"Excuse me," Hawke hisses, and his sister is small, shorter than Bethany, but Gamlen shrinks in the face of her anger. She hasn’t even reached for her daggers yet.
Carver still wants to jump between them, to save Hawke one more fight.
He doesn’t know when he began thinking of his sister as Hawke. She should still be Nimue to him, should still be stupid sister who tried to help him learn how to use a sword. She’s the reason that he used to hold a short sword like it was a dagger.
Nimue was a laughing Ferelden girl with long hair who tracked mud in the house and held her father’s hand while he died, when his mother had cried herself to sleep and he and Bethany huddled by the fire. She was a fair archer, for hunting, but used daggers because if she had to fight, she wanted it to be a quick one. Nimue was a loner who had her family, her dog, and it was enough.
Hawke, though, was a mercenary, a cold killer who sharpened her daggers and slept with them. She had new scars and marked her skin to look fierce, fearless. Ten months into their forced servitude with the Red Iron, she cut her hair short and never cried. Sometimes he still saw Nimue in her, in the way she protected him and Bethany, but mostly he saw a stranger.
"I’m not asking for much, but there are three of you. Maybe just a bit towards food," Gamlen murmurs.
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