IT doesn’t really sit right with him. Maybe the realization just hasn’t dawned on him yet, or perhaps he’s just not ready to acknowledge it. Carver hasn’t chosen. But what he does know is that when he looks at Cassandra Pentaghast, a rage he hasn’t felt since Gamlen wrote about his mother’s de-- passing boils in his very veins. He’s older, but not wiser, and every part of him knows that the only thing that is going to solve this issue is with a fist to the face. Whether or not it will be hers to his or his to hers has yet to be decided. They are in the war room, and while the rest of them stand still, he has to pace. He can’t look at her, can’t look at anything but the map. He’s waiting for the spring to coil and jump. Something is going to happen today, he knows it. Cullen mutters something, Josephine adds her anecdote and then all resumes, with the Inquisitor setting them tasks & arranging their pieces on the board like it’s a game of chess.
NO one has said anything. No one has quite acknowledged that Hawke is dead, and he hasn’t even had time to sit down and mourn. He didn’t mourn Bethany, who is no more than an old scar, he hasn’t mourned for Leandra (dead eyes, dead heart, you didn’t want to see her body, Carver, I’m sorry. You were always dear to her.) and chances are he will never mourn for his eldest sibling. He can’t remember his mother’s smile or his twin’s voice. Will he forget their faces? He looks up, stares at Cassandra. She will never know Hawke for what they were -- this is her fault.
