I think they went a little overboard with the Carver love. He secretly loves it, though.
Thanks for the request! This was fun!!! <333
Posts Tagged 'bethany hawke'
Tags: bethany hawke, carver hawke, dragon age, hawke siblings, m!hawke
Tags: bethany hawke, dragon age, fanfic, marian hawke, rec, varric tethras
it takes about a week of following the hawke sisters around for varric to finally see the older one smile.
even at his most charming, the most he gets out of her at first is a shift from surly and suspicious to what would be called “neutral” on anyone else’s face, though bethany assures him it’s a good sign from her sister.
“i think she decided if she seemed unfriendly to everyone, they’d leave us alone and wouldn’t look too closely at father and i,” bethany confessed to him once, while a few steps away hawke frowned thoughtfully over the lowtown swordsmith’s booth. “but she’s really kind, i promise.”
they’re in hightown later when bethany says, “i had a twin brother, carver.”
varric is no good at vulnerabilities, his own or other people’s; if he can pass a joke off over them he does, and if he can’t he just ignores them and leaves the ‘dealing with’ for another time. bethany’s a sweet kid, and varric can tell she’s still grieving. she doesn’t deserve to have her pain ignored, so maybe he can make her smile instead.
“i’m sorry about your brother,” he says sincerely, then, “do you want mine? i’ve got a spare.”
bethany shakes her head and huffs a little laugh, which varric is willing to count as a win, then turns to glance over hubert’s overpriced goods to hide her face.
when varric glances up at marian, she’s watching them with an expression so foreign on her it takes him a moment to realize it’s a smile of her own. “thank you,” she says, softly enough that bethany doesn’t seem to notice.
after that, she frowns a lot less around him.
Tags: aw swell!, bethany hawke, carver hawke, dragon age
Tags: bethany hawke, bethris, dragon age, fenris, queue
Bethris for machakizi ❤
You may recognise this as a repaint from my set of thumbnail sketch kisses I did about five months ago. It was a fun exercise 🙂
“Bethany probably smells like vanilla and could never hurt a fly”
so did these people actually play the game with her in the party or is she forever a cute dead little sister they only ever saw on other people’s edits
Bethany smells of sweat and leather and blood. On bad days, when a patrol has turned into a battle and before she can get to a bucket of water and some soap, she smells strongly of Taint.
Her brothers and sisters don’t seem to notice it: it is no part of a Warden’s duty to smell nice. For a while she notices, and resents it horribly. She had dreams of Hightown and fine gowns and a life in the sun and this definitely is not it. She tries rose water to mask it, once, but quickly regrets it. One day, in telling the story to Varric, she will describe the smell as ‘Imagine a Darkspawn got lost in a high class brothel …’ and he will steal the line. Eventually she becomes inured to it: this is her life, whether she chose it or not.
She makes darkspawn heads explode like overripe fruit; she flings their bodies into walls and into chasms, shattering ogre bones like toothpicks; she sets her enemies aflame and freezes the blood in their veins. She’s not a natural healer, but she does what she can for her injured comrades, or for the civilians who fall foul of a mob of ‘Spawn. She’s always good with lost children, and she has no patience for the con men and charlatans that always trail in after a Darkspawn attack, with their ‘cures’ for Blight and their anti-Darkspawn charms. A few years in and they pack off running at the sight of her – she won’t use her magic on them, but she can ruin their business in two sharp words, and folk remember what a Warden says.
Every night she prays to the Maker, for forgiveness for her sins: for the sin of being a mage, for the sin of avoiding the Circle, for whatever she did to make Him curse her so many times and in so many ways. He never answers, but that’s to be expected. Her Warden brethren rely on her, people respect her, and the Chantry can no longer touch her. Stroud tells her, laughing and cursing, that he still owes Anders, damn him, after all – because she is far more than worth the effort. She’s proud and she has a purpose, and as time goes on she prays for other things instead. Pleas to the Maker to take her magic away would no longer be entirely honest, after all.
When she stands in the Gallows, side by side with her big sister, she is ready: power flows from her hands as her sister nocks an arrow. The doors splinter and break, and the butchers come charging in.
Templars fall like swatted flies. They fall to Bethany’s magic, Anders’s magic, Merrill’s magic, the magic of those Circle mages who dared to stand and fight. They fall filled with her sister’s arrows and Varric’s bolts. They fall to the swords and daggers of their friends. There are always more. It’s the story of her life, that whenever she thought she might be happy there were always more Templars, to remind her that she had to be afraid and that the Maker would never turn His gaze on her.
But Bethany is done with hating herself: she is a Grey Warden, and she is a Hawke, and she is a mage. It’s not the first time she has put her body and her magic between defenceless innocents and monsters. But the Darkspawns’ lives are ruled by the Song; they can’t help but be what they are. What excuse do the Templars have, for coming here to murder children?
She takes down one last Templar as the defenders retreat back to the dining hall. Then she sags, exhausted, against a wall as Aveline and Fenris bar the door to buy them a minute’s respite.
Sweat and leather and blood and fear are all in the air. But so are magic and family and freedom. They will save these people, just as she’s saved countless traders and travellers from Darkspawn. Bethany pulls the cork from her bottle of Conscription Ale, and takes a swig. It smells fine to her, but she laughs at the way her sister’s eyes bulge when she offers her a drink.
“Princess Piss,” she says proudly, as Big Sister Hawke chokes down a mouthful, and passes the bottle to Anders – who clearly knows enough to pinch his nose before he drinks. “It’s my own recipe, Sister.”
… Or, you know, something like that. 🙂
Tags: bethany hawke, dragon age, warden bethany
typical warden disregard a.k.a hardened bethany a.k.a i am so proud of you
Tags: bethany hawke, carver hawke, dragon age, f!hawke, fanfic, hesta hawke, I adore the rapport between Hesta and Malcolm, it is golden, leandra hawke, malcolm hawke, rec, um CUTE
Malcolm’s eyes shifted upwards from his grimoire. Fifteen years was long enough to recognize the nuances of his daughter’s variations in that one word – and this particular tone was usually reserved for breaking something she shouldn’t have. He supposed there was that one time he accidentally forgot to disenchant a plant and it kept dancing in their windowsill, but his theory stood strong otherwise.
“What’d you do now, Hesta?” he called back, laughing.
“First of all, rude,” she yelled back. “I’ve never done anything wrong in my entire life.” From the kitchen, Bethany and Carver giggled and groaned in chorus. “Second of all, come outside. I need your help with something.”
With his grimoire safely beneath a floorboard again, Malcolm met his eldest offspring outside and let her lead him to the flower garden Leandra had insisted they start behind their modest little farmhouse. He knew it was her way of praying that they’d stay in Lothering, but he said nothing about it. That promise is not one an apostate could make.
“You brought me outside to show me… the garden? Did you not know this was here?” Hesta rolled her eyes as she dropped into a low squat. Malcolm couldn’t see what she was looking for, but by the time he’d half a mind to squat down next to her, she was already gathering something into her arms.
“The whole town knows it’s here, Pops, you wouldn’t shut up about it for a month.”
“Do you see anyone else in this town with a garden as beautiful and perfect as your mother? Cut your old man some slack. What am I supposed to brag about? My kids?”
“Uh, duh,” she said. “Speaking of which, congratulations! You’ve got four more.” Before he could ask, the kid rose slowly to her feet and turned to face him with an armful of … kittens. “Their mom’s dead. Barlin’s dog attacked her last night.”
“I think I need to have a word with your mother. They look nothing like me.”
Leandra had been initially opposed to the idea of nursing kittens, but it was very hard to resist four gray little fluffy lumps with stubby little kitten paws who hadn’t even opened their little kitten eyes. Even Carver had been completely pacified by the tiny creatures, lying shock still on the floor as to not wake the one lying on his chest.
“Can we keep them, pop?”
“I don’t think four cats in a tiny farmhouse is a good idea, Carv.”
“Well, I think it’s a purr-fect idea,” Hesta chimed in from her post at the kitchen table. Armed with a half-filled basin of water and Bethany to keep it warm and be on drying duty, he’d turned his kids into a lean, mean, kitten-washing machine. “We’ll be the meow of the town.”
“Shut up, Hesta,” Carver groaned. “Bethany, do something.”
“I’m busy,” Bethany said, trying to mask her giggles.
“Don’t be such a sourpuss.”
“Pop, make her shut up.”
“What a bad cat-tiude!”
“Hesta, stop tormenting your brother,” Malcolm conceded. “Paw-lease.”
“Fine, Pop, but only because you’re so purr-suasive.”
“Maker help me.”
Malcolm snorted, settling further back in his chair. Once the kids quieted, he could just pick up the sound of Leandra’s humming leaking in through a window they’d left cracked open. There was a moment in which he felt – Maker, was there even a word for it? Blessed gave a little more credit to the Chantry than he’d care to, and content seemed insufficient. But between his wife’s humming and the fire in the hearth, the girls giggling in the other room and Carver whispering secrets to the kitten asleep on his chest, there was a fullness between his ribs that he’d always been careful not to feel too fully, lest he lose it.
“Pop,” came the call from the kitchen, this one colored with ease. “Did you hear me? I said we’re finished.”
“Sorry, kid. I was having a meow-ment.”
Carver groaned. It wouldn’t be home if he didn’t.