he’s older than you.”
Carver tried to come up with some witty response, or any response at all, but found he was having enough trouble just to remembering how to breathe.
“You really think,” he eventually managed, “I’m smart?”
Merrill smiled gently, her cheeks wrinkling the edges of her mask. “Of course. You fixed your car up from scrap, didn’t you? And they don’t make just anybody captain of the football team.”
Carver didn’t have the heart to remind her that he only became captain because Cullen sprained his ankle. Especially not when she was looking at him like that, her lips slightly parted, eyes wide and earnest.
“Merrill,” he murmured past the pain in his chest. “I think you’re really—nice.”
Carver grimaced. Nice? Nice? Thank the Maker Garrett was out of earshot. He’d laugh at him for that one for the next five years, at least.
But—Merrill wasn’t laughing at him. She wasn’t doing much of anything, really, just staring at him with those huge green eyes, pupils as wide as oceans.
Suddenly she laid a hand on his cheek. Startled, Carver flinched back from the gentle touch.
“Oh no you don’t,” she murmured.
In one swift motion, she grabbed both sides of his helmet and tugged him down, down, their mouths not so much meeting as colliding. Her lips were warm against his, soft, reassuring.
The kiss lasted only a moment, or forever, Carver couldn’t be sure.
“There,” she murmured when they broke apart. “Now wasn’t that great?”
“Awesome,” he agreed, and tugged her close again.
ngl this is still my favorite of your pieces, cheesie, and one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. I’m just full of modern carver/merrill feels today i guess
(via cheesiestart)
it seems like every day i fall harder and harder for carver. i can never decide whether i prefer warden carver or templar carver, however—is it more fun to imagine him off with nathaniel howe cleaning the darkspawn muck off his blade, or is it more fun to imagine him with the other templars under the aegis of knight-captain cullen? is he better served with the wardens of the grey, finding some autonomy, some sense of heroics and some sense of temperance there—or is there something more deliciously bitter and sad about him serving the very order his entire family was on the run from for his entire childhood? i think, either way, he grows—and grows up, if a bit more slowly than others—and both have the potential for such fascinating future dynamics with hawke. but when it comes to picking one i like maybe just a little bit better than the other, i’m once again incapable of definitive choice. why does this game do this to me?
in any case, it fascinates me that in both paths, he’s never on his own. he leaves one family unit behind for another—despite how much he protests the shadow of his older sibling, there’s always something about him that clearly craves family, surrogate or otherwise, just as much as hawke does. it’s just that the unit he seeks ends up being more structured than hawke’s patchwork quilt of companions—even if the underlying thrust is still family lost, and family found.
It’s November, the month where we’re well into Fall! A month of turkey eating (for the Americans), crisp leaves, apple cider, hoodies, and of course half naked brothers. Wait, that’s weird!!!!! I’m sorry for making Hawke’s brother attractive!! Or am I? Not really. I thought Carver was a bit annoying, but Tumblr changed my mind.Thanks Tumblr.
Thumblr.
MY FACE IS THE TURKEY’S FACE
(via chileancarmenere)
