Apr 062015
 

Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 10
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters:  Cormac Hawke , Artemis Hawke , Bethany Hawke , Carver Hawke , Anders , Fenris
Rating: E (L2 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Oh my god Cormac, teh gay, buttsex, zero relationship skills
Notes: At last, the party comes to an end… More shenanigans to follow.


In the rest of the house, the celebrations continued. People came and went, dancing and music occupied a great many guests and politics a great many more. But, the one thing Carver hadn’t seen in a while was any of his brothers. His sister was easy enough to find, the way she’d latched onto that annoying git with the accent, but Cormac and Artemis, most importantly, were nowhere to be seen. He was accustomed to not seeing Anton — that was just Anton’s way.

He made his way over to Bethany, dodging the army of fawning noblemen who surrounded her prince charming. "Beth? Have you seen Cormac? I’m worried."

"Cormac? No." Bethany stepped back, her eyes scanning the balconies and corners. "Are you worried about him, or about the rest of us?"

Carver squinted through the legions of spangled Orlesians. "You know mum’s going to have a fit if he—"

"Oh, no. He wouldn’t. Would he? I mean, here? We’re not in Lothering any more." Bethany’s hand fluttered up to cover her mouth. "Maybe you should ask Anton."

"Have you seen him?"

"Wearing a lovely golden cloak and running up the servants’ stairs with a man clutching some platemail. I have no idea what he’s up to, and I’m not sure I want to — but if Cormac’s up to something, I think he’d know." Bethany pointed with her mask. "Do you see the three women there? Enchanters! I know he was chatting them up, earlier, but…"

"Right," said Carver, following where she pointed. He had a bad feeling, the kind of bad feeling that meant tonight was likely to end in fratricide. "Excuse me, ladies," he said with as much charm as he had the patience for. They stopped whispering behind their hands to smile at him. "But have you seen Cormac recently?"

The enchanters exchanged glances. The one on the left answered. "We were going to ask you the same," she said. "He said was going to get some more wine, and we haven’t seen him since."

Carver glanced at the table of refreshments and saw that it was suspiciously lacking in wine. He didn’t like where this was going. "Thank you, ladies," he said before ducking away.

The wine cellar seemed the most likely option, but Carver suspected he wouldn’t like what he’d find. Maybe he should just stay here and pretend he hadn’t noticed anything. He tried to convince himself that was a viable answer, that he could continue to ignore whatever idiocy his oldest brothers might be up to. After all, Artemis was probably with Cormac, and Artemis was not in the habit of doing outrageous things. Well, except that one time. And that other time. But, Artemis had been extremely drunk, both times, and Carver still blamed Cormac for both of those, even if he hadn’t been there for one. If Artemis was making trouble, it was Cormac’s fault.

And that thought was almost enough to send him into the cellar, in search of them, right there. Anton and platemail, two out of three mage-siblings missing… In fact, the count was coming up short one other apostate, as well. An uncanny sense crept down his spine and he went back to Bethany.

"Put your mask back on, and don’t take it off for anyone. Something’s wrong, here."

"Carver? Don’t make a scene."

"Me? Me, make a scene? ME!?" Carver’s voice remained quiet, but the offense was clear. "Worry about Cormac making a scene, not me."

Too bad strapping a greatsword onto his back would alarm their guests. That was probably for the best, because if Carver found what he thought he was going to find, the temptation to rid Cormac of certain appendages would be too great. He pursed his lips and clomped down the stairs, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the torchlit gloom.

Carver heard the sounds he’d been expecting before he saw them, the slap of skin and Cormac’s whorish groanings. The blood rushed to his head, and he reached for a sword that wasn’t there. "Maker dammit, Cormac!" he shouted. On the last step, his foot splashed in wine. Torchlight glittered on shards of glass at his feet. "What in the —?"

"Fasta vass!"

That stopped Carver up short even more than the wine. "Fenris!?" Through the wine racks he could see a pair of shapes scrambling for clothing, while another pair matched up with the sounds he’d heard earlier. "Andraste’s cooch! Artemis, is that you? Cormac, what did you do?"

"Maker suck a golden dragon dick, what the fuck are you doing down here, Carver? There are enough of my siblings in this room, with just Artie here!" Cormac’s volume didn’t alter in the slightest, but his tone shifted dramatically down the scale toward murderously frustrated. "Is it Bethy?"

"No…"

"Is it mum?"

"No. Cor—"

"Then get the fuck out!"

There was this presumption that whatever trouble Anton could get himself into, he could also get himself out of.

"Cormac, what in the name of Andraste’s sweet ass are you doing?" Carver was all set to apply blame for whatever was going on with Artemis. Artemis didn’t make his own trouble, he just borrowed Cormac’s.

"Anders," Cormac deadpanned. "I’m doing Anders. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?" He made no mention of the other two, hoping the wine rack would shield them from the worst of whatever Carver was considering.

Thank the Maker he was wearing leather, Fenris decided. Leather that would stink of wine for a while, certainly, but that was no different than any other weeknight. Artemis, on the other hand, was looking mournfully at his clothing, at the fine-stitched tunic and trousers now stained in splotches of maroon. There was something ridiculous about it, watching a grown man grimace at his clothes while his naked ass was planted in an inch of wine. At least Carver was busy shouting at Cormac.

"You could pretend it’s the new Orlesian fashion," Fenris suggested, flicking a hand at the ruined clothing.

The look Artemis sent him was pained. "We’re at a party full of Orlesians. I think they would suspect something."

"Then you can start a new Orlesian fashion."

That made Artemis’s lips twitch in a thin smile. Maker, he was sobering up too fast to deal with all of this. He wished he hadn’t destroyed all that wine (and he knew that was him, now). Maker, what if he had accidentally hurt the others? Hurt Fenris?

No. No thinking right now. Thinking led to panicking, which led to fretful cleaning, and this cellar was in dire need of cleaning in the same way he was in dire need of some pants. Artemis sighed and shrugged and pulled on the sodden trousers, wincing when he stepped on a splinter of glass. "Well," he decided. "This is uncomfortable."

Fenris wasn’t sure if he was talking about the pants, the glass, or the fact that his brothers were arguing while Cormac was being buggered. This was quite the party.

"Andraste’s flaming knickers, you gawking twunt, go get your other brother another pair of trousers," Cormac strongly suggested, pointing toward the stairs.

Fenris attempted to get Anders’s attention. "Healer, there is something you could be doing that is much more useful than Cormac."

Anders held up one finger, and then the other. Fuck off and wait.

"I am extremely useful," Cormac argued, trying to keep the skirts of his robe out of the wine. He’d managed so far. "Which you would know, if you could be bothered to use me."

Fenris blinked at Carver. "Pants. Please."

"Please don’t use or misuse any of my brothers while I’m gone. I don’t — anything. Cormac’s more than enough of that for one day." A look of exasperation passed between Carver and Fenris. They understood one another. Bloody stupid mage shenanigans.

Fenris wrapped his arms around Artemis, recognising that slow descent into disillusionment and possible panic.

Carver let himself out, off to find something else Artemis could wear and a servant to clean the cellar floor, once Cormac was done jizzing on it. He’d tell them to wait until his brother surfaced. There was no sense in traumatising the help. He’d joined the King’s army to get away from this shit, but no, he was one of a tiny handful of survivors of a giant massacre, just so he’d have to come back home to it. The Maker hated him, and he hoped whatever he’d done to deserve this was worth it.

Carver passed by the coat closet on his quest for pants, pausing when he saw the harried look on Bodhan’s face and caught a glimpse of the mess past the door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "What in the Maker’s name happened here?" he asked, nudging the door open a hair, blocking the mess from view with his body.

"I’m… not quite sure what to say, Messere," Bodhan replied, stringing up rumbled coats one by one. Sandal helped, putting what looked like a belt, pieces of plate, and a pair of smalls into a pile. Carver remembered what Bethany had said about Anton and his plate-mail-clad companion. He gritted his teeth around a scream.

"Enchantment?" Sandal offered helpfully. He handed Carver a breastplate emblazoned with what looked like the templar insignia.

Maker save him from his brothers.