C is for Carver
Sometimes I wonder if Carver didn’t get the better end of the deal, sacrificing himself to that ogre to protect Bethany and Mother. Then again, he was a twit—our twit, but a twit nonetheless—and he could never have handled Kirkwall if I had taken his place that day.
I remember when the twins were still very young, even before Beth’s magic had made itself known, how he used to wander around behind her with a bewildered look on his face. You’d think he’d be the leader of their little duo, being the slightly elder of the two, but no; Bethany had him wrapped around her little finger and led him like a mabari pup where ever she pleased—and anytime there was trouble to be had as a result of one of her plots, he insisted on taking the blame.
Yet I’m the one he hated.
I don’t begrudge him a certain jealousy—I always was fabulous, after all—but there was never any reason for him to hate me. Sure, I can be a sarcastic bitch at times, but he was my little brother—who else could I tease if not him? Then again, there was always a good dose of bossy in my attitudes with him, and while I was fabulous, I wasn’t Sunshine—and Beth is so much easier to forgive than I’ve ever been.
Then came our conscription to the King’s army during the Blight, and the month spent avoiding darkspawn as we escaped the Wilds again after the battle. It was the only time we ever really got along, and I wondered later why. We hardly spoke during that month, but none of our silences contained his usual awkward brooding. Maybe he was just saving it up for when we got home, so he’d have an audience?
I never found out why, of course—he gave his life against that ogre before I ever had a chance to ask.
At least he died protecting the one person he truly loved.