#i like how you and i look at the occupation of kirkwall and go NO

[extravagantliar]

approval + discreetly inserting a ludicrous paragraph into the middle-end of a letter just to check if Varric is paying attention

Send [ APPROVAL ] + (a decision that your muse is making) || selectively accepting

To start, his eyes hurt.

The middle part of it is that Sebastian sent him a missive that is pages long. Not scrolls, no they've surpassed that long ago - when rebuilding a trade route long left to rot by their predecessors. The first page had been updates, the pressing things that needed tending to and a guiding hand from both sides, and Varric had scrawled notes along with each paragraph ( Bran had yelled at him long ago not to mark up the official letters as that would be seen as disrespectful, so a journal it was ).

He cares less and less as the missive moves away from the workings of triangular trade, how Kirkwall is offering banking support to Starkhaven and Markham, how Starkhaven is providing wool to Markham, Markham is sending lumber to Starkhaven and Kirkwall - and the cycle carries on and on, but the letter turns into how a community in Starkhaven is getting a new Chantry and then another paragraph on how the circle is expanding, then the page flips - there is a back, hell is real and Prince Vael has locked him in it.

It's a page on how the Divine is visiting them, and he already has a paragraph penned in his head telling Sebastian in the most diplomatic matter to pound sand ( Starkhaven is suited for the Divine's visit, may she find it as colourful and as vapid as the shoes she buys of course Bran would make him edit that - to not start another event ). The page carries on, and his eyes almost dare to droop; he knows the men who care for the bells are long asleep, and the chance is the hours are getting larger rather than smaller - like they tended to.

He scans, like he normally does, his chin resting on his knuckles as he does it, idly he's not paying much attention at this point. He needs it read, so he can reread it and reply. He cannot explain this about himself, but he must scan quickly.

Well, until something about Kirkwall - about how Hightown serves roast nug during the high holidays- how it's a delicacy, a holdover, and entirely true. Varric laughs, a real one, in the middle of the night, those hours ticking away, and he pulls fresh parchment out of the bottom drawer and starts on the heading before he returns to his reading.

'Hey! Choir Boy, You got me! We all eat nugs in Hightown...'

Varric Approves

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

Alright, Veilguard, you won't tell me where Carver is...?

Fine.

I guess I have no choice but to find him myself by starting a third playthrough with Carver as Rook.

I've seen a couple of people doing Carver runs—which yesssss, if you're one of them then you're my favorite, thank you—it occurred to me that if I wanted more Rook Carver, I own the game... I could just do a run for myself and make my own Rook Carver AU.

Because my brain's been on fire about this for days at this point.

In my world state—which I still care about even if Veilguard doesn't—Carver's a Grey Warden. While it's not something he would've chosen for himself, it made him his own person, a better person. It won't erase the trauma of Ostagar, or bring Bethany back, but a life of killing darkspawn and helping people? It's enough. He can be content, if not happy, with it.

He and my Hawke, Ed, had a strong as hell relationship by the time DA2 ended. They kept in contact through everything. Carver wanted to be there when Corypheus returned; he, Ed, and Varric killed him together once, so he should be there to kill him again. When the other wardens started acting strange, he wanted to help Alistair figure out what the hell was happening.

He complained the entire time, but ultimately listened when Ed told him to go with Aveline to get away from everything. He and Alistair would fine.

Then the day came where he received a letter from Varric that his big brother is presumed dead after being left in the fade; "He wanted you to know that he always thought the world of you, Junior, and that he's sorry."

The Inquisitor made the ultimate call to let Ed stay behind instead of Alistair so the rest could escape. Because of course he did, of course his damn brother would leave him behind to play hero one last time. Of course he'd leave Carver alone with nothing but Gamlen left as family.

After that, Carver remained with the Grey Wardens until a familiar face appeared, one he really didn't want to see since Varric's just a big ol' reminder that Carver wasn't there and he should've been.

Like... there's so much. The reunion with Varric. Spending all the time together with Harding, tracking Solas down. Varric "getting hurt" during the ritual, leaving Carver in charge.

Carver sees all these eluvians, he meets the Veil Jumpers... and everywhere he looks, he's reminded of Merrill... and the way she made him feel once.

Going to Treviso for the first time and seeing it under antaam occupation and having flashbacks to Kirkwall's occupation but the qunari on the docks.

He reunites with Isabela, of all people, and it's like no time has passed and yet there's a deep sadness gnawing at him as they catch up because he knows it's coming; he knows she's going to ask about his brother and how Carver's doing.

He meets the Inquisitor face to face. The woman who made the decision that took his brother away. Sure, he understands now more than ever that it wasn't malicious. That it wasn't a winnable situation. Even Varric understood, and forgave her... but Carver hasn't.

Having Solas, the dread wolf from Merrill's stories and one of the last people to ever see Carver's brother alive because of course he was there for that, too... having him stuck in Carver's head. After he's calmed down, and after having talked to Solas a few times... he wants so badly to ask Solas if he remembers Ed. What he remembers. What Varric wouldn't tell him. But, asking that would give Solas a weakness, a means of manipulating him, and Carver can't risk that.

The Regret Prison. Just..... The REGRET PRISON.

Do you see my vision?

There's a lot, so after spending approximately forever in character creator while using reference screenshots from DA2, I've got him.

Somewhat.

As best as I can possibly get him.

Some notes:

-Trying to imagine Carver going from DA2 graphics to DAV graphics made me wanna rip my hair out. -It's unfortunate that there isn't a "salt and pepper" color for hair... because Carver absolutely has stress grays at this point. Also, not a lot of hairstyle choices, but this one has some sideburns. -I've stared at Carver's eyebrows for too long. -No mabari tattoos, so it's official: the mabari's on his ass, that's why you can't see it. And he can have a griffon on his bosom, as a treat. -Gave him some facial hair, but that's more for the roleplay reasons. He's been on the road with Varric and Harding, tracking Solas. No time to shave properly. He'll shave at the lighthouse. -He'll also have a new face scar at the lighthouse because he got hurt during the ritual and I want it to show like it does for Harding and Neve, even if I can't do the bruises and stuff. -He needs to drink some water because his voice is rough. -"Your last name is derived from your faction—" No. -He's not ready for all the shit ahead of us, but I am.

[lasatfat]

Welcome Distraction

also on AO3

“Come to bed, Varric.”

It’s not the first time Hawke has had to tell him. There’s always something new for the Viscount of Kirkwall to deal with, but it seems that that one of his numerous other occupations is keeping him busy tonight. “I’ve almost finished this chapter,” he says. “I just need a little more time.”

Hawke has heard that excuse before, but Varric has been staring stubbornly down at the same spot on the page for at least the last half hour, with any progress scribbled out a few moments later. Snapping their own book shut, they shuffle to the edge of the bed.

“What you need is sleep,” they argue. They cross the room to him, leaning over the desk, pushing their leg underneath to touch their foot to his. “Come to bed, let it rest, and go at it fresh in the morning.”

Varric crosses out his newest attempt – at this point, the page will soon be more scribbles than legible words. “I know what happens next,” he retorts. “Need to figure out how to word it.”

Well, clearly asking nicely isn’t working. Time to change approach.

They crouch on the floor. They’re a little old to be crawling around under desks, especially one set this close to the floor, but crawl under they do. It’s a nice desk, at least. Looks like real serault oak, polished to perfection, even on the underside. They could probably see their reflection in that wood, if they cared enough to cast magical light and check. As it is, the candlelight provides enough illumination to allow them to unpick the laces on Varric’s boots.

“Damnit, Hawke, what are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” they reply. Boots shed, they get to work on his breeches. Varric startles; Hawke bumps their head. “Ouch.” Not the best start.

“Anyone could walk in!” he hisses, even as he lifts his arse off the seat, letting Hawke tug his breeches and smalls out of the way, and bare him from the waist down. He’s half-hard already.

“Entering the viscount’s private quarters unannounced?” they say, with a smirk. They brush their beard up the inside of his thigh. “Who would dare?”

“There’s a ffffffirst time for everything.” Varric almost loses grip of that sentence, as Hawke wraps their right hand around the base of his length.

“Go on, then,” they say, punctuating their speech with open-mouthed kisses up the length of his now straining prick. “Finish your chapter. I’m keeping myself amused.”

“You’re not making it any easier,” Varric gripes.

They don’t really have a good retort, so Hawke puts their mouth to better use. Their lips close around the head of his cock – tastes the sour-salt of precome – and they flick their tongue against him.

“See? You don’t – ah! – you don’t have an answer for that,” he says, entirely too smug for someone with their genitals so close to someone’s teeth. Hawke reminds him with the barest scrape of theirs as they pull off.

“I don’t have your talent with words,” they reply, which is true to some extent. Varric is the author, the negotiator, the silver-tongued raconteur, but Hawke has made him come more than once by simply whispering in his ear.

“Maker, Hawke…” and he does lose that sentence, groaning as Hawke takes him into their mouth again, and swirls their tongue. They chase the sound, taking more of him with each stroke, each grunt or whispered curse lifting fresh butterflies up from their stomach, until they think he must be able to feel them too. They can’t see his face, but they can see his hands in a vice-grip on the arms of his chair. The writing has been well and truly abandoned, it seems.

Hawke pulls off, for just a second, just long enough. Their free hand – marred with a whorl of burns – fondles his balls in compensation. “I want you to come on my tongue.” And they take him deep, deep enough for the wide head of his cock to slip down the back of their throat. A tiny spurt of salt falls over their tongue as they withdraw, cheeks hollowing.

“Rian.” It’s not often Varric uses their first name. “Shit, Rian, I’m…”

Sensing how that sentence would end, Hawke presses forward, taking him to the back of their mouth once again. Varric comes with a noise like a growl, cock pulsing, spend filling their mouth and flowing down their opened throat.

Hawke holds his softening cock in their mouth for a moment longer, savouring the weight of it. When they pull off, prompting a disappointed sound from Varric, they slump back against the desk drawers to catch their breath. They’d been so focused on him that they hadn’t noticed the growing ache in their jaw, or the bump on their head. The hot throbbing of their own cunt.

After another minute or so, Varric pushes his chair back, offering a hand to help them out from underneath.

“Always the gentleman, Master Tethras,” they chuckle, clambering to their feet. When he pushes them back against the desk, it takes them by surprise. “Oop. Spoke too soon.”

Varric hooks his thick fingers into the waistband of their trousers, pulls them down over their arse. They take the opportunity to perch on the edge of the desk. Their smalls must be visibly wet, because Varric eyes them with a low laugh, and says, “got you good and worked up, huh?”

“That you did.” They lift themselves up, and tug the underwear out of the way, tossing it aside. “What are we going to do about it?”

Varric grins. “One good turn deserves another,” he responds, before dipping his head to taste them.

[vigilskeep]

Do you understand how Kirkwall politics work? Ik theres a viscount but like…is it just viscount and Templar’s? Three people?

i don't know a lot off the top of my head but let's take a look!

kirkwall is ruled by a viscount. it does seem to be a hereditary position, but if the viscount has no heirs or the line is otherwise removed from power, kirkwall's nobility have the right to elect a new viscount. so there's definitely an established noble class who have a powerful say in what happens. world of thedas lists the amells, the threnholds, and the reinhardts as the most powerful hightown houses at the start of the dragon age, but both the amells and threnholds collapsed before da2. (prior to their collapse, the amells were one of the foremost noble families in the whole free marches, with four centuries of history to their bloodline.) we interact with families like the harrimanns and de launcets in da2 and leandra mentions the reinhardts still being around.

viscounts' lines don't seem particularly long-lasting; marlowe dumar is the first in his. his predecessor perrin threnhold inherited the role from his father, but the father was also first in his short-lived line and "took power through a campaign of intimidation" rather than just, like, inheriting it. (this is confirmed by a codex stating the threnholds only came to power less than a week after maric retook the fereldan throne.) the implication is that saemus dumar would have been a potential heir to marlowe had he lived, but i don't remember anyone taking this possibility seriously in the game and given his politics i'm sure the nobility and templars alike would never remotely consider allowing it

the title of viscount was introduced by the orlesians, who ruled kirkwall from 7:60 storm to 8:05 blessed after liberating it from a four-year qunari occupation. they also introduced the kirkwall city guard, a force answerable to the viscount. the people of kirkwall threw out the orlesians but kept the title and the associated guard.

the templars have no official control of the city. however, the viscount's office is effectively so weak by the time of da2 that it is impossible to hold without templar support. this is because of what happened under viscount dumar's predecessor, viscount perrin threnhold. brother genitivi refers to perrin as "even worse" than his "vicious thug" father. perrin used those ancient chains in kirkwall's harbour to block orlesian ships and charge exorbitantly heavy taxes on them. this was naturally a poorly received move in orlais but also in kirkwall, as it limited trade, the lifeblood of the city. divine beatrix iii, who the codex claims was acting "as a friend to the emperor", ordered the templars to pressure the viscount into stopping, despite knight-commander guylian having refused similar requests from kirkwall's nobles and insisting even to the divine that their place was to protect the city from magic not from itself. perrin responded by hiring a mercenary army—odd that it wasn't the city guard, possibly implying they turned against him in favour of the nobles?—that ultimately stormed the gallows and executed guylian, with the intention of expelling the templars entirely from the city. in the end perrin was arrested, and presumably executed, if his successor being gifted his blood-encrusted signet ring as a threat is anything to go by. this seems to have been well received in kirkwall; the templars "were hailed as heroes". guylian was replaced with meredith, who personally directly appointed marlowe dumar

meredith's choice is an interesting one. the dumars were noble, but considerably modest compared to other noble families, with some of their income from trade that the dumars personally oversaw (traditional noble income tending to come from landowning, with actually having a job being looked down upon). marlowe's wife wasn't noble or an arranged match, only the daughter of a prosperous cartographer. meredith told marlowe that he chose him because he was "humble" as opposed to the "entitled degenerates" she considered the rest of the nobility, but it's obvious this wasn't merely her respecting the value of hard work. she openly threatened him on instalment to the office she had chosen him for. instead of appointing a strong viscount who could restore the office, allowing the templars to step back, meredith had none of guylian's scruples, and appointed a weak one the templars would continue to control. "the knight-commander's influence was evident in almost every one of marlowe's decisions."

this turned into more of an essay on recent kirkwall history than an explanation, but hopefully some of it's helpful in fleshing out the landscape. as a further note as well as the nobility i would expect merchants, guilds, etc. to hold massive influence in a city built on trade. there's a reason for example that the dwarven merchants' guild is visibly extremely well-established in kirkwall with its own large area in hightown; not the most trustworthy source but varric also claims they have "fingers in all these pies" in the lowtown market and own every tavern in hightown. i very much doubt human merchants are letting the dwarves have all the fun so it can be reasonably assumed they hold similar influence

[psalacanthea]

WiP Wednesday

A bit early b/c my wednesdays are tabletop day so I have to do lots of prep.  Tagging @kirkwalls-dumbest and @oxygenforthewicked because i can

Here is Nathaniel Howe making friends against his will for the next chapter of the fic.

...

A servant was tipping one last heavy basin of water into the cauldron, which was already steaming.

On the left side, behind the old, tattered curtains, a few soldiers were already talking and scrubbing, filling the air of the cavernous stone room with idle chatter.  Anders was there, but not bathing.  He seemed to be a bit confused from the expression on his face as he stared at the pot over the massive open fireplace.  Nathaniel gave him a curious look, picking a battered wooden tub opposite where everyone else was to drop off his pack.

“Problem?”

Anders spun to face him, giving an awkward laugh.  “No!  I was just…so you, what, have to fill the tub yourself?”

“If you really want to, I suppose.  Generally, though, one pitcher to scrub up, one pitcher to rinse off,” Nathaniel said, a bit confused.  “Have you never had a bath before?”

“Well, yes, but generally it involves…a tub full of water.  That you sit in.  I assume that if I went and sat in that pot, I’d end up being served for dinner.”

“Those of us without magic actually have to labor for a full bath, and that is generally not a luxury a soldier would rate,” Nathaniel said, going to pick up a battered pitcher and a watertight wooden bucket from the pile of such vessels left by the cauldron.  He shoved the bucket at Anders.  “If you want to sit in a tub full of water…you’re going to have to fill it yourself.  Or we’ll be having mage stew for dinner, I suppose.”

He dunked his pitcher into the cauldron, filling it up.

“Beg pardon, was that a joke?”

“No,” Nathaniel said, deadpan, and headed for his chosen tub.  “This is the best you’ll get.  No bath houses in Ferelden anymore.”

Anders being Anders, he latched onto that immediately.  “Anymore?”

Nathaniel sighed, setting down the pitcher and yanking the old curtain closed.  Why did he even bother speaking?  Leave the slightest crack, and the mage would wriggle right in there.  “They used to be common before the occupation.  Avvar style bathhouses.  Steam baths, followed by a cold rinse.  But then the Chantry started calling them ‘uncivilized’, among other things, and so they fell out of fashion.”

“That seems a shame.”

“It was an excuse.  One more way for the Orlesians to destroy Ferelden culture.”  He pulled his shirt over his head, noting how direly it needed to be washed.  With a sigh, he tossed it into the tub, dumping the pitcher of water over it.  Might as well deal with the laundry as well, since he had an extra set of clothes.  

“You said before that Fereldens are trying to reclaim their culture.”

“Yes.  But this is a pious country, and the old bath houses were notorious for licentious behavior and prostitution.  So, the Chantry maintains the line.”

“And here I was looking forward to this bath…”  Anders sighed heavily.  “Now I’m just thinking of what might have been.”

Pushing the curtain open, he headed back to the cauldron to grab another pitcher.  Anders was still standing there with the bucket.  Nathaniel glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.  “If you’re uncomfortable you can tell the Commander.”

“Oh, no.  I grew up in the Circle.  I’ve seen more naked men than you’d believe,” Anders said, with a particularly wry tilt to his smile.  “Just considering how desperate I am for an actual bath.  Plus, the water still looks a bit tepid.  I don’t feel clean unless I look like a boiled lobster.”

“Suit yourself,” Nathaniel said simply, and went to scrub his clothes and wash up.

He had peace for a little while, cleaning and squeezing out his clothes, and then setting to work scrubbing himself down at long last.  He let down his hair and started there, working his way down until he was tingling from scalp to toes, feeling clean and a little bit raw in a way that made him feel at last like he’d washed the last few weeks from his skin.

Nathaniel hadn’t felt this clean since Kirkwall.

Once Anders had finally finished filling his tub, the quiet was finally and unfortunately broken.  “You know, Nathaniel, you’re just like me.”

He stifled a sigh, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.  “Am I, now?”

“Yes, I was just thinking of it earlier.  Everyone hates your family for something terrible they did, even though you weren't involved!”

Less than pleased by the reminder, he picked up the empty pitcher.  “I hope you have a point, Anders.”  Shaking his head, he headed through the thin curtain.  The water in the central cauldron was indeed warmer now.  Hopefully he wouldn’t scald his skin off when he rinsed.

There were more soldiers bathing now, but they moved in and out at a fairly good clip– no one really bothered with an actual bath here, it seemed.

Well, except for Anders, who was trying and failing.  

“It's like you're a mage! If there were more Howes, they'd lock all of you up in a tower to protect everyone else.”

He dunked in the pitcher.  “A thrilling analogy.”  On his way back, he caught a brief glimpse of Anders crammed up in his tub in a rather uncomfortable-looking attempt at a seated bath, knees practically under his chin from having to cram himself in.  It distracted him from musing over his incredibly inaccurate comparison.  “You look like a wading bird I once saw outside of Markham.”

“Oh, that’s hurtful!” Anders said with a laugh, trying to shift and failing.  “I was born with these knobby knees, but on the other hand, that facial hair is a choice.”

“If you get stuck in there, I’m leaving you.”

[lesetoilesfous]

Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

[dalishious]

I've yet to play Inquisition so I'm wondering why does everyone say that Corypheus, or however it's spelled, is the worst dragon age villain?

Because Corypheus he is very bland and forgettable. Looking at him in comparison to Loghain, the Arishok and Meredith, he might as well be a cardboard figure. Corypheus meets none of the makings of a good antagonist.

Presence

We meet Loghain at the beginning of the game, and we continuously see him in cutscenes throughout. He has a consistent presence from the start to finish.

We meet the Arishok early on in the game, and he is involved in quests throughout Act 1 and 2. We also see the conflict between the Qunari and Patrice’s zealots first hand. He has a consistent presence from the start to finish.

Meredith is not introduced until the end of Act 2, however the Templar Order is consistently seen throughout the game. They are involved in many quests, and we are shown in great detail the abuse they conduct under Meredith’s control. The Templar Order has a consistent presence from the start to finish, and Meredith does from the start to finish of Act 3.

Corypheus shows up once during In Hushed Whispers, he is briefly seen during What Pride Had Wrought, and then he’s there at the end in Doom Upon All The World. Sure, the Venatori are around, but unlike the Templars and Meredith, the focus is not on them. There are Venatori around during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, but the real focus is on Briala, Celene, Gaspard and as it’s revealed, Florianne. The Venatori are around during Here Lies the Abyss, but the real focus is on the Grey Wardens. You get me? As such, it’s very easy to flat out forget that Corypheus is even an active threat. You don’t ever feel under pressure or on a time-limit from the Venatori the same way you do with Loghain, the Arishok and Templars. 

Motivations

Loghain’s motivations were very clear: The trauma from Orlesian occupation and the things he experienced during the Ferelden Rebellion is not really something he ever recovered from, and he’s paranoid that Orlais will invade Ferelden again. (He also never really got over Maric’s disappearance.) He truly believes that what he is doing is protecting his country. But this slips way out of his control and he ends up doing monstrous things himself. While there is more information in The Stolen Throne, all this is explained in game too. Easily in the most detail out of them all, especially if you end up recruiting him and hearing his explanations himself.

The Arishok follows the Qun to an extreme, and his actions all stem from the Demands of the Qun. He only ever wanted to mind his own business while stuck in Kirkwall looking for the Tome of Koslun, but was continuously provoked into a fight by Chantry zealots until a breaking point. While this seems simplistic on the surface level, there is a lot that can be read into how Qunari society works, in that they do not see choice in anything but choosing to follow the Qun or not. The Qun dictates every piece of the Arishok’s life, and that pseudo simplicity in itself is what makes him complex.

Meredith hates and fears magic, and this paranoia and hatred is then amplified after she comes in prolonged contact with red lyrium. Like Loghain, she is the hero in her own mind, doing what she thinks is best. However unlike Loghain, her motivations are not with good intent; she believes that mages are weapons and need to be controlled like such. That is what makes her so evil.

Corypheus’ motivations really do not extend beyond “I want power.” Nothing is ever really explained about this, because instead they go with the “you would not understand” route. I hate that, it’s so lazy. If you’re going to to do that then at least give players another way to understand things. The most you can understand from Corypheus comes from doing the side-quest Corypheus’s Memories, which is only available if you go after the Templars. Players who allied/conscripted the mages do not get this quest at all. And even then there is barely anything to gain from it; mostly just what he already says at Haven, and some hints about his plans with the Well of Sorrows.

Complexity

Loghain is not just a controlling reagent. He has a history of being a hero and is was well regarded by many because of that. He is a father. He has emotions and fears. If you were asked to make a list of his character traits, you could. He is a multifaceted character.

The Arishok and Meredith are less so in this regard, but even still, there is more to them then “I want to take over the city” and “I want to kill all the mages.” Again, if you were asked to make a list of their character traits, you could.

Corypheus, however, barely constitutes as a character. He’s arrogant… he’s supposedly charismatic since he’s been able to amass such a following, though we never actually see this ourselves… that’s all I can really think of. With the equivalency of some monster children run from in a made-for-TV horror film, he’s just about as one-dimensional as you can get.

In Conclusion

All of this adds up to the fact that Corypheus feels like an unworthy opponent of the Inquisitor. There is a lack of satisfaction in beating him, because you never really understand what he’s doing or why, or felt like you were fighting him in the first place.

The Landsmeet in DA:O is intense, the Arishok battle in DA:2 is intense, the final battle with Meredith is intense, because it feels like they are the equal counterparts of your protagonist. But Corypheus? He never does anything to suggest he’s even close to the same level as the Inquisitor. His defeat is left feeling unspecial, because it is.

I really hope it was all worth it to see DA:4′s antagonist be a true adversary.

[sidhelives]

Andraste's Grace

Written for @kyupidete as part of my Twitter giveaway. I said I'd give her anything and this is what she wanted.

In which Aria Hawke fucks with Sebastian Vael.

Full text under break

"So," Aria set the empty shot glass down onto the bar with a firm clink . "Why do you think Sebastian decided to come out with us?" She rolled her eyes onto the side to look at Isabela.

Isabela tossed back her own shot and slammed it down beside Aria's. "He didn't used to be such a good boy. Maybe he misses it."

"Or maybe he just wanted to ruin my evening." Anders glowered from Aria's other side.

The other members of their drinking party, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, and Sebastian, were seated and chatting amicably a few yards away. Aveline had declined Varric's invitation to The Hanged Man, citing her busy work schedule. Aria knew the real reason was that she hadn't yet forgiven her for the previous soirees.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Oh come off it, Anders. Not everything is about you."

"And take your shot, we can't do another round until you do." Aria pushed up on the bottom of the glass in his hand.

He swatted her hand away and threw back the shot, his glare still focused on the table.

Aria plucked the empty glass from his hand and kissed his cheek, grinning madly. "Stop sulking. I don't have drunken sex with sulkers."

" I'm not sulking," Isabela volunteered enthusiastically.

Anders glared at her and wrapped one arm possessively around Aria's hips. "I'm not sulking , I just don't like him."

"Corff," Aria called sweetly, gesturing at the empty glasses, then turned back around to join Anders in observing the table. "He is cute though." She smirked.

"Those eyes," Isabela agreed dreamily, leaning back on the bar.

Anders scoffed in disgust.

"You'd think so too if he didn't have the hand of the Maker so far up his ass." Aria nudged him with her shoulder.

Behind them, Corff showed up and tipped dark alcohol into the three empty glasses.

"Leave the bottle," Aria told him over her shoulder.

"Am I ever going to get paid for this?" He grumbled.

She looked back at him. "I'm the Champion of Kirkwall, you know I'm good for it."

He rolled his eyes and set the bottle down on the bar, then receded to help other patrons.

"You're never going to settle your tab, are you?" Isabela smirked.

Aria grinned, placing a full shot into Anders's hand. "I'm sure Varric will get it handled eventually."

"Clink!" Isabela cried, and the three of them knocked their shots together before tossing them back.

"We could mess with him," Aria suggested nonchalantly, pouring more alcohol into their glasses. "Would that make you feel better, Love?"

Anders gave her a side-eyed glance. "Might."

"What did you have in mind?" Isabela asked with a raised eyebrow, taking the bottle from Aria's hand and drinking from it.

Aria considered. "Maybe rile him up: low whispers in his ear, soft caresses, accidentally slip my tongue into his mouth. You know, get him all hot and bothered," she snatched the bottle back from Isabela and took another shot. "Then do Anders on the table. Really hammer the point home."

"Wouldn't Anders be the one hammering in that case?" Isabela laughed.

Anders rolled his eyes. "I thought the point of the plan was to make me feel better ."

Aria kissed his cheek again. "That's why you get to fuck me and not him."

He shook his head. "Absolutely not." He looked Aria up and down. "You're already drunk."

She nodded. "That was the purpose of the bottle, yes."

"I've got a better plan anyway," Isabela interjected, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Anders and Aria both raised their eyebrows at her, and she crooked one finger at the woman to come closer, whispering into her ear once she did. Anders watched with interest as a maniacal smile came over Aria's face and she cackled.

"Oh, that is good."

"I know, isn't it?" Isabela agreed proudly.

"What is it?" Anders asked suspiciously.

"A surprise," Aria responded coyly. "Don't worry, you'll like it." She tipped the bottle back, emptying it with several swallows, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. She gestured for the others to follow her then headed to the table. Anders sighed heavily and followed behind her and the giddy Isabela.

Everyone looked up as they approached and Varric opened his mouth to greet them, but before he got the chance Aria dropped to her hands and knees and shimmied under the table.

"What are you doing, Hawke?" Fenris asked gruffly, pushing his chair back.

"Gird your loins, boys. Hawke is cock hunting." Varric laughed.

"I think it's unfair to Merrill to imply that I'm only interested in cocks." Aria's muffled voice came from under the table.

Merrill blushed, a sparkle of crimson across her cheekbones.

"Deepest apologies," Varric said grandiosely. "Gird your loins, everyone ."

"Thank you!" Came the muffled response.

"Where is she?" Anders crossed his arms.

"I'm— I'm not sure," Merrill murmured, cautiously peeking down at her feet.

"Does she do this sort of thing often?" Sebastian asked, nonplussed by the strange sequence of events.

"Not as often as you would think," Varric replied with a shrug.

"I can't imagine the state of the floor in a place like this. Her breeches are going to be rui—" Sebastian stopped mid-word, eyes widening slightly and he wetted his lips uncomfortably. "Aria. What are you doing?"

Isabela, who had been suppressing giggles between tightly clamped lips, broke, cackling madly. Everyone else quickly moved to get a better view.

"I'm asking forgiveness for my sins." Aria's palms were flat on the tops of his thighs, on either side of and level with her chin. "I've never done it before. You're supposed to do it on your knees, right?"

Sebastian swallowed hard, casting his eyes up toward the ceiling. "I feel that there are better times and places to seek penitence."

"You ever seen a man try that hard to not be hard?" Varric murmured out the side of his mouth at Isabela.

She smirked. "Which do you think will blow first? His pants or his brain?"

Anders said "pants" at the same time Varric said "brain" and they shared a competitive look.

"Spoken like a man who's never had Aria's head between his thighs," Anders quipped.

Varric chuckled. "You're on, Blondie."

Aria's hands slid father up Sebastian's thighs and she leaned into him, making his entire body go rigid. "Blessed Andraste, forgive this poor sinner what she is about to do."

"What are you about to—?" Sebastian chanced a glance down at his lap and pressed his lips together, corners of his mouth turning down, as Aria pressed her lips to those of the visage of Andraste emblazoned on his belt buckle.

Varric, Isabela, and Anders burst into hysterical laughter, Merrill covered her giggle behind her hand, and even Fenris cracked a smile as Sebastian sat looking unimpressed. He made a small grunt of surprise as Aria grabbed his hips, mouth opening slightly so she could tongue his buckle with the same reckless abandon she had shown when crawling into his lap. Tears streamed down Isabela's face as she struggled to breathe between howling cackles, leaning on the table with one hand, and The Hanged Man's other occupants began casting glances in their direction.

Sebastian gave an irritated sigh. "You're defiling my lady."

Aria slowly pried her mouth away from Andraste's face with a pop and looked up at him. "What? Are you the only one allowed to do that? I can only assume that's why you keep her so close ." She punctuated her statement by sliding her hands back over his thighs, her fingers firmly brushing just below the buckle.

Sebastian, who had settled into a false sense of safety, sucked air in sharply in a hiss, his entire body tensing, and his eyes shot back to the ceiling. This caused another uproar of laughter, even Fenris throwing his head back and guffawing.

"I think that's enough prayer for one day." With a smirk Aria receded under the table again, appearing back where she had initially disappeared, hopping to her feet and dusting herself off.

"How was it?" Isabela whispered, leaning into her.

"I can see why he was popular with the ladies." She replied with a wink before grabbing Anders's hand and dragging him away from the table towards Varric's suite. "Varric!" She shouted as she passed.

"Yeah, yeah, the room is in use, I got it." He grumbled, a smirk still on his lips. He turned to Sebastian. "Welcome to the club, Chantry Boy."

Sebastian took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly. "Does she do that often?"

"Usually only once per person," Fenris joked. "Then again, I've never seen her drag her pet off that quickly afterward."

"I'd say someone was impressed," Isabela purred, settling onto the table near Merrill's elbow.

"Impressed with what?" Merrill asked innocently. "All he did was sit there stiff as a tree."

"Yes, Kitten. All of him. Every single muscle. Stiff as a tree." Isabela stared directly at Sebastian as she spoke, his face slowly gaining color.

Merrill looked between Isabela's intense gaze and Sebastian's rising flush and became suddenly quite red herself. "Oh."

Fenris and Varric burst into laughter again as Sebastian awkwardly scooched his chair closer to the table. Varric signaled to Corff. "I think everyone could use another round."

"Some of us more than others," Sebastian grumbled.

[pikapeppa]

BLESS ME WITH YOUR OTP: Fenris/Rynne Hawke

Tagged by @midnightprelude, who devised this lovely meme, and by the divine @faerieavalon and @serial-chillr! 

Tagging forward to @schoute @lethendralis-paints @levikra @johaeryslavellan @solas-disapproves @aban-asaara @myfeyrelady @alyssalenko @obvidalous @mrscullensrutherford @hellas-himself @tristanacer @tryvyalsynnes @thevikingwoman @elbenherzart @stella-minerva and anyone else who might like to play!

Rules: answer as many of the following questions as you want, and add art/screenshots to show off your OTP! (Note: I filled this out like an interview with the babes, but you don’t need to do that; you can just straight-up answer the questions. Do it in whatever format you prefer!)

I will fill this out for Fenris and Rynne Hawke in the times of the Inquisition, which you can read here on AO3.

(Art by @schoute​!!)

[The interviewer sits alone in Ambassador Montilyet’s office, nervously waiting for the Herald of Andraste and the Champion of Kirkwall to arrive. They are running late. Eventually their approach can be heard; they seem to be having a lighthearted argument.]

Fenris: ...this is the last one. I won’t do this again, Hawke, I mean it. Hawke: But you always tag along when I do them! Admit it, you enjoy these interviews. Fenris: I enjoy hearing your foolish answers. That’s all. Hawke: [laughs] I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered by that crack.

[The door to Ambassador Montilyet’s office swings open. The Champion of Kirkwall sashays into the room and plops herself down comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. The Herald of Andraste enters more slowly and seats himself beside her. After an awkward moment, the interviewer shifts onto the floor as well.]

Hawke: Welcome to Skyhold! All right, go on and be nosy. We’re not shy.

Do they fight often? If so, what is their dynamic like?

[Hawke immediately bursts into laughter.]

Fenris: Who put you up to these questions? Was it Dorian? He enjoys inciting this sort of petty drama. Hawke: To answer your question, we don’t fight. We enjoy spirited debates. Followed by very spirited make-up sex.  Fenris: Hawke. Hawke: It’s true! All right, being serious, I think we argue nicely. Right? [looks at Fenris] Both of us get to speak our minds and be heard.  Fenris: Yes. [looks at interviewer] I will admit that I am more likely to get angry. Hawke: That’s true. And I’m more likely to make a lewd joke when he’s trying to be serious. Fenris: Also true. Hawke: But we always kiss and make up. [She pauses and grins.] And then we— Fenris: Hawke.

Who is the most skeptical of the two?

Hawke: He is. Fenris: I would agree. Hawke: Ever the optimist, that’s me. Especially when it comes to people. I usually assume people aren’t assholes until proven otherwise. He’s the opposite.  Fenris: That’s not… [pauses] In fact, you’re right. That is true.  Hawke: [winks at interviewer] I’m not as stupid as I look. 

Who would be most likely to suggest a night of dancing? 

Hawke: [laughs and holds up one hand] That would be me. Fenris: She often suggests dancing. Every night, nearly. Hawke: Can you blame me? [turns to interviewer and gestures at Fenris] Look at him. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen that body dance. Fenris: Fasta vass.

What would they do if the other was injured in battle?

[They immediately sober and look at each other. Then Hawke smiles at the interviewer.]

Hawke: Are we talking little cuts and scrapes? Those happen all the time. Occupational hazard, you know. 

[She falls silent for a moment; meanwhile, Fenris’s frown is deepening. Then Hawke looks at the interviewer once more.]

Hawke: If Fenris gets badly injured in battle, then I’ve failed at my job. Fenris: Hawke–  Hawke: I make excellent barriers. I’m a decent healer, and I’ve been working on improving my wards. If he ever gets badly hurt, it’ll be because I wasn’t there. Fenris: [takes her hand and glares at the interviewer.] Let’s move on.

How do their fighting styles complement each other?

[They both seem to relax.]

Hawke: Very well, I think! I hang back and – well, I told you about my barriers. I mostly handle the protection while he tears people apart.  Fenris: It was not always this way, though. You and your blasted fireballs…  Hawke: [brightens and laughs] That’s true. I definitely used to be the first one to throw a fireball. I mean, I used barriers back then too, but I was definitely a get-them-before-they-get-you sort of girl. [shrugs and looks at Fenris] I think this works better, though. It’s safer. Fenris: Yes. It is.

Do they want children? Does it frighten them? How many do they want? 

[They look at each other, and Hawke grins.]

Hawke: [laughs] We haven’t really thought about it. Bit difficult to imagine carting a baby around when you’re running from the Chantry and then arguing with the Chantry and then fighting a blighted undead magister, you know? I’ll tell you though, if you want to talk to someone about kids, you should talk to Morrigan. I know that ‘mother’ is not the first thing you think when you lay eyes on her – I mean, phwoar, I don’t know if you’ve seen Morrigan — but she’s a great mother. And raising Kieran all on her own! And with her own mother being, um, a piece of work, shall we say? Madness, I’m telling you. How she managed all by herself… 

[While Hawke is speaking, Fenris is watching her in silence. When she trails off with a nervous giggle, Fenris looks at the interviewer.]

Fenris: We haven’t thought about it. What is your next question?

What happened when they took them home to their families? If their families aren’t in the picture anymore, how do they feel about it?

Hawke: [laughs] Maker’s balls. So when my mother first met Fenris– Fenris: She seemed polite at the time. Hawke: That’s generous of you. She was marginally polite. But when you weren’t around, she was all, ‘Rynne, what are you doing running around with that elf boy…’ [clicks her tongue, then rubs her nose.] She would have come around eventually, though. I’m sure she would have. Fenris: [squeezes her hand] Carver and I got along. Hawke: [brightens] You did. That’s true. Carver really looked up to you, especially at the end there. [laughs] He liked you more than me, that’s for sure. Fenris: [quietly] That is not true. Hawke: [shrugs and smiles] Bethany and my father would have liked you. Fenris: I’m sure you’re right. I would have won them over with my choreographed dance routines. 

[Hawke grins at him, then bursts out laughing for reasons the interviewer isn’t sure of. She wraps her arms around Fenris’s neck and kisses his cheek.] 

Hawke: I love you.

[Fenris smirks, and his ears turn slightly pink.]

How does each person show affection towards the other?

Hawke: Well, I am very hands-on, as you can see. [She is still hugging Fenris. She looks at him.] And you don’t mind, do you? Fenris: No. I don’t mind. [The interviewer notes that his arm is around her waist.]  Hawke: [to the interviewer] He’s the wordsmith, though. I’m the handsy one, and he’s the one who says all the lovely romantic words. But that’s all you get to know about that. [winks]

Who cries the most? Who is better at comforting?

Hawke: [groans] All right, fine, I’m the one who cries more. But I fucking hate crying. It’s a waste of time and handkerchiefs, and it makes me look hideous.  Fenris: [frowns at her, then looks at the interviewer] She is very good at comforting.  Hawke: Hardly! I always just say dumb things and try to make dumb jokes.  Fenris: [quietly] That is not true. Hawke: Well, you’re great at comforting. You say all the right things and give the best hugs.  Fenris: [very quietly] As do you.  Hawke: [smiles at the interviewer] We’ll call this one a tie, shall we?

Who is the bigger flirt?

[They both speak at the same time.]

Hawke: I am. Fenris: She is. Hawke: [laughs loudly] But I only ever mean it with him.

[thedreadgay]

a promise sealed with a kiss

word count: 2473 author’s notes: mhawke/varric commission for my buddy @punkdeaf !!! i had a lot of fun with this one, pls enjoy some gay losers reuniting after inquisition

—

The sky was dark with smoke and night around Adamant. The aftermath of battle began to seep into survivors' bones, the crash after the sweat and adrenaline of survival. Varric could feel it, heavier than stone.

He figured Hawke felt it, too. They sat side by side on a fallen block, tucked in a lonely corner of the now crumbling fortress. Armor clanked as Inquisition soldiers passed to and fro, just beyond the jut of the half-broken wall. Their voices washed over Varric: someone calling for the nearest healer, cries of victory, breathless exclamations and barking orders. Words, words, words, the words of a successful siege, the victorious in the face of an army of demons—all the stories of all those people, wrapped into one like threads of a rope. All those damn words. And yet, for once, Varric had none. He and Hawke sat in unusual silence.

“You’re really going then, huh?” Was the best Varric could manage. His voice was scratchy from desert air turned acrid with death and wicked magic. He watched a tower of pyre smoke roll high, high into the sky, sparks reaching up, as though freeing the fallen to become burning stars.

Hawke didn’t respond right away. Varric tore his gaze away from the massive pyre to Hawke. His broad shoulders were hunched, his robes covered in soot. The dark circles under his eyes persisted, as they had for years now. “You know me,” Hawke muttered then, scratching his beard; “Trouble finds me no matter what. May as well try to stay a step ahead and dive right into it.”

Varric gave a half-hearted chuckle. Hawke tried for a weak smile. Both looked about ready to fall apart.

Their gazes simply held, then. Words hung on the tip of Varric's tongue that felt too terrifying to breathe into fruition. He inched his hand closer to Hawke's; the other took it, entwined their fingers. It was the closest inkling of home Varric had felt in a while.

What could he say? All those words were so much that he couldn’t pick them out, like grains of sand sifting through his fingers.

“Just, uh,” he tried quietly, then sighed. “Just… come back. Okay?”

Hawke pursed his lips for a moment. “And what about you?”

Varric remembered their hushed conversation in front of the war room, just before marching from Skyhold to battle. He remembered leaning heavily against the wall, like without some tether he would be swept away in the chaos. “I think… I need to finish this out,” he had rasped.

Hawke had been a mirror before him then, and he was again now. A world of guilt carved lines around his eyes; Varric couldn’t know for sure—didn’t want to know for sure—but he could have sworn some whisper of the Fade still clung to Hawke, a smell like lightning in his clothes; and he could see, in the hunch of Hawke's back, where the demon's echo still slithered down his spine.

“Varric will die, just like your family.”

Not on my watch, Smiley, Varric thought.

“I’ll come back, too.”

Hawke released a sigh, deflating like the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He squeezed Varric's hand, and for just a moment, his eyes sparkled in that way that made Varric's heart skip. “Call it a date, then?”

It drew a laugh from Varric, a real laugh, that felt better than any sugar on his tongue. “It’s a date.”

Hawke's goofy smile was like a ray of damn sunlight in the gloom. He leaned in, and Varric followed. Their kiss tasted like smoke, love, and dare Varric think it—hope. A fine way to seal a promise.

—

Varric came back from the ruins of a prophet's temple, where he saw an ancient evil crumble to ash.

Varric came back from some of his least favourite places: the Deep Roads, yawning caverns with out-of-place carvings, now swallowed beneath water and lyrium. Places hidden behind mirrors, tucked in between the physical and the dreams that were foreign to him. The Winter Palace, a snake pit built upon greed and painted over with gold.

Varric returned home. But Kirkwall was emptier without Hawke.

He rebuilt, and watched, and waited. He trembled where he held their promise, close to his heart, so pure and lethal. Varric wasn't the kind of guy who did promises. Hawke wasn’t either, he knew.

Always an exception, huh? He thought, lying alone and unsleeping in bed. It became a habit of his.

Varric knew what hope and promises did. The risk of a broken heart was a terrifying thing to hold on your own.

Yet, he held.

—

There was a rapid little knock on the doorway of his suite. “Serah Viscount?” A voice squeaked. “I have your mail for you here.”

Varric sighed. Even in the Hanged Man, with the drunken clamour drifting up the stairs to him, he couldn’t escape. Bran must have told the carriers to deliver to him directly now.

“Alright, come on in,” he relented. “You can leave it on the table.”

Varric set aside his writing, not for any intent to actually read his letters, but so none could glimpse a work in progress. A scruffy young mail boy tip-toed in cautiously, setting the stack on the table as though it may bite him.

Varric did a double take as he did. Sitting precariously atop the pile, stark against the crisply folded papers, was a small roll of parchment, tied with red string.

He must have been staring at the scroll, because the carrier stuttered nervously, “S-Serah?”

Poor kid. Probably wasn’t paid nearly enough to see the Viscount have a damn heart attack.

Varric smiled reassuringly, and stood. “How much you being paid to deliver my mail, kid?”

The boy shifted on feet that looked too big for him. “Uh. Five sovereigns, Serah Viscount.”

Not nearly enough. Varric dug into his pocket, and tossed him a pouch; the boy fumbled, but caught it. “Here’s another fifteen. No matter what the Seneschal says, don’t deliver directly to me, unless—” Varric held up the roll of parchment— “I get another letter like this. Sound good?”

“Very good, Serah!” The boy was just about to run out in his glee, but hastily bowed first. “Fine day to you!”

Varric watched him scramble out with the pouch clutched tight to his chest. With no one to see him, Varric held the letter much the same.

The rest of the pile lay forgotten on the corner of the table as Varric retreated to the bed. He was of two minds: to simply hold the precious paper, untie the little red string with care, and carefully pour over the words; or unfurl and take them in voraciously, like a man starved.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and his hands were so torn in what to do that they froze. Varric stared at the letter, his heart pounding.

With shaky fingers, he slid the tie off the scroll, and gently rolled it open.

I'm okay, were the first words. He sighed like he hadn’t relaxed in years, and he traced the letters with his fingertips, as though reaching for Hawke's.

Varric felt full of mush as he read Hawke's quick account of Weisshaupt. Love, fear, and relief pushed and pulled at his insides until they ground him into pulp. The words carried him through his turmoil like a light in the dark. And isn’t that what Hawke always did? Varric chuckled to himself at the thought, fond and soft.

Don’t think I've forgotten our date. My memory may be shite, but never when it comes to you, love.

Varric guffawed, a full and happy sound that melded with the din outside his door. He fell back on the bed, staring up at the words and the sigil of a hawk signed beneath them. He laughed until those beautiful words and familiar sign became blurry through tears.

Giggling like a lovesick fool wasn’t on his list of things to do today, but he was always flexible.

—

“Well, finally he sends word,” Aveline huffed. Though she looked stern with her arms crossed, Varric knew from just the way she leaned on her desk that she was relieved; relaxed, even. The Guard-Captain still needed a hobby. “How Hawke manages to stay alive like this, I'll never know.”

Varric shrugged with a grin. “It’s part of his charm.”

Aveline rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now, too. “You’re downright chipper.”

“You think?” Varric scratched his stubble, and his grin turned wry. “I’m only acting as sappy as you did when you got married.”

She lightly smacked his arm, which wasn’t light at all considering she was built like brick, but Varric snickered nonetheless.

Despite his elation, Varric remained apprehensive as he left the Viscount's Keep, and looked into the cloudy sky. There was still a storm brewing, and he would have Hawke by his side when it hit.

Come home soon.

—

Some days, it hurt to walk past the ancestral seat of House Amell. Others, it brought Varric a fond sense of joy.

It had been ransacked more than once when it sat empty after the rebellion. If not for goods, then information; Cassandra and her Seekers had been among them. He tried not to think of being hauled and thrown into the place, once so full of life, turned harsh and cold. That house was a home, he reminded himself. Hawke's home—and Hawke's home was a home to them all.

That was the joy to it, the feeling he tried to call forth when he did his part to take care of the estate. It lingered beside the hearths, in the books he had carefully sorted back on the shelves, on the stairs where Isabela carved dirty things. It seemed to nurture the people who came in and out, those down on their luck who needed somewhere to stay. I'm sure the Champion wouldn’t mind, Varric would always say.

The Hawke Estate shouldn’t be a lonely place.

It didn’t have any occupants at the moment. The last resident gave Varric a loaf of bread they baked in the kitchen, with a warm smile kindled by the fire, and left with thanks and that joy. Varric couldn’t remember the last time he'd had home-baked bread.

He ate a piece as he wandered the estate, dusting here and there as he went. Pristine places didn’t have much character that Varric liked, but he didn’t want it to go overlooked. Unused. Unappreciated.

That was when he heard an unusual creak from Hawke's bedroom.

Bianca practically never left his side, and he slowly unholstered her then, carefully creeping forward. With his back pressed to the wall, the Amell crest hanging proud above him, Varric peered around the corner, past the open door.

A hooded figure slipped quietly through the window. They turned back and held up one finger, gesturing for silence, but Varric couldn’t see who—or what—lay beyond. The person looked broad, even beneath their fur-trimmed cloak, and they carried a staff in one hand… then, they pulled back their hood.

“Hawke?”

Hawke whirled around, just as shocked, and whatever was still outside scrabbled against the tiles in the garden. Bianca hung slack in Varric's arms, as through a sliver of the doorway, the two met eyes for the first time in years.

Hawke's beard was thicker, and his boots and hem of his cloak were dirtied. He looked as though he had maybe a few more scars and wrinkles, and Varric could say the same. But brown eyes met brown eyes, lighting up with the same joy that sang through the place—Varric understood deeply then, that it was created when a family was brought together—and it was Hawke.

Hawke's face split into a huge grin, and he spread his arms wide. “Honey, I'm home.”

Varric laughed. And laughed, and laughed more, as he remembered how to move again. He holstered Bianca as he rushed forward, and Hawke's staff clattered to the floor as he met Varric halfway. They collided in the middle of the bedroom, crushed together, and Hawke's laughter joined his own in the sweetest chorus Varric had ever heard. A bark sounded, and it was Hawke's mabari that leapt after her master, running in excited circles around the two of them.

It was Hawke. Varric's hands framed his face and brought him down; their noses bumped, Hawke's beard scratched his stubble, and their kiss didn’t taste like smoke. It was hope realized; it was a promise kept; and it was Hawke.

His scent surrounded Varric, and he had the most wonderful ache in his heart that thumped with love. They kissed again; Varric's knees felt weak with emotion, or maybe from Potato headbutting him affectionately. When they parted just so, there were tears heavy in Hawke's eyes. “I made our date,” he murmured thickly.

Varric's cheeks hurt from grinning. Tears sprung to his eyes now too as they sank to the floor together, face to face, wrapped in one another. “So did I.”

Potato nosed her way between them to give Varric her own slobbery kisses, but Varric didn’t mind; he and Hawke kept laughing as Varric scratched behind her ears. “I missed you too, girl.”

She seemed satisfied with the attention, resting her head on Varric’s shoulder. Hawke asked jokingly, “Am I permitted to keep kissing him now?”

Potato's response was a happy rumble. Varric chuckled. “You heard the lady.”

Hawke's kiss, with his thumb stroking the apple of Varric's cheek, felt like home completed.

—

They stoked a small fire in the hearth of Hawke's bedroom. Coats and boots shed, they sat together beneath a thick blanket, sharing the loaf of bread that Varric retrieved. Potato dozed across their laps, basking in warmth and idle pets.

They talked—about everything. Weisshaupt. The Exalted Council. Kirkwall. Tevinter. What was yet to come.

“You're collecting another loaf in your beard,” Varric interrupted, his lips quirking up at the mess of crumbs.

“Snacks for later,” Hawke said without missing a beat.

“You’re such a damn dreamboat.”

“Of course I am. Only the finest man about for me.”

“We ruggedly handsome do tend to flock together, don’t we?”

“Don’t forget gentlemanly.”

They grinned at each other. He could taste the earthy bread on Hawke's lips.

“So,” Hawke murmured, “ready to help save the world, love?”

Varric sighed. “It’s always us in the thick of it, huh?”

“Seems that way.” Hawke kissed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “But we'll be in it together, hm?”

Varric held him like close wasn’t close enough. Against all the odds that kept him up at night, they were reunited in their home—and Varric knew he could take on anything. “You bet we will.”

[tonks32]

Inktober # 8- Storms

This time Hawke x Cullen

  “Hawke! For the love of the Maker!” Cursing under his breath, Cullen trudged after the mage as the sand of Lowtown was complete mush from the torrential downpour they were currently caught in. “Do you wake up every day and think about the needles danger you can find? How you can die?”

  “Need I remind you Knight Captain that I just saved your life?” Hawke stopped abruptly, swirling on her heels to face him. The Templars, blonde curls dripping wet and plastered against his brow, stopped before he could a collision could occur. She almost wished he had since it would overdrive home her point as Cullen looked like he was about to crumble. He stood there, blood and muck covering his Templar shirt, clutching his sheathed sword in the tatter remains of his tunic, covered in far more blood than mud. His breastplate and puldrons had been shredded by the claws of the abomination they found themselves fighting. Pierced his armor effortlessly, tearing open his skin. If not for her healing, Hawke would have a dead Knight Captain at her feet and a whole lot of explaining to do.

   Cullen’s brow furrowed, shifting until he crowded her. Thankfully, the pouring rain kept the occupants of Lowtown inside, giving them the freedom to go at it without having to keep themselves in check. Though, to be honest, eyes or not, they usually found themselves at odds to the point of screaming during most of their encounters over the last four years. None the less, Cullen found a strange sort ally in Olivia Hawke and, when they weren’t bickering, enjoyed her company. Something he never dared to say aloud since whispers would spread like wildfire back to the Hallows. Meredith was foaming at the mouth to apprehend the apostate that was garnering too much influence for her liking.

  “Let me remind you, Hawke, I save your life as well,” The Warrior shot back.

   Hawke swallowed hard, shiver upon remembering the blood of one of the blood mage’s staff at her throat. Drained of mana, she was defenseless. If Cullen hadn’t stumbled upon them when he did, Carver would be remaining Hawke. “something that seems to have pissed you off greatly.” She watched something flicker into his amber gaze. “Why are you following me, anyway? By myself, I’m less likely to stay alive and then you won’t have to be so angry by existence.”

  Growling, Cullen snatched her by the arm, yanking her around when she tried to storm off. “I’m following you to ensure you stay out of trouble for once.”

  “Doesn’t your boss prefer if I wasn’t around? So, tell me, why does her Knight Captain, care about me? A mage? An apostate?”

  “Oliva,” Cullen’s voice rumbled in his throat like the thundering in the clouds above.

  “An abomination?” Hawke continued as if she hadn’t been a bit shaken by the sound of her first name slipping past his lips. No one ever used it. Not even those she called friends. Always her ser name or some silly nickname. To hear Cullen, a Templar of all things, use it left her unbalanced. “Not even a person.”

  Cullen winced as she threw his own words back at him. They haunted him, among other a great many other things, nightly, keeping sleep from visiting. Grip tightening, he met her steely gaze. “Because, damn it, woman!”

  Hawke’s surprise over the man simply using her name slid straight into shock by what happened next. He moved like a bolt of lightning that splintered across the sky, sword creating at thunk as it landed in the mud to free his other hand that found purchase in the short strands of her hair as he dragged her against him. She found herself caught between his bulk and the outside of a building, his mouth claiming hers without warning. Swaying, Hawke clung to his shoulders, lips surrendering instantly. A growl, a purely predatory noise, rumbled in his throat, filling her with a warmth she hadn’t felt in quite some time.

  This was wrong for countless reasons. None more than the fact she was a mage and him a Templar. More importantly, second in Command to the Kirkwall chapter. Nothing was more forbidden. Dangerous. But, Maker, Cullen didn’t give a fuck about being seen could lead to him being stripped of his rank and tossed out of the Order. Or beaten and hanged as an example to keep the others in line. All that matter, that ever mattered since their fateful meeting on the Sounded Coast, was Olivia Hawke.

  “Because, I care about you,” He breathed against her lips, fingers tightening in her hair. “Far more than I should.”

  Hawke’s own breath hitched and shuddered. “Cullen.”

  “I think about all the danger lurking in every shadow around this blighted city. I think of the risk you’re taking, exposing yourself, to try to fix the mess Meredith is only making worse.” His eyes burned brightly with every word, emotions flooding his voice. “I think about what she would do if she got her claws in you. How I could lose you and nothing in my life has terrified me more. I care, Olivia. More than that, if I’m being honest and I know you could never return such feelings for a man like me-.”

  “I do!” Hawke wrapped an arm around his neck, lips taking his in a searing kiss. “I do, Cullen.”

  “You can’t,” He protested despite returning the kiss in earnest. “You shouldn’t. The things I’ve done… Said… Maker’s breath.”

  She raked her nails through his sopping wet curls. “You’re no perfect. Neither am I. This is beyond dangerous and won’t end well, yet I still care. By the light, Cullen, the moment I saw you the earth stood still. Every time I see you, you bring me a calmness I haven’t felt since fleeing Ferelden.”

[cruelangelstheses]

we might be dead by tomorrow

fandom: dragon age rating: T characters: anders, female warden, justice words: 6k additional tags: canon compliant, pre-da2, fake character death, angst, friendships description: leaving the wardens is the hardest thing anders has ever done. a study of what happens if anders “dies” in awakening. a/n: a fic about the friendship between anders and my warden, kallian tabris, and the idea of anders faking his own death. note there’s a brief scene in here that’s directly from awakening with a couple lines changed. i’m actually pretty proud of this one <3 title is from “we might be dead by tomorrow” by soko

read it on ao3

—

Anything is better than being in the Circle, but if Anders had had a choice in the matter, he probably wouldn’t have become a Warden.

It’s a fairly noble occupation; he’ll give them that—risking death just to become a Warden, dealing with nightmares of the Archdemon, shortening their lifespans just so that they’re able to take down as many darkspawn as they can—it’s a fate reserved for only the truly selfless and those with no other options.

When Anders was recruited, he was the latter.

Granted, he thanks the Maker every day that he’s not in the Circle, but being a Grey Warden is just so depressing. He feels sometimes like he’s constantly surrounded by death and corruption, not to mention the horrible twist in his stomach every time he goes underground. He’s caught the Warden-Commander watching him a few times while in the Deep Roads, an eyebrow raised in concern at his shallow breaths as he reminds himself that this is not the Circle. After the third time, he flashes her a grin to cover his panic and casually says, “Is this a bad time to tell you I’m claustrophobic?”

“Well,” she replies, her steel blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, “the faster we move, the faster we can get out of here.”

Warden-Commander Tabris is a fierce woman. She doesn’t walk; she saunters, her head held high and her jaw firmly set, as if daring the world to underestimate her. Maker only knows how many darkspawn have died on her blade. Some say she’s too cocky, too aggressive, too headstrong, too impulsive—but when she speaks, everyone stops to listen, even if they don’t like what they’re hearing. She just commands that sort of attention.

Anders wasn’t sure he’d like her when he first met her, but she didn’t seem to care about his apostasy, and at the time that was good enough for him to follow her into battle. Now, only a few months later, he can’t deny that he’s fond of her. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, but she recognizes injustice when she sees it, whether it’s against elves or mages or everyday people. She’s angry, but she’s not cruel.

Anders can’t ignore the pang of guilt he feels, then, when he starts to plan his departure.

It’s not the Commander’s fault. In fact, she’s probably the main reason he didn’t leave sooner. But the longer he stays here, the more he sees of Grey Warden life, the less he feels like he belongs. It seems like everyone else is a Warden because they want to be, for one reason or another. Anders is only a Warden because he’s not sure he has anywhere else to go.

It dawns on him at some point, though, that perhaps there are places for him to go. He’s free now, and if he travels out of Ferelden, the templars might have a harder time finding him. Who’s to stop them from deciding that Grey Wardens are no longer untouchable and marching to Vigil’s Keep to capture every mage there?

More than that, however, is something (or, rather, someone) that’s been weighing heavily on his mind since he was recruited: Karl Thekla. When his friend and former lover was transferred to the Kirkwall Circle, Anders swore—to Karl and to himself—that he would follow. It’s been a few years since then, but Karl is almost certainly still there. Even if he isn’t, Kirkwall is an ideal place to go: outside of Ferelden, but close enough that it’s full of Fereldan refugees from the Blight. It wouldn’t be that difficult to blend in with such a large crowd, and there’s no Grey Warden outpost nearby. The city also houses a fairly large population of mages, and with the Kirkwall Circle as strict as he’s heard, there are undoubtedly mages who desire freedom like he did. If helping them means fleeing the Wardens and moving to the Free Marches, then that’s what he’ll do.

Maker, he’s sounding more like Justice every day.

He plans on leaving after they find and defeat “the Mother,” when he hopefully won’t be needed anymore—not as much, at least. He’s sure Sigrun or Oghren would be happy enough to kill a few extra darkspawn in his place. The only person he’s worried about is the Commander.

The next time they return to Vigil’s Keep, Anders finds her standing with her back up against the statue of Andraste in the courtyard. “Anders,” she calls.

Anders starts a little at her voice, having been preoccupied with thoughts of his plan. “Err...yes, Commander?” he says, half-convinced that she somehow knows what he’s thinking.

She rolls her eyes. “I told you, I hate titles. It’s Kallian.” She waves a hand. “Come over here.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, Anders makes his way over to the statue. He’s not sure why he’s always had trouble calling her by her given name. Perhaps it’s because, as close as they are, he still doesn’t truly feel like her equal. “Am I in trouble?” he asks with a smirk, but he’s only half-joking.

Commander Tabris—Kallian, he tells himself, Kallian—laughs and shakes her head. “You? No. Oghren? Maybe.”

Anders mimics her posture, resting his back against the statue and crossing his arms. “What is it, then?”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything; she just stares at the muddy ground, twirling her dark brown hair. Quite a few strands have come loose from the two braids that frame her tattooed face, but she’s long past the point of caring. Finally she says, “You don’t want to come with me when we face the Mother, do you?”

Anders raises an eyebrow. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t quite this. “Well, no, not really,” he admits. Frankly, the idea of going deep underground to the Mother’s lair makes his skin crawl. “But I’ll do it.” That much is true, too. If she wants him there, he’s not going to refuse her.

Kallian shakes her head, looking like she’s already made up her mind. “No. You can stay.”

As much as Anders hates the Deep Roads, he finds himself saying, “If you need me, I’ll be there. You don’t have to—”

Kallian holds a hand up to stop him from talking. “What I need,” she says, “is for you to be at your best. I don’t want to bring you down into the Deep Roads when you don’t fight as well, and you always look like you’re moments away from getting sick, and then I—” She cuts herself off then, biting the inside of her cheek and looking away from him.

Anders narrows his eyes. “And then you…?”

Kallian scowls. The purple swirling tattoos on her cheeks hide her blush somewhat, but not completely. If he’s not mistaken, the great Hero of Ferelden is actually embarrassed. “And then I...get...worried.”

Reflexively, Anders laughs a little. “You, worried?”

“Yes, me,” Kallian snaps. “Is that so strange? Is it so shocking that I care about you and your wellbeing?”

For a moment, Anders just stares at her, dumbfounded. “I...didn’t realize,” he says lamely. “It’s just...it’s been so long since someone considered me a friend.”

“Well, I do,” Kallian says defensively. “I thought I made that clear. I’ve called you a friend before, haven’t I?”

Anders shrugs, thinking back to when she helped him search for his phylactery, when she fought and killed templars to protect him—when she looked him in the eye and said, You’re a friend. Friends stick up for each other.

“I thought you were just saying that,” he tells her, and it’s the truth.

Kallian shakes her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Why do you think I take you with me on every mission? Why do you think I agreed to help you look for your phylactery? Why do you think I killed templars for you without a moment’s hesitation? Why do you think I gave you a damn cat?”

As if on cue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows from inside Anders’s pack. Since it’s relatively safe for him to wander Vigil’s Keep, Anders reaches into the pack and pulls the cat out, setting him on the ground in front of him. This gives him time to collect his thoughts enough to answer Kallian properly. Finally, he confesses, “I’ve considered you to be a friend for some time, but...I was afraid you were just, I don’t know, trying to get into my good graces or something.”

For a moment, Kallian just looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Anders,” she says, her voice sounding soft for perhaps the first time since he’s known her. “I’m...not great with emotions, so I’m only going to say this once. These past few months, you’ve been one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” She brushes a few strands of hair out of her face and glances away briefly. “And I just want you to remember that I’m so happy to have known you.”

Her use of the past tense isn’t lost on Anders. “Comman—Kallian,” he says slowly, “why are you talking like that?”

She shrugs and looks down at Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who is winding himself around her legs and purring softly. “You never know what might happen,” she says. “I don’t want my last thoughts to be about all the things I should’ve said while I still had the chance. I don’t want to die with any more regrets than I already have.”

That’s a new one, too—the idea of the Hero of Ferelden having regrets. Anders nods, trying not to picture it: Kallian Tabris, barely over five feet tall but with daggers that have felled dragons, her fire quelled forever. “Well, now you’re just making me look bad,” he says with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, I haven’t...composed an ode for you or anything.”

Kallian holds her hands up. “Please, don’t,” she replies, that familiar twinkle returning to her eyes. “Just...say whatever you need to say.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says, only half-teasing.

He knows he should tell her about his plan, but something stops him. Perhaps it’s the fear of upsetting her, but that’ll probably happen no matter what, whether he tells her beforehand or leaves without notice. If he’s being completely honest with himself, a part of him fears that if he tells her, she’ll try to stop him. Even if she doesn’t, it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t tell anyone. There’s no way the templars can pry information out of her if she has no information to give, and he doesn’t want an innocent person to be held accountable for his actions.

“I told you,” he says finally, turning to face her. “It’s been years since I thought of anyone as a friend. I just hope you know how grateful I am...for everything.”

For just a split second, Kallian seems stunned, the tips of her pale pointed ears turned red. Then she grins, all weird teeth and eye crinkles, and claps her hand against his back. “Good! Now that that’s over with, wanna come watch me piss off some nobles? I asked the seneschal to assemble them so we could discuss the darkspawn armies. They should be ready by now.”

Despite himself—despite everything—Anders smiles back at her. “Never miss it!”

Side by side, Ser Pounce-a-Lot trailing behind them, they head into the throne room, Anders taking smaller strides so that Kallian doesn’t have to jog to keep up with him. (I completely sympathize with the dwarves, she said once. You humans are too damn tall.) When they step through the threshold, they find themselves nearly surrounded by Fereldan lords, all chattering nervously amongst themselves. Many of Kallian’s other companions have already gathered. Instinctively, Anders picks up Ser Pounce-a-Lot and places him back in his pack so that no one steps on him.

Kallian sighs and takes a few steps toward Seneschal Varel. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Just as she greets Varel and takes her place beside him, one of the nobles makes his way up the red carpet toward them. “We’ve waited enough,” he says. “Those who are late will just have to be filled in.”

“Lord Eddelbrek,” Varel replies coolly, gesturing toward Kallian, “this is the Commander of the Grey’s council, not yours.” From his place on the sidelines, Anders thinks he can see Kallian roll her eyes at the long-winded title.

“I am fearful for the villages on the plains,” Lord Eddelbrek says, turning to Kallian. “There’s a darkspawn army—army—in the field. And with the soldiers returning to the Vigil…” He trails off.

As usual, Kallian holds her head high when she responds. “The enemy is out of hiding. We must find them and strike.”

“This is no—” Eddelbrek starts, but his words are interrupted by another voice.

“Commander,” an unfamiliar elven woman gasps, sprinting through the crowd and skidding to a stop in front of the seneschal. “Commander!”

“What is it, girl?” Varel asks, still calm.

“A darkspawn army is within sight of Amaranthine,” the woman says, fear in her voice.

Anders exchanges a glance with Nathaniel, his heart dropping. This isn’t going to end well.

“Maker protect us,” Eddelbrek says, shaking his head. “They’re attacking the city?”

“Some of the Vigil’s soldiers are still there,” Captain Garevel adds. “She won’t fall easy.”

“Our forces cannot move quickly enough,” Varel adds, his facial expression giving no hint as to his emotions. “But a small band might make it in time.”

Kallian glances over at Anders and makes a face. They all know what that means.

“But that’s...suicide!” Eddelbrek exclaims, and Anders is inclined to agree.

But Garevel is not to be deterred. “We must try.”

Kallian gives the seneschal a wry half-smile. “That would be me, then? It’s never dull here.”

“Unless the Warden recruiter promised you quiet rural contemplation, you knew what you signed up for,” Varel replies. Anders can’t tell whether or not he took the joke.

Halfway across the room, Sigrun says excitedly, “Fighting a horde of darkspawn with almost certain death awaiting? Don’t even think of leaving me here, Captain!” (Anders can’t relate to that sentiment at all, but he’s glad she’s having fun.)

Varel raises an eyebrow at her, before returning his attention to Kallian. “Who do you want to take with you, Commander?”

Kallian flashes Sigrun a toothy grin. “I won’t deny Sigrun’s request. She’s with me.”

Sigrun sounds practically delighted. “I’m already dead—I’ve nothing to lose!”

Varel, all business, ignores her comment. “Who else?”

At that, Kallian scans her companions’ faces. “Nathaniel,” she says, sounding more serious, “this is a chance to redeem your family.”

A smile graces Nathaniel’s lips—something Anders doesn’t see often. “Initially, I thought you were utterly mad to invite me to join your order. But redemption...a man could die for that, and feel good about it.”

It’s poetic, what he says. Poetic...and final.

“Anyone else?” Varel asks.

Kallian nods slowly. “One more person.”

Very briefly, her eyes land on Anders; Maker only knows what’s going through her head. Then she turns away from him and says, “Justice, you’re with me.”

Justice nods, his voice filled with determination. “As it should be. Our foes will pay heavily for their transgressions. This I swear.”

Varel nods affirmingly. “And so it is decided.”

“I’ll make sure the Vigil’s ale supply is safe,” Oghren says to Kallian with a chuckle. “Leave a few darkspawn skulls for me to kick in, right?”

“May the wind be ever at your back, Commander,” Velanna chimes in. For once, there is a softness in her voice—a fondness.

Anders suddenly becomes aware that it’s probably his “turn” to say something, but nothing even remotely adequate comes to mind, so he does what he always does to deflect his emotions: he jokes. “Oh, I miss out on the suicide mission? Life can be so unfair.” It earns him a tiny giggle from Kallian, but it still doesn’t feel sufficient, so he quickly—and somewhat awkwardly—adds, “But...uh...good luck. Chin up, and all that?”

Before he can even think to say anything else, Seneschal Varel turns to Kallian and says, “The rest of us will stay here. Maker protect you and hold you close, Commander.” He and Garevel both hold their arms over their chest, crossed like an X, and bow slightly.

Though no one has actually said it yet, they’re all thinking the same thing: that this is the beginning of the end, that this battle will lead to the final confrontation with the Mother. They’re so close to finding her hideout; she’s probably sending out these armies to draw the Wardens right to her. The thought makes Anders slightly sick—that she’s just waiting for them, that they could be walking right into her trap.

It doesn’t take long for Kallian, Garevel, and their companions to get ready. Anders stands with his back up against the Andraste statue, Ser Pounce-a-Lot lying next to his feet, and watches as Kallian examines her enchanted swords and daggers, as she fills her pack with bombs and poisons. Soon enough, she meets up with the rest of her group and says grimly, “Are we ready to march?”

“Indeed,” Garevel replies. “We must make haste if we have any hope of saving Amaranthine.”

Kallian nods—and then she steals a glance in the direction of the statue. “Er...just one moment,” she says to Garevel, who raises an eyebrow in confusion and mild annoyance as she runs over to Anders.

“What are you—?” Anders starts, but he’s interrupted by the feeling of the great Hero of Ferelden wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a fierce embrace.

It catches him completely off-guard, so it takes him a moment to reciprocate. She’s a full foot shorter than him, so she buries her face into his chest. “Keep the Vigil safe for me,” she says, her voice muffled.

The hug lasts maybe four seconds, maximum, but it’s the most affection Anders has ever seen her express. When she pulls away, she kneels down on the ground and gives Ser Pounce-a-Lot a scratch behind the ears. “Be good for Anders,” she tells him.

As she starts to turn around and head back to the group, Anders finds his voice. “Kallian.”

Kallian stops in her tracks and glances over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Anders clears his throat, forces himself to look her in the eye. “Just...come back alive, will you?”

Kallian smiles at him, that familiar spark in her eyes. “Of course.”

—

For a while, Anders isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’s so used to accompanying Kallian on nearly every mission. He ends up sitting down at the base of the Andraste statue with Ser Pounce-a-Lot in his lap, his little head on Anders’s chest. The cat can probably sense his nervousness.

Deep down, he knows that everything will probably fine—that Kallian will somehow miraculously come out on top, like she always does. He also knows that going on the mission with her wouldn’t have fixed much of anything, because he’d have been just as nervous, but for a different reason. Yet, no matter how much he reasons with himself, he can’t shake the worry.

At some point, Anders decides to start subtly gathering his belongings, though he doesn’t have many. The time to leave the Grey Wardens is rapidly approaching, and he still isn’t quite sure what to do. He almost has enough coin now to buy passage to Kirkwall—Kallian shares the money she earns (or “finds”) with her companions, even if they insist that they don’t want or need it—but something feels...wrong. He’s been through so much with the Wardens, with Kallian. Just up and leaving without telling her feels like it would be a massive betrayal...but at the same time, he already knows that he can’t tell her.

He could leave right now, slip out in the middle of the night and be on his way to the Free Marches by sunrise, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to flee without making sure that Kallian is alive first. The worry and uncertainty will eat him up if he doesn’t see her waltz back into the keep with his own eyes.

For a couple of days, Anders keeps himself busy—practicing spells, playing with Ser Pounce-a-Lot, reading the book Kallian gave him on the history of phylacteries. He almost starts to forget about the current stakes—that is, until a messenger arrives with grave news: they’ve spotted another darkspawn army marching toward the Vigil.

The next day or two are spent preparing. They have no idea if Kallian and Captain Garevel know of this second army, but most of the people at the keep agree that it’s too much to hope for them to return in time, if at all. It’s up to them to protect the Vigil...or die trying.

Anders starts to wonder, in the hours before the first fireball is catapulted into the walls, if he’ll even get the chance to run away, or if he’ll die here, fighting off hordes of darkspawn. Kallian’s voice rings in his ears, her final request before she left: Keep the Vigil safe for me.

If nothing else, that’s the one thing that keeps him from running. If he dies here, then so be it.

—

The battle is long and hard.

Anders runs almost nonstop from one area of the keep to the next—from the front gates to the courtyard, from the courtyard to the ramparts, lighting darkspawn aflame by the dozens and healing other soldiers as quickly as he can so that they can keep fighting. He loses count of the amount of darkspawn he kills; all he knows is that it’s not long before he can’t go anywhere without stepping on a charred or frozen corpse. Sometimes he has to force soldiers to stop fighting for a moment so that he can heal them properly, before they end up killing themselves simply because they didn’t want to stop cutting down darkspawn for even a second. A few of them outright refuse healing—Anders isn’t quite sure if it’s because they’re afraid of magic or because they want to get themselves killed (perhaps a mixture of both).

Even with healing, the casualties on their side begin to pile up. Every time Anders thinks, That has to be the last of them, more darkspawn appear to take the place of the ones he just felled. It feels neverending.

Anders is fighting alone in a dark back corner of the courtyard when the darkspawn stop coming. It’s late at night, and he almost doesn’t believe it. He waits for more to ambush him, for another armored ogre to barrel through the gates, but none appear. In the distance, he thinks he hears someone say, “It’s over.”

Anders sighs in exhaustion and relief, falling to his knees on the ground. His side and arm are stinging, bleeding through his robes, but he doesn’t have the energy at the moment to heal himself. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, the air rattling in his chest and his heart still pounding in his ears. I’m alive. I’m alive.

Inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot mews softly, as if to comfort him. Anders kept him close through the entire battle—it felt much better than leaving him somewhere in the Vigil, where the darkspawn could break in and find him. “We’re alive,” Anders whispers, more to himself than to the cat. “We made it.”

When he opens his eyes, his gaze falls on a body lying about twenty feet away from him, even further away from the center of the keep. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles over. If he’s lucky, he might just have enough mana in him to save one more life.

He’s a few feet away from the person when he realizes that they’re already dead—an arrow right through the neck and gore where a face should be. All Anders can tell is that the man was another mage Warden, made obvious by the robes on his body and the staff lying limply in his hand, and that he was probably fairly young, with blond hair.

As Anders stares in awe at the corpse, an idea—a crazy, horrible, brilliant idea—worms its way into his head.

He barely thinks when he does it. He searches the body for any belongings that might identify the man and finds only a ring, which he shoves into his pack. He glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching him; sure enough, they all seem to be preoccupied with cleaning up the bodies at the front of the keep and taking care of the injured. They have yet to notice the desperate mage faking his own death in a faraway corner, hidden by several walls and shadows.

Anders doesn’t feel the need to change the corpse’s robes at all; they look similar enough to his that most people wouldn’t notice any difference unless he and the man stood right next to each other. Still, if he wants the Wardens to think that he’s dead, he’ll need to leave something of his behind.

It doesn’t take long for him to remember one of his defining accessories. Reluctantly, he reaches up and removes his gold earring, suddenly feeling somewhat naked without it. Luckily, the man’s right ear is already pierced, so Anders slides the piece of jewelry through with a sigh. Then, for added measure, he pulls the silver bracers that Kallian gave him off of his wrists and slips them onto the man’s. She’s sure to recognize them.

When Anders stands up and looks down at the body, something still doesn’t seem quite right. Even with all the gore, it feels like someone could still identify the man. If this plan has any hope of succeeding, the Wardens have to believe that this body is the body of Anders.

As he surveys the area again—still no one has noticed him—he takes note of the charred darkspawn corpses, burned almost beyond recognition by his magic, and there he finds his solution. Turning back to the body, he aims a small blast of fire at it. Sure enough, it starts to burn, the robes and skin partially destroyed within half a minute. Anders shoots another stream of flame at the corpse and watches as it becomes even more grotesque, even less recognizable.

For a moment, Anders stops to apologize in his head to the man whose body he just desecrated and disguised as his own. Then he grabs his staff and makes a run for it.

He was already standing near the edge of the courtyard, so it doesn’t take much to hop over a fence and sneak away—everyone else is focused on things that are much more important than searching the fields (which are mostly filled with dead people and nothing else). Still, Anders keeps running until he’s sure that no one can see him in the nearby forest. Only then does he finally sit down, his back up against a tree, and let Ser Pounce-a-Lot out of his pack.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot twitches his ears and meows inquisitively, as if asking Anders what they’re doing and where they’re going. Anders just sighs. He could ask himself the same thing.

Logically, it’s a good plan. The Grey Wardens won’t hunt him down if they think he’s dead; and if the templars come to the Vigil looking for him, they’ll just be informed of his “death.” Sure, they still have his phylactery, but will they even bother with it if they think he’s dead? Regardless, he’ll still be safer now than he was before. He can start over, really start over, in a way he never dreamed would be possible.

A cold gust of wind suddenly cuts through him, and instinctively, he reaches into his pack to grab the wool scarf that Kallian gave him—he’d put it in there to keep from getting blood on it. As he wraps the soft, patterned fabric around his neck, a memory surfaces, of Kallian shoving the scarf into his arms without looking at him and mumbling, “Here. Take this.”

Anders had looked at the scarf in confusion, then at her, and said, brilliantly, “Uh...what?”

Kallian pretended not to care what he thought. She was pretty convincing, too, back before Anders learned to recognize it. That was only a few weeks after they met. “You looked cold,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. “So...there.”

Anders had tried not to smile, and failed.

Now, though, the memory just aches in his chest. Which is worse—Kallian thinking he’s dead or thinking he betrayed her?

Though he promised himself that he’d stay behind to make sure she comes back alive, Anders knows that he can’t risk being seen. Besides, if she dies, he’ll be sure to hear about it; and if she succeeds and lives, he’ll hear about that, too.

It takes him a long time to push himself to his feet, and even longer to start walking away from the Vigil. From inside his pack, Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows in protest, and Anders tries his best to ignore it. He’s tired in every sense of the word, his shoulders aching from the weight of those he’s leaving behind—Nathaniel, Kallian, Justice. No amount of apologies could make any of it easier, but still he whispers the words into the wind and forces himself not to look back.

—

He merges with Justice a couple weeks later.

It isn’t on purpose, meeting Justice again. Anders is only a day or two away from boarding a ship to Kirkwall when he encounters a small band of Grey Wardens—plus Justice—that had been sent to clear out some leftover darkspawn north of the Vigil. Thankfully, Justice is the only one that notices him, and he must have learned a thing or two about tact, because he waits until he can get Anders alone to harangue him about abandoning the Wardens.

But when Anders describes his reasoning—that he needed to leave the Wardens to help Karl and other mages in Kirkwall—Justice is surprisingly understanding (though he still doesn’t approve of Anders faking his own death, even after Anders explains that he couldn’t have anyone chasing after him). If it’s to fight injustice, if he feels that it’s for the greater good, he’s willing to make a few just sacrifices. The Blight is well and truly over, and the Wardens don’t need Anders anymore—not nearly as much as the mages do.

Once they reach the same page, Justice poses that fateful question, the question that’s been hanging in the air between them.

Have you thought at all about my offer?

Anders has. Extensively. But then the darkspawn attacked Amaranthine, and Justice went with Kallian to face them, and Anders accepted that he’d have to leave before the group came back. Until now, he thought it was no longer possible.

Do you have the courage to accept my aid?

Anders takes a deep breath and thinks, Maker, I hope so.

—

Anders wasn’t present when Kallian learned of his supposed “death.” But Justice was, and through him, Anders remembers.

It’s a strange phenomenon, remembering something for the first time, something that he simultaneously did and did not experience. He doesn’t know why, of all Justice’s memories, his head has decided to make this one the one he sees first, alone in his room at an old inn near the Waking Sea. The City of Chains lies across the water, a constant reminder of what he had to abandon to get this far.

Kallian and her companions had just finished slaying the Mother and were a few days away from the Vigil when she received a letter one evening. As she read it over, Sigrun, ever curious, had asked, “What does it say?” Kallian did not respond.

Sitting on the other side of the campfire, Justice had watched as the Warden-Commander’s face shifted from confusion to shock, then disbelief, then horror. Her lips formed a silent No, and the letter fell from her shaking hands.

Eyes narrowed in concern, Sigrun grabbed the letter and skimmed over it, gasping a few seconds later. Next to her, Nathaniel glanced over her shoulder, and his eyes widened. Under his breath, he whispered, “Oh, no…”

Justice, sitting on Nathaniel’s other side, was the last to know the content of the letter, but it upset and angered him to the core. “Kallian,” he said firmly, “we must avenge Anders. Those who are responsible for his death must pay.”

Kallian didn’t look at him, didn’t even indicate that she’d heard him. Nathaniel turned to him and said quietly, “The darkspawn that killed him are dead, Justice, as is the Mother, who sent them. Justice has already been served.”

He was right, but Justice still wasn’t satisfied. Anders deserved better, so much better. “Surely there must be something else we can do.”

“They’ll take care of his body at the Vigil,” Nathaniel assured him. He seemed so calm, but his unsteady voice betrayed how he truly felt.

Justice returned his attention to Kallian, whose gaze was trained on the campfire. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling and began clenching and unclenching her fists. When she blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away furiously. “Fuck,” she mumbled, her voice cracking. Covering her eyes with her hand, she looked down into her lap.

Sigrun put a hand on Kallian’s upper arm. “I’m...I’m sorry, Kallian.”

At that, Kallian let out a rough choking sound. It had been difficult for most of her companions to get used to just calling her by her name, and they still slipped up from time to time. Justice had needed it explained to him—it felt disrespectful not to call her by a title she had earned, a title that indicated honor. But Kallian’s feelings made sense—I don’t want to feel like I’m above everyone else. I want us to be equals, she’d said—and so Justice had made it a point to respect her wishes, and to ensure that others did the same.

Kallian turned away from Justice and rested her forehead on Sigrun’s shoulder. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight, and her cheeks and ears burned bright red, as if she was embarrassed by her own sorrow. Her chest shook with wet sobs, and her lip was curled into an angry snarl, as if to say, How dare they take him from me?

Justice exchanged a glance with Nathaniel. He had known Kallian the longest, but even he seemed bewildered. None of them had ever seen her so broken down. She was the woman who spit in the eyes of the Archdemon, always confident and determined, always fearless, always pushing forward—and here she was, crumpled on the ground with grief so intense it was almost palpable.

Her hair fell into her face, and Sigrun gently brushed the strands away, her brows furrowed and her lips turned down. Kallian’s voice was hoarse. “Why him? Why him?”

When the tears finally slowed down, she didn’t talk; she just stood up from the campfire and fled to the woods. Justice could hear her shoving daggers into trees, taking out her anger on imaginary enemies. None of them stopped her.

At the inn near the sea, Anders lies on his back on the uncomfortable bed, holding the wool scarf to his chest and staring blankly at the ceiling. Nothing he said to Kallian before she left feels like it was enough. He tries to push away Justice’s memories of her in the days after that night—shaken, bitter, somber, her smile much less common and no longer reaching her eyes—but it’s no use. The image seems to have burned itself into his mind, as if to taunt him: You did this. You did this.

He can only pray that it was worth it.

[allisondraste]

Temperance (3/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary:  Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:  After a meeting with Queen Anora, Elissa remains in Denerim as Fergus returns to Highever to begin his service as the Teyrn.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Denerim, 9:31 Dragon 

A year ago, if someone had told Liss that she would be one of only two surviving members of the Cousland family she would have laughed at them.  Couslands were strong and unbreakable, well-loved by the Ferelden people. Nobody should have wanted them dead, especially not a long-time ally like Rendon Howe.  

Liss had awoken in the middle of the night to a knock at her door. One of her guards injured, eyes wide with panic had frantically warned her that the castle was under attack, just before he was run through by a man wearing armor adorned with the brown bear crest of the Howe family. The next clear memory of that night came with the image of her nephew’s tiny little body lifeless on the floor next to his mother’s.

It was an image that haunted her nightmares and caused  her to wake up gasping for air, her heart beating so violently that it shook her entire body. She had been given charge of the castle for one single night, and she had not even been able to protect her brother’s wife and son, nevermind the rest of the castle’s occupants or her parents.

Liss’ parents were the reason she made it out of that castle alive, both injured and choosing to stay behind to hold off Howe’s men and give her time to escape.  At first she had refused, wishing to die alongside them instead, but they asked her to live on for them as she couldn’t refuse. She narrowly escaped, clad in only her nightgown with an ugly iron broadsword in her hands.  It wasn’t even her own sword, but one she had looted from one of the fallen castle guards.

She was not certain how she survived after that, other than by sheer force of will, and determination to see that bastard Rendon Howe punished for his crimes.  She had never liked him anyway. His own family was too good for him, or so she thought. She hoped and prayed to the Maker and Andraste and any other deities that would listen that this was Rendon’s doing alone.

Liss had sought refuge at a small farm on the outskirts of Highever, with a kind elderly couple who had taken her in. She put on her best Marcher accent and told them she was the wife of a traveling merchant from Kirkwall, whose caravan had been ambushed on the way home.  She said she was the only survivor. It was only partially a lie.

The couple provided her with a hot bath, a change of clothes, and a bed for the following few weeks as she healed from her wounds.  In all of the chaos, she had not realized she had taken several significant blows to her body, with particularly serious injuries to her left forearm and shoulder blade.  They were both long, deep gashes that bled a lot, and would have become infected had it not been for her hosts’ diligent care. Even still, she knew they were going to leave scars.

News of a massacre at Ostagar had caused a secondary wave of grief to course through her.  Teyrn Loghain betrayed the King and Howe, the snake, was at his side and granted the Arling of Denerim.  Perhaps he’d murdered the Kendalls family as well. It was as if it were bloody Antiva. She had thought Fergus dead, too.  As soon as she was able, and against the kind couple’s pleas for her to stay, Liss had set out to Denerim. Someone in the capital would hear her, even if it meant her death.  She would make them listen.

“Sis?” A voice beside her pulled her attention from painful memories, and into the present. To Denerim, where she and her brother stood in the throne room of the Royal Palace, awaiting an audience with Queen Anora.  “You all right?”

Liss followed Fergus’ gaze down to her hands, clenched into fists, white knuckles at her side.  Inhaling deeply she relaxed the muscles and offered him a weak smile. “I’m fine.”

“ Elissa.”

“Fergus,” she mimicked his intonation, pretending she had no sense of the insistence behind his voice.  He eyed her knowingly and scowled. “See, you don’t like it either.”

Fergus opened his mouth as if to argue, but was interrupted by the thumping steps of palace guards, who marched in and lined the hall, preceding the Queen’s entrance.  Instead, he sighed, shook his head, and straightened his posture. Liss followed suit.

Anora approached them without hesitation, hands behind her back and chin high.  There was a sadness in her eyes that did not match the poise and confidence with which she walked.  It was a sadness that Liss didn’t remember. Anora had visited Highever on several occasions throughout the years. Obligatory meetings between teyrns brought Liss and Fergus to meet the future Queen’s acquaintance.  Anora was one of the smartest people she knew, and she was grateful that she had not been complicit to her father’s actions, nor to Howe’s. In the days since the Grey Wardens has defeated the archdemon, Anora had worked tirelessly with the nobility to restore order.

It had been a shock to all at first when the scions of the Cousland family attended the landsmeet to denounce Loghain for allowing the atrocities that Howe committed. They were late, too, as the Hero of Ferelden had already killed Howe and won the Landsmeet with Anora’s support.  

Still, their voices were welcomed, and the queen had asked for a private audience with them to discuss reparations. Nothing could bring back her family, but Liss was grateful it wasn’t being labeled a wartime casualty and swept under a rug with everything else.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Anora said as she approached them.

“It is an honor, Your Majesty,” Fergus answered, bowing formally.  Liss fought the urge to roll her eyes, but knew that her brother was only following social protocol.  She offered a polite bow herself.

“I was not able to appropriately express my sorrow for your loss before.  I have known your family as long as I can remember, and I cannot think of anyone less deserving of such tragedy.” Anora’s voice wavered as she spoke,  finally hitching in her throat. “I wish that there had been more I could have done to stop it, that I could have seen through my father and Howe before it was too late.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Liss blurted before thinking, internally cursing herself for the informality.  Thankfully, Anora didn’t seem to mind.

“Not directly, no.” She offered a bitter smile. “However, with Howe dead and my father imprisoned, the guilt is now mine to carry.  I am your queen just as I was Cailan’s, and I failed to protect you just as I failed him.”

They stood in poignant silence for several moments before anyone ventured to speak.

Fergus stepped forward slightly. “We have all suffered losses, Your Majesty.  We are sorry for yours as well.”

“There was no way anyone could have known this would happen,” Liss added, fists clenched at her sides again.  The queen had no reason to blame herself. “Teyrn Loghain was a hero. We owe our freedom in part to him. Howe fought alongside my father in the rebellion, allies, friends even.  This treachery belongs to them, and as far as I am concerned, it ends with them.”

“Thank you both.” She nodded, inhaled deeply, and straightened her posture.  It must have been difficult for her to remain so poised and dignified amidst such grief.  “Even so, your family is owed a debt. I know nothing can change what happened, but I would see to it that I do what I can.”

The queen paused and smiled, moving her gaze from Elissa to Fergus.  “First, I am restoring ownership of Highever to the Cousland family. It has been under the care of crown since Howe died, however, the Teyrnir is rightfully yours, Fergus, if you will have it.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Fergus muttered, his voice hoarse.  For all his confidence and all the preparation he had done for this very moment, Fergus looked scared.  Elissa figured it wasn’t leadership that scared her brother, rather it was returning home to an empty bed.  The last time he had been in Highever he had a wife and a son. He had not truly had to face their deaths until now.

“Additionally, in the process of rebuilding Denerim and repairing the fragile ties among the nobility in Ferelden, I have developed a small, private council to guide my decisions in the days to come.  It is composed of members who represent parties who were most affected by the civil war and the Blight. I have no intention of repeating mistakes of the past. I think it is important for your family’s voice to be among those in my council.”  Anora’s eyes found Liss’, an unspoken offer.

“Me?”  Liss did not consider herself important enough to have the queen’s ear, especially not after everything that happened. “Your Majesty, I am flattered, but I don’t know that I am the right person.”

“Yes, you,” Anora answered, laughter in her voice, “You forget that we have been acquainted since we were children.  I know you to be one of the finest diplomatic and military minds in this country. If you are willing, I would like for you to remain in Denerim.  Your expertise and experiences will be an asset in restoring and improving our home.”

“It would be an honor.” Liss shifted her weight and looked toward Fergus who winked, one of the many things he did that reminded her of their father.

“Very well, then.  It is decided.” Anora exclaimed, clasping her hands in front of her.  There was a brief moment of silence before she continued. “If there are no further matters to discuss, then I will take my leave.  I am certain that you two have things to discuss before you part ways.”

Liss and Fergus bowed as Anora turned to exit the room, her contingent of guards following behind her.  Liss watched in admiration as the queen walked away, still stunned by the entire exchange. She had gone from losing everything to being a member of the Anora’s council in the matter of a year.  It was dizzying. The prospect of separating from Fergus after having only been together for a few weeks upset her, but she knew that he needed to go home, and that she needed to stay. It was the right thing to do.  Even so, she worried about him returning to Highever alone.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and turned to face him directly. “Are you going to be alright?”

He sighed, looking at the floor beneath them.  “It will be difficult, but I’ll manage.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have to be sure.”  His words were decisive as he returned his gaze to hers, filled with sad determination. “It’s what Mother and Father would have wanted, what Oriana would have wanted.  Maybe it will bring me some closure.”

“Fergus, I’m -.”

“Don’t,” Fergus interrupted, “No more apologies. Okay?”

“Okay.”  Liss fought with the tears that brimmed in her eyes, steeling herself so that her brother couldn’t see how close she was to falling apart again.  

“That’s my girl,” he said just as father would have done, “I am so proud of you, sis.  I know that Mother and Father would be, too.”

Fergus wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly into an embrace, which she returned eagerly.  

“Promise me you’ll write,” Liss insisted, as she pulled back, still holding on to his arms.

“You have my word.”

It was not long after Fergus left that a servant arrived to show Liss to her room.  It was spacious, larger than she needed, with bed that could have fit at least five people - not that she would want five people in her bed.  There was a personal bath, a desk and several bookshelves, and dressers that were already filled with clothing in her size. It seemed Anora had done her best to make Liss feel at home, and with some success.  It had been a long time since she had been comfortable enough to truly feel the exhaustion in her bones. She lay down atop the coverlet, not even taking time to change into night clothes.

Sleep came quickly, and ended just as quickly, with flashes of images from the night her family was murdered.  Oren’s tiny little body, the screaming, pools of blood, the strong scent of iron in the air. She awoke to her own screams, heart racing,  suffocating under the weight of her memories. Luckily for her, it was not a new occurrence, and she was able to slow her breathing and ease the anxiety before it crippled her.  

However, she knew that going back to sleep was not an option.  She had woken up from these nightmares enough to know that it took time for her body and mind to ease enough to sleep again.  Hoping to get some fresh air and clear her head of the painful thoughts, she grabbed a cloak from the dresser and left her room, making her way to the courtyard. It would be quiet at night, and she would be free to feel her own emotions.

The air was slightly too cold for her liking, teeth chattering as the wind nipped at her cheeks and nose.  Despite her discomfort, she found the courtyard ideal, ferns and flowers illuminated only by moonlight. She wondered how the plants survived the frost that coated them each night, the hardy little things.  Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and allowed her muscles to lose their tension.

The calm lasted only briefly, as she heard a rustle in the grass behind her and footsteps approaching.  She turned on her heels abruptly, balling her hand into a fist, and jabbing forcefully in the direction of the noise.  A man’s voice yelped in pain, and there was a thud as the figure, now in focus, fell to the ground. Liss moved to restrain the potential attacker, sitting atop him with her fist at the ready.  

“No no no!  Please don’t hit me again, I bruise easily,” the man, whose features Liss could now see more clearly, pleaded.

He was a young man with sandy hair, brown skin, and dark hazel eyes wide with shock and perhaps pain at the punch she had landed against his torso.  He did not appear to be armed, or dangerous for that matter. Then again, she knew better than to let her guard down.

“Who are you,” she demanded, fist still at the ready, “And why were you sneaking around in the courtyard?”

“My name is Alistair,” he answered nervously, “I had come outside for some air, as one does, and I noticed that someone else was out here.  I, uh…well I was hoping not to alarm you. I guess we see how well that worked out.”

“Alistair?” The name sounded familiar, and she stood up and stepped back as she realized who the young man was, “The Alistair?  King Maric’s son? The Grey Warden who helped stop the Blight? That Alistair?”

He stood up and dusted the dirt from his pants.  “The one and only.” He grimaced as he attempted to straighten up his posture, massaging the place on his abdomen where Liss’ fist had fallen. “Maker, that hurt.  Who are you, anyway? Do you always go around attacking people?”

“I’m Elissa Cousland, and I’m so, so sorry,” she laughed nervously, bringing her hands to her face to hide the embarrassment.  “I just couldn’t sleep, so I came outside for a walk. I heard footsteps, and I thought - well… I don’t know what I thought.  It’s been a long year, and I’m a little on edge.”

“I’ll say,” he said pointedly, before flashing a grin, “I think it’s safe to say we’re all a little on edge, what with the war and the Blight.  Better to punch first, ask questions later, huh?”

“I suppose,” Liss answered, still laughing at herself, “Though it’s probably not the best way to make friends.”

“I don’t know.  Depends on how forgiving the person you punched is.”  Alistair raised his brows and shrugged.

“Are you a forgiving person?”

“Too forgiving, if I’m honest,” he answered with a laugh.

“Good to know.” Liss nodded, darting her eyes around the courtyard uncomfortably.  “Well, I should probably… get back to my quarters.” She turned to walk away, but paused mid-step as she heard Alistair speak again.

“Um, Lady Cousland.  You said you couldn’t sleep, right?”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t either.  It happens a lot these days.”  His previously cheerful eyes darkened, and his thoughts seemed to drift somewhere else entirely.  “But, I have learned the best place to go when I can’t seem to turn my mind off. Want me to show you?”

Liss thought for a moment, genuinely stunned by the offer from this man she just met, and who probably had a bruised rib because of her.  “Um, okay. Sure.”

“Great.  This way.”  He motioned for her to follow him through the courtyard and to a small flight of stairs that led up into the battlements.  

“Alistair,” she called after him, causing him to turn and look back at her, “You can call me Liss, by the way.”

“Liss,” he repeated, a warm grin spreading across his face, “I like it.”

[eeveevie]

Shadow and Light

Nothing in Varric’s life ever goes as planned, but he’s damn good at improvising with the hand he’s dealt.

Varric introduces Hawke to the Inquisition, and with Garrett Hawke comes Bethany, much to Varric’s surprise. And there was much rejoicing. (Monty Python jokes not included).

Chapter Summary: Varric says he’s not good at sappy. He’s also a notorious liar. The end. And there was much rejoicing. For real this time. 

Notes: I am so happy I decided to (finally-officially) write for this ship, which I have had dabbles saved on my phone/laptop since 2013(!). I am also really grateful for the encouragement I received from the niche float that this ship sails on. Don’t worry my fine friends, I don’t plan on stopping with Varric x Bethany any time soon--or trolltastic Hawke. 

Varric Tethras x Bethany Hawke

previous | start from the beginning 

4283 words (chapter) | Teen+ | Ao3

Chapter Six: Amour fou

Bethany Sunshine,

I have written a version of this same letter too many times now to count. You’d think it would be easier for such a renowned, accomplished, brilliant…

Turns out I can write well enough for made-up characters (okay, loosely based on real people) and the re-telling of heroes, but I’m right shit at writing my own stories. The plot for my own life—and maybe that’s enough analogies.

If you’re still reading, and not already wondering, ‘Maker, Varric must’ve hit his head’—I’ve been thinking. The Inquisition, well, the Herald really, made the choice to recruit and harbor the mages from Redcliffe. With so many magic types around, it had me reminiscent; of Kirkwall, of you. Of…us.

It’s been seven years (and 13 days) since the Gallows. When we stopped being ‘we’, collectively. I always, foolishly perhaps, thought of it as more of a pause. I can’t say it’s been easy, even after all this time. You know how many times I have to remind myself that it actually happened? Overthinking on if to include a flirting line in a letter, or does it cross the line. It’s only gotten harder the longer we go between meeting.  

As much as I miss Hawke, there’s a large part of me that wants to see you more. I miss you. You’re the only light I need. Sunshine—I could use some more in my life. A little more permanently this time.

-Varric

He never sent the letter. That was the first thought that entered Varric’s mind as he felt himself regain consciousness. His head was throbbing—actually, everything in his body ached. He wondered for a split second if he was dead. Some afterlife, he thought. But he was breathing, and—prophet’s laurel—he smelt prophet’s laurel.

He thought of Kirkwall. He thought of the coastline. He thought of Hawke. He thought of—

With significant effort he opened his eyes, his vision blurry. He blinked several times in an effort to adjust, trying to take in his surroundings. He turned his head, and as his sight finally cleared he saw just who he had hoped for—Bethany.

She was asleep in the chair next to the bed he occupied, the upper half of her body folded over and resting near his body. Her arms were curled around her head, face turned towards him. He frowned at the way her brow was tightly furrowed, even as she slept. Hesitantly he reached out, placing his hand over one of hers. He closed his eyes again, savoring the warmth of her skin. She was always so warm. He stroked his thumb over her fingers, concentrating on the fact that she was there—that he was alive.

She stirred. “Varric?” Her voice was so quiet, so shaky.

It brought a different kind of pain to Varric’s chest. He peeked open his eyes to find her halfway leaned up, watching his hand sweep across her own. And then her eyes met his.

“Varric!”

He made a small disapproving sound when she pulled her hand away, moving to sit up completely. Her eyes were wide as she just stared at him, clearly in shock. He knew he was injured, but could only guess at how bad the damage really was. A small part of him felt self-conscious—if he had the strength, he would’ve reached up to make sure his hair was in place. He craned his neck off the pillow just long enough to notice they were the only occupants of the tent.  

“Help me sit up,” Varric groaned. A shooting pain racked through his chest as he tried to adjust himself.

Bethany was frantic as she leaned over him a moment before standing up, turning towards the closed tent flaps instead. “Let me get the healers—”

“No!” Varric didn’t mean to yell, but it stopped her in her tracks. “I’d rather you…” he trailed.

She didn’t move from her spot near the tent’s opening. He was too exhausted to argue with her, but they were alone—something he had been wanting now for weeks. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him.

“You know I’m not a healer, Varric.” There was so much concern etched into her features, and he wanted nothing more than to make it disappear. He had so much to make up for already, and now all this was just something else he needed to apologize for. She took a cautious step back towards the bed.

“Please don’t let strange men in robes touch me,” he tried to lighten the mood. If he looked as bad as he felt, he knew they needed some humor.

Bethany’s lips twitched in the faintest of smiles, but it was gone all too soon. “I might do more damage than help.”

She took one of his hands, the other sliding around his shoulder as she helped him sit up and lean against some propped up pillows. He closed his eyes again, tingling at the warm sensation of her hand gliding across his skin. It was a welcome reprieve to the pain that continued to radiate elsewhere. Her scent lingered around him as he breathed in—did she know how comforting it was? Once upright, he could clearly see that his shirt was missing, swapped for numerous bandages across his torso and shoulder. He thought about making a joke about the state of his chest hair, but bit his tongue when he saw Bethany’s melancholy expression.

“How long have I been out?” Varric asked. He tentatively poked a few fingers at the dressing on his chest, wincing at the immediate pain he felt. Well that was stupid.  

Suddenly, Bethany’s hands were on either side of his face, cradling his head. “You came out of the fade unconscious and…” she trailed, eyes scanning over him. “It’s been well over two days. We had to take you back to Griffon Wing Keep. I was so—”

Frightened. She didn’t need to say it—he could clearly tell. Her thumbs brushed across his cheek and jaw, and he flicked his eyes closed again, finding relief in her touch. He covered one of her hands with his, just wanting to stay in that quiet content for as long as they could. There was still so much he needed to talk to her about, so much he needed to say, but—wait.

The reality of the situation came crashing down around him and he froze, gripping her hand tightly. He snapped open his eyes. “Where’s Hawke?”

Bethany’s lips fell open in a small gasp. She frowned, and Varric felt his gut tighten. The last thing he remembered in the Fade was Hawke and Stroud arguing over…something.

“Please don’t tell me he—”

“He’s fine,” Bethany assured. Her hand squeezed his when he didn’t relax. “Well, he’s been injured—not as bad as you, but—”

“And Stroud?” Varric asked next.

Bethany’s expression dropped completely. Her eyes fell away from his. It was almost all he needed. “Garrett told me…that Stroud sacrificed himself so that you all could escape.”

He nodded. “He wasn’t the first good man to fall to Corypheus. He won’t be the last,” Varric sighed. “This story’s no good for heroes.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” Bethany whispered. It was only then that he noted that her eyes were bloodshot. She had been crying. For all the pain he was feeling, an immeasurable amount of guilt took over instead. Of course he didn’t die—he wouldn’t have been able to do so, not when he had unfinished business.

“Did you watch over me this entire time?” he asked. Bethany slowly pulled her hands away from his face. Reluctantly he allowed her to do so, but held onto one at the last moment, not wanting to let go so quickly. He needed to stay grounded to the moment.

She stared down at their hands. “Not…at first,” she admitted.

Varric offered a small chuckle. “Hey now.”

“I was cross with you Varric!” Bethany’s sharp tone had him recoiling. She furrowed her brows together, gritting her teeth for a moment before sighing out. “I’m wondering if I even have the right to be—Maker, it’s so confusing.”

“The right?” Varric repeated.

She avoided his gaze. “I went through your things—your letters—like some…snoopy, jealous…ugh!” She covered her face with her free hand. “I’m so ashamed of it.”

He found her reaction almost endearing. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Sunshine.” He noted the small way her eyes flickered at the mention of her nickname. He hadn’t used it, hadn’t said it in a long while. When there was a lull, Bethany freed her hand from his. Despite his frown, she reached to inspect the bandage on his shoulder. She shot him a sympathetic glance as she pulled it from his skin, the underside soaked with blood.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said. Talking was always better than silence. Usually.

Bethany turned for a moment, grabbing a washcloth from the basin on the nearby table. It was cold for a moment, but with a flicker of energy, she had made it warm. “More than thank you?”

“Ha,” he responded. He winced when she placed a new pad of gauze over his shoulder, the fabric soaked with some kind of medical ointment. By the way it stung, he guessed it was disinfectant. “I’ll never live that down.”

“I’m here now,” Bethany finally said.

He nodded. “That you are.” He scooped up one of her hands again once they were free of medical supplies, giving her fingers an affectionate squeeze.

Bethany looked at him for a long moment, her expression hard to read. It wasn’t that he was worried about saying the right or wrong thing anymore—he just wanted to be honest—but that didn’t mean that he was still worried about how this would all play out. Maybe it’s why he had dragged his feet all these years until fate (and the Fade) had to intervene. He wouldn’t have regrets, not anymore.

“I should’ve sent you those letters,” he sighed.

She frowned, but there was a slight shine to her eyes. “And what about the ones for Bianca?”

That was fair. Varric nodded. Now this, he actually wanted to tread carefully with. The last time he had tried to talk about his ex, it hadn’t gone well. At all.

“I should’ve burned them,” he stated plainly. “Sunsh—Bethany—I’m sorry if it ever seemed like I was…leading you on.” A small part of him wanted to laugh at the fact that he recalled Hawke’s advice. She was confused now, with a trace of hurt. “What I mean is, I should’ve been more considerate of how my words and actions could’ve affected you.”

She stayed quiet. He continued. “Hawke brought up an interesting point—”

“Garrett?” she interrupted in disbelief.

Varric softly chuckled. “I know, Hawke, offering relationship advice. But he was right. I took what we had in the past…and whatever we have now…for granted, like the biggest fool. I fell victim to a horrible cliché saying; have your cake and eat it too.”

“What did Garrett say?” Bethany asked softly. She didn’t seem upset that Varric and her brother had been discussing them.

“He stabbed me right in the heart with sharp words,” Varric tried to joke. He cleared his throat when Bethany looked less than impressed. “Bianca. He told me that Bianca was doing—had did—the same thing to me for the last…what, fifteen years? Emotional warfare.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Bethany mumbled. There was a slight sarcasm in her words that he took as hopeful. Only he would. She skewed her lips to one side, lowering her gaze for a long moment. “I wish you would’ve told me about her, Varric.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Trust me. I know.”

Through it all, Varric noticed that her hand was still in his. He ran his thumb across her fingers, pulling her arm a little closer to his torso. She didn’t resist.

“I spoke to Bianca. When we went to Valammar.”

“Oh,” she breathed. She gulped. “…And?”

“It’s over. Whatever…we were, it’s done. It has been, but now there’s some finality to it. Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Bethany didn’t say anything for a long time. At first, he was content to let her sit and process what he had said, but the longer the silence dragged on, the more uncomfortable he felt. The more anxious he felt. The hard part was over, but the harder part was still mulling around in his head.

Her fingers twitched. “You didn’t just do that because of me…did you?”

“I—” Varric paused. Bethany was frowning, and that was terrifying. He almost walked back on his words, but forged ahead. No regrets. “Why do you think I’ve done anything lately?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but it certainly caught her attention. Her displeasure faltered, expression switching to one of surprise.

“I’ve been acting like some dumbstruck idiot from a romance novel since Hawke brought you to Skyhold. Maybe that was his plan from the start, knowing how he likes to hide his more devious plans behind feigned stupidity,” Varric trailed for a moment. Bethany was still staring at him, flabbergasted. “You’re all I think about, and if dwarves could dream, you bet I’d be dreaming about you too.”

Bethany blushed, her free hand reaching to nervously toy with her scarf. He squeezed her hand tight—there was no stopping now.

“Do you know how long I’d been waiting to kiss you again?” he softly laughed, beside himself. He couldn’t recall a time he had ever been so honest with anybody. “You’re the last thing I thought of before—” He stopped himself, not wanting to upset her. “You’re the only light for me, Sunshine.”

Still, Bethany remained silent.

“And, and—” Varric stared at her intently. He needed her to say something. “A birdy told me you feel the same way.”

“I—” Her face went bright red. “I hate Garrett.”

He laughed, and finally, she reacted with a smile. The tension was slowly melting away.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” she asked next.  

“I’m not good at sappy, you know that.” Varric lifted her hand towards his face so he could place a tentative kiss to the back of her hand. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I wanted to…Maker, I’m afraid I’m still not very good at any of this,” she giggled. “I feel like a teenager all over again. I’m too old to feel so hopeless.”

“I’ve got ten years on you,” Varric mumbled, placing another kiss to her wrist.

Bethany’s gaze softened as she watched his movements. She leaned towards him slightly. “So…mages are still being locked up, and I’m sure the Qunari are still trying to wage war somewhere.”

Varric grinned, catching on immediately. “The world is literally burning.”

“Nugs aren’t flying,” she returned with a smile.

“One day—here we are,” Varric declared. “Bethany, I’m willing if you—”

She quickly closed the distance between them, kissing him firmly. For all of two seconds he was caught off guard, his surprise turning into delight as her hands moved—one to the side of his face, the other to his shoulder. Varric leaned into her, sliding one hand across her waist and the other up her arm. He grinned as she kissed him with fervor, but groaned as the weight of her pressed against the most injured part of his body—which just so happened to be everything. Ancestors curse him. Why was his timing always so awful?

“Bethany,” he barely got her name out as she paused to take a breath. Her lips trailed across his chin and jawline. He groaned for an entirely different reason, the one hand at her side squeezing appreciatively. “Sunshine.”

She only settled further against him, her chest pressed against his. At any other time, he would’ve been elated. Varric meant to keep his pained reaction to himself, but couldn’t. He hissed sharply, and Bethany pulled away in an instant.

“Oh—Oh Maker!” she yelped. She covered her lips with a few of her fingers, face lit with embarrassment. She moved to lean back into the chair, but Varric stilled her, keeping her in place.

“You’ll do more damage,” he recalled with a tease, peeking one eye open.

Bethany frowned, and insisted on leaning back to her seat. She slipped one of her hands back into his. “Varric, I’m so sorry. I just got carried away.”

“Glad to have that charming effect on you, love,” he breathed. Her expression softened, mouth falling open with a small gasp.

“Love?” she asked in a whisper.

Varric nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

He hadn’t really meant for it to slip out, but it only seemed natural. There didn’t seem to be any harm in saying it, not with what he had gone through to get this far. “What did you think that was before if not a confession?” he softly laughed. “Okay, admittedly I didn’t use the titular phrase so I’ll say it now—”

“I love you,” Bethany interrupted him, beating him to the punch.

He smirked. “Not fair.” Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, despite her grin. “Hey, hey…”

Varric pulled her close, pushing back the pain and silently reassuring her it was okay for her to lean against him again. He held her close, resting his chin against her temple as she pressed her nose against his neck. Her arms slid around him and he felt a slight relief wash over him. Warmth—love. He breathed a smile—he could always feel her magic in some way, even if it was just all in his head.

“Maker, I wanted to say that—” she sniffled, words muffled. “I love you,” she repeated.

“Stop that,” Varric chuckled. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You gotta let me…”

Slowly, he pulled her up so he could see her face. He held the side of her face with one hand, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears that had escaped away. For a moment, he thought he too might cry, but managed to swallow them down. He trailed his thumb down, brushing over her lips affectionately. They kissed, softly this time, before he rested his forehead against hers.

“Bethany Hawke,” he breathed. “Sunshine…” He almost laughed at the expectant look in her eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeated quickly. “Now we’re even.”

Varric couldn’t recall a time he had ever seen her so…happy. And he had done that.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He smiled. “I love you.”

“Are you going to do that every time?” she asked. She wasn’t annoyed at all.

“Of course,” he answered. Varric kissed her again.

Bethany smiled against his lips. “I could get used to this.”  

Skyhold, Three weeks later

The journey back to Skyhold had been a long one. For starters, it wasn’t just Varric who had been injured and needed to recover. Hawke had broken his arm, and despite the healers attempting to set it, the break had to heal naturally. The Inquisitor too was healing—mentally and physically. She had dealt with the Wardens, invited them into the Inquisition fold, despite a few of the inner circle disagreeing. The alternative wouldn’t have been fair to Stroud’s memory. There was that too—a small funeral of sorts held at Griffon Wing Keep the evening before they left. But they couldn’t stay in the Western Approach forever—the threat of Corypheus still lingered, and so the Inquisition marched.

Varric would’ve never thought he would feel at home in the Frostback Mountains—in Skyhold. But considering the turmoil the previous weeks had brought, and the near-death experience, he was grateful to be in a familiar place. Somewhere safe. He was grateful for a lot of things, actually.

“Who are you writing to?”

Varric glanced up from his work, smiling as he saw Bethany approach. She leaned down to wrap her arms around his shoulders where he stood, her cheek nuzzling against his for a moment before she kissed his temple. His chest swelled—he wasn’t ever going to get over this feeling.

He lifted an arm to hold her in place. “Isabela. I haven’t written to her in a while, and if I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid she’ll send pirates after me. Or worse.”

“Worse?” Bethany giggled.

Varric nodded, tilting his head up slightly to glance at her from the corner of his eye. “Have you ever woken up with a halla head in your bed?”

The two laughed at the absurdity. She stayed close to him as he continued scribbling some words down.

“Are you going to tell her about us?” Bethany asked and Varric nodded. “How so?”

“Something like…’In Skyhold Bethany and I got back together—”

“And there was much rejoicing!” Hawke. Yay.

Varric and Bethany glanced up to find the Champion approaching, his arms wide. The fact he was still lingering in Skyhold was telling. He was supposed to have left for Weisshaupt days ago. But the rogue kept circling through his goodbyes, unable, or unwilling to leave just yet. The Fade had been a traumatic experience for him too—Varric knew—but the man was seemingly back to his usual grandiose self.

Except—there were tears in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh Maker, I’m just so happy,” he exclaimed. Bethany laughed as she moved away from Varric to embrace her brother, rolling her eyes when he leaned down to ensure Varric also joined. The taller man squeezed them tightly. “You two.”

“Not this again,” Varric muttered. It hadn’t taken long for Hawke to discover the two had reconciled, walking in on the two cuddled close on Varric’s bed at Griffon Wing Keep. No amount of explanation fazed the older Hawke sibling, but in the end he was glad the two had ‘adulted successfully’ (as he put it).

“I just—” Hawke paused and pulled away. He placed a hand on each of their cheeks. “It’s not fair that I don’t get to stick around and watch this love blossom. I missed out the first time because of secrets,” he dragged the word out, glaring at them both. “And now I have to travel through Orlais to see some important Wardens.”

Varric swatted his friend’s hand away. “That’s what happens when you’re an important person, Hawke. You have to do important things.”

“Who knows what might happen when I’m away,” he pondered. “A wedding! Babies?!”

“Maker!” Bethany shouted, smacking her brother on the arm—purposefully so where it had been broken.

He cried and laughed out at the same time in some strange yelp. “Teasing!” He didn’t stop though. “You’ll name him after me though, yes? Hawke? Gary?”

This time Varric smacked him. “I’m not naming any—hypothetical or not—child after you.”

“I carried you out of the Fade, Varric,” Hawke reminded. “It’s the least you could do.”

“What happened to a good ol’ fashioned life debt?” Varric asked.

Hawke shook his head and Bethany groaned, covering her face with her hand. “No, I’m going godly with this one. First born.”

“Second born,” Varric countered.

Hawke leered at him. “Only if it’s a twin.”

“Can we stop making decisions about my womb, please?” Bethany interrupted.

Hawke’s expression softened and he grabbed their hands instead. “On a serious note—don’t look at me like that, I’m capable of being serious,” he spoke. “There’s nobody I trust more than you, Varric, to keep my sister safe while I’m away. She’ll be happy here. With you.”

Surprisingly, Varric was touched. He squeezed his friend’s hand in return. He wasn’t sure how to follow that up. Bethany moved towards him again, kissing him on the cheek.

“I really am going to miss you two,” Hawke said as she pulled away. He smirked. “And Ferelden. It’s a lot greener than I remember…is that the breach?”

Bringing Hawke to the Inquisition had been a risk—by the grace of Andraste it had paid off. He glanced to Bethany and the two shared a knowing smile. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t gone to plan—he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. His reward was well worth it. The sun was shining.

Rivaini-

Enclosed is the ten silver I owed you from before, and the five gold I’ll owe you for what I’m about to tell you now. That is, if Hawke hasn’t already spoiled it. I know he always likes to spoil the best stories.

So here’s the big secret. Sunshine Bethany and I were an “item” back in the day, in Kirkwall. (And so on, and so on—the details of what happened in Kirkwall I’ll leave up to your imagination. It doesn’t matter if I tell you the truth does it?)

Anyways, it ended…sort of. I guess you could say neither one of us got over one another. As fate—or Hawke—would have it, she found her way to Skyhold, and back into my life. Hopefully for good this time.

I guess what I’m writing to tell you is that we’re happy.

And for the love of Andraste please don’t write any friend-fiction about us—no that will just give you the idea.  

PS: Hawke says that he wants to get married. Actually, he already had the Inquisitor officiate it. Said you wouldn’t mind. He also said it would ‘lessen the blow of him disappearing on you’. If you want to find him, he’ll be at Weisshaupt. Have fun on the honeymoon!

-Varric

[bluesunsdusk]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻

repost,  don’t reblog !

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.      Logan (Logan Reynold in most verses. Lagan Rexas in ME verses.)  PRONUNCIATION.       Low gun...? Not quite right, but it’ll do.  NICKNAME.       Log GENDER.         Cis Man. HEIGHT.  6′4 AGE.  32 ZODIAC.         No idea SPOKEN LANGUAGES. Modern Albion.

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.       Brown. EYE COLOR.        Brown. SKIN TONE.         Light. BODY TYPE.       Lean. ACCENT.        English. VOICE.         You know, his voice actor. DOMINANT HAND.         Left-handed. POSTURE.        Logan always stands with perfect posture. A straight back with shoulders back. SCARS.        The most noticeable are the ones on the lower part of his face, around and over his lips. Namely the one on the left stands out. He also has scars on his body, such as on his collar and neck, but those are always hidden under his clothes. TATTOOS.         None. (ME verse: He has a blue insignia that consists of mirrored markings on his cheeks, and markings on his chin and forehead) BIRTHMARKS.         At most he has a few blemishes, such as a light spot on his jaw. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).      Stern eyes. (In ME verse, the outer prongs of his fringe are very curved)

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

(cw: Pregnancy mention )

PLACE OF BIRTH.         Bowerstone (Gwaren, in his DA verse) HOMETOWN.         Bowerstone (Amaranthine, in DA. A Turian colony in ME.) MANNER OF BIRTH.         The main exit and on time. By that I mean natural birth, neither early nor late. (same in DA and ME verses. Though, it was war time during DA verse) FIRST WORDS.         Dadda SIBLINGS.         His sister. PARENTS.         Sparrow/Duncan, and and a pirate called Maggie. (Another parent is an unnamed warrior in his DA verse, but he never knew him. Maggie’s place is also taken by someone else in said verse. I haven’t named his parents in the ME verse tbh.) PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.        Well, Sparrow did his best, but he was very busy with his duties as king, so it was hard to make time for him. Logan was looked after by many tutors, as well as their head butler, Jasper. As child, Logan rather liked Jasper and thus took on a few of his mannerisms more so than Sparrow’s. Sparrow being a hero, Logan thought he could be like him, but he found out he couldn’t, and he’s not felt good enough ever since. As for his mother, she wasn’t the homesteading type and was often away. He eventually just never heard from her again. He assumes she died at sea. (In the DA verse, Logan’s related parent, other than Sparrow, was said to have died during the battle with Orlais. Growing up there was rather similar, after the war. They had elven servants. As a child, he was polite to them, since his dad was. His dad didn’t always seem to know how to handle him, struggling to relate to him at times when he was very little, but eventually finding enough common ground to bond over. Honestly, Logan’s relationship with his father is a little healthier in the DA verse, because his dad is a normal guy, aside from being a mage... um I mean... archer. Well, mage, since everyone knows now. Logan was glad to see him at Ostagar, then devastated to hear of the state of the Circle afterwards.)

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.         King. (DA: former tradesman and nobleman involved in politics, Grey Warden supposedly not involved politics. Overseer of a colony in ME verse.) CURRENT RESIDENCE.          Bowerstone castle. (Amaranthine in DAO, Kirkwall in DA2, Skyhold in DAI if Grey Wardens recruited) CLOSE FRIENDS.         In canon? No one, it seems. On this blog? Aidan, one of his guards. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.          Single by default. FINANCIAL STATUS.         Very well-off. (DA: Decent) DRIVER’S LICENSE.      He’s had training in riding horses and boating, and he is rather good at both, though boating definitely leaves something to be desired. Luckily, it’s usually someone else in charge of where the boats and ships go. (ME verse: He can control shuttles just fine, but requires more training with fighters.) CRIMINAL RECORD.       Is being a despot a crime? Several war crimes. Workplace safety violations. Elder abuse. Depending on if the hero of Fable 3 was 18 by the start of the game, child endangerment and abuse. (DA: Is abuse of power a crime? Harboring a mage. Housing blood mages and allowing them to experiment with blood magic. A few war crimes, perhaps.) (Seeing as calling in the Hastatim is completely acceptable with a civilian uprising in Turian society, the only crime is working with AI)  VICES.        Pride, envy and jealousy, fear. 

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.         Demi. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.         Bi. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.       submissive |  dominant |  switch? I straight up have no idea what this even means. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.       submissive  |  dominant  |  switch. LIBIDO.         It really depends on who he’s with. On average, I’ll say way below average. TURN ON’S.         Kindness/caring. Humor. Strength. Creativity. Easy-going, to a degree. Able to take charge. TURN OFF’S.        Being Reaver. Arrogance, rudeness, selfishness. Yeah, just being Reaver. LOVE LANGUAGE.  Small gifts and spending time together as much as he can afford. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.       Tends to push people away or be nervous about things.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.         Way Down We Go.  HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.         I will list things he used to like. Reading, sparring/sword-fighting, travelling/exploring, writing.  MENTAL ILLNESSES.     PTSD, ASD. He’s pretty burnt out after everything, too. PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.         Farsightedness. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.         You know, I have no clue. FEARS.   Failure. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.         Below average. (Save for in a few later verses, and in DAI) VULNERABILITIES.       Logan dislikes showing vulnerabilities, as he is supposed to be as strong as his father, and his father also never showed vulnerability. His father could fix everything, and he should be able to do so as well. There are too many people relying on him for him to be weak. One weak link will bring the kingdom crumbling down. One more misplaced show of weakness, and everyone will be dead. Everything will have been for nothing. It can’t all be for nothing. He’s done too much. He’s undone too much. They need to follow his plan exactly or it will all go wrong, and they will not listen if he is weak. If he believes everything is going to work, it will work. It has to. I suppose his vulnerability is that he doesn’t let people know when something bad is going on, which he extends to his kingdom, so he just looks like an asshole, and then became one too. He’s uncertain of his mental stability since Aurora, but he also doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t like how skinny and pale he’s become either. It’s unsightly to him.

tagged by: @bloodcontrcl

tagging:  Whoever is interested. 

[tearsofwinter]

Behind Closed Doors

Rating: G Summary: Varric is a storyteller, and sometimes that mean making up lies to protect the ones you care about. So what did really happen between Fenris and Anders during their time in Kirkwall? A Fenders story told from Varric’s POV

Varric looked up when he heard a hard knock on his door. "Your Inquisitoralness! What a surprise. Did you need something, or are you here to admire the dwarf?" Smiling, he pulled up a chair for the Inquisitor to sit. "I'll say it now, if you're here for Cassandra, tell her the newest 'Swords and Shields' will be done when it's done. You can't rush masterpiece."

"If your revenge on Cassandra is making her wait for the next installment... it's working. Promise not to make her wait too long. The last I saw her, it looked like her head was about to explode." Trevelyan sat where Varric pointed. He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, closer to the dwarf. There was a gleam in his eyes, one that Varric recognized from rabid fans. "About 'The Tale of the Champion', I've got a few questions."

"Oh boy, here we go." Varric folded his arms and sighed. "Look, kid, the thing about Orsino, it was added for extra excitement. In hindsight, I would edit that part out. Now, if it's about Hawke, I hear she's out by the ramparts. You can ask any questions you have about the Champions yourself."

Trevelyan scoffed. He scooted his chair closer until their knees bumped. Varric leaned away- only a tad- for breathing room, but Trevelyan took it as a sign to invade the other's space even more.  "I just came back from talking to Hawke...and I can't believe you lied! You kept it a secret from me! How could you?” 

"Of course I lied. It's a occupational hazard." Varric placed a hand on the young man's chest, and gently pushed him back into his seat. In the middle of his spiel, Trevelyan stood up and inched closer and closer until their nose touched. "What I'd lie about this time?"

"ANDERS IS ALIVE!"

Varric slapped a hand over the boy's mouth. "Shhhhh!!! You want the entire Inquisition to know?!" Nervously, he glanced around to check if anyone heard, but the door was closed and the room was empty. Still, it paid to be careful. Varric removed his hand. "Where'd you hear that from?"

"Hawke! We were talking, and I asked about Anders, how could she do that to him when they've been friends for over a decade. He protested peacefully for years, but no one listened. He was pushed to a corner, and did what he had to do!" Cheeks red from a lack of air, words spilled out of Trevelyan's mouth as fast as his mind spun. Varric felt the lack of oxygen himself as he watched the Inquisitor try not to trip over his own tongue. Trevelyan sucked in a much needed breath, and continued. "And so Hawke asked me what was my opinion on the Chantry explosion, and I said, good riddance!"

Realizing his own outburst, Trevelyan clapped a hand over his own mouth. Sheepishly, he looked at Varric, ready to be ridiculed or scolded, but he saw no judgment in the dwarf's eyes. Instead, there was understanding. His shoulders slumped in relief, and he sighed.

"So Hawke told you the truth then?" Varric guessed. "She told you she didn't kill Anders?"

"Yes! So what's the truth? What really happened?" Trevelyan was trembling with excitement. "Please tell me!" 

"Alright, alright." Varric held his hands up in surrender. "But first, I need to know something. What's your opinion on Anders? Why the..." He gestured at the young man's jittery state, "interest?"

"He's an idol," Trevelyan said without hesitation. "At least he's my idol. I've heard stories about him, about how he escaped Kinloch hold seven times, how he joined the Grey Wardens and fought darkspawns. I know what they say about him, that he's a terrorist, a murderer, but I don't think so. He did what needed to be done, even if it branded him a villain. So I have a question for you, two questions actually, regarding Anders."

"You can ask, but I can't promise I'll answer," Varric said, crossing his arms. "Give me your best shot."

Finally, the chance to get the answers to his burning questions was here. Trevelyan's bluster attitude vanished in a snap, and what was left behind was a bundle of nerves. A blush formed on his cheeks as he fidgeted in his seat. "Well...my first question is where is Anders? And my second one is..." He looked away, unable to meet Varric's gaze. "...is he single? He's not seeing anyone is he?"

Varric burst out laughing, stunned by the unexpected question.   

"This...this isn't funny!" Trevelyan shouted, indignant and hurt by his friend's reaction. "I'm being serious!

Varric wiped away the tears at the corner of his eyes. "Sorry," he said, a few chuckles still escaping, "You caught me by surprise. I'm not laughing at you. But I have some bad news for you." He laid a consoling hand on Trevelyan's shoulder, and shook his head. "Anders is seeing someone, and the two of them are such lovebirds, it makes you want to puke."

"But...but it's only been a year since Kirkwall! He found someone in that short amount of time?"

"I might've omitted some things, fudged up some details in my book. Hazard of the trade and all that, you know how it is."

"You're saying Anders had a lover while he was in Kirkwall? Since before the explosion? Impossible." Trevelyan couldn't wrap his head around it. Ignoring Varric's novel, none of the reports or heresy about Anders mentioned a lover. If he had one, someone should've noticed. Everything he knew about Anders said he acted alone; his sole companion was the spirit in inside him. It wasn't any Trevelyan's business, but he was curious. "Who is it? Is it someone I know?"

Varric scratched his chin, contemplating how much he should tell the Inquisitor. "You...could say you know him."

"So it's a man!" Trevelyan paused, then took in a scandalized breath. "Maker, Varric is it you?"

"No! No, no, no. Shit, I like Blondie, but not like that."

"Aw, you called him Blondie. After I heard you talking with Vivienne about Kirkwall, I thought you hated him."

Varric sighed. "I did for a while. It took some thinking, but I realized I was more disappointed in myself. I failed him like I failed Batrand...But enough about me." Varric waved it aside. He was never good at dealing with feelings, and he wasn't going to start now. "You wanted to know who Anders' mysterious lover is? I can tell you, but you have to keep it a secret. It's a matter of life or death here."

"Cross my heart and hope to die. You know you can trust me, Varric. I'm the most trustworthy guy there is. I even pardoned Anders, except Josie said that could be bad publicity. Said we should wait until Celene's ball to make the announcement. I don't see what's all the fuss is about. I'm a mage. It's not like they're going to li-"

Varric slapped another hand on Trevelyan's mouth. He forgot that once Trevelyan got going about something he felt passionate about, he couldn't shut up. Just like another mage Varric knew. "Alright, alright. I got it, sheesh."

Removing his hand, Varric stepped away from the Inquisitor and began pacing. Where to begin, he wondered. The subject was harder for him to talk about than he thought. Sure, he wrote a novel about Hawke's life that included some of her sexual and romantic exploits, but Anders' relationship was different. It was much harder to grasp and put into words.

"Fenris," Varric blurted it out. Best to just get it out there. Grab the bull by its' horn and all that crap.

Trevelyan blinked, sure that he'd heard wrong. "Excuse me?"

"I said, Anders' lover is Fenris. They have been together for years now. Closing in on a decade now if I recall."

"..."

"..."

"...You're shitting me," Trevelyan finally whispered, then a little louder. "You have got to be shitting me. No. You're telling me Anders and Fenris are together? They're lovers? But in your 'Tale of the Champion', they hate each other! They could barely be in the same room!"

"That was done deliberately. It's easy for Anders to blend into a crowd. Grow a beard, dye his hair- anything. It's harder for Fenris to blend in. His marking makes him stand out. Since everyone assumes Fenris hates Anders, he's the last person they suspect. No one is going to think the tall blond next to Fenris is Anders."

In absolute awe, Trevelyan’s jaw dropped. “Maker, Varric, you’re a genius.” 

“I try my best.” Varric took the compliment and bowed.

"How'd they end up together? I thought Fenris hated mages? Did you lie about that too?"

"No, that part is true. I definitely didn't lie about that"

"So what happened? Out of everyone, why did Anders end up with Fenris, the mage hating elf?" 

Varric shrugged helplessly at the question

Compared to Hawke and Isabela, heck, even compared to Aveline with Donnic, Fenris and Anders were less outwardly affectionate. What they had was...quiet. Subtle. They didn't hold hands or kiss in public; at gatherings, it was rare for them to be seen sitting next to each other. For a long time, Varric doubted the validity of their relationship.

"To tell the truth, I don't know when they started. How they met, and how much they hated each others' guts, that part in the book was true. Day in and day out, they fought all the damn time. But then one day, it all stopped. Poof, no more fighting. When we noticed and asked what happened, why were they suddenly civil to each other, they told us they were in love. Ha, in love, can you believe it? Because we certainly didn't. We thought it was a joke they were trying to pull on us."

"Anders and Fenris didn't say anything. They didn't try to correct us or prove a point." Varric walked off and poured himself a drink. He realized he couldn't do this sober. Not that their story was difficult to tell, but if you ever read "Swords and Shield", you'd know love stories weren't his strong suit. He knocked back a shot of whiskey, shuddering as the alcohol burned a trail down his throat.

"I consider myself an observant man- have to be in my line of work- but when it came to Anders and Fenris, I was blind. I doubted them for a while. I made bets with Hawke and the others about if they were real or fake; how long they'll keep up the act. You know, those sort of asshole shit. It went on for months."

"But then one day, Hawke asked a few of us to go with her to Sundermount for some 'bandit looting' as she calls it. The group included Rivani, me... and the two angry glow sticks." Varric poured himself another glass of whisky. He thought about drinking it, but then decided against it. He pushed the glass aside, and turned back to face the Inquisitor. "See, the thing was, after seeing how much Fenris and Anders fought whenever they were together, Hawke made it a rule to separate the two. If Fenris was there, Anders wasn't, and vice versa. That worked out for the most part. Kept the peace in the group. So when Hawke changed it up, Isabela and I raised our eyebrows at the combination, but we guessed she had her reasons. Maybe it was a test, or maybe she forgot, but Fenris and Anders were brought along together this time."

"I thought they'd begin fighting as soon as we left Kirkwall. The jig was up. But to our surprise, Anders didn't bring up mage rights, and Fenris didn't say a word about blood magic. He could've too. We fought some maleficars at the bandit camp. It would've been easy for him to score some points against Anders, and if this was the old Fenris, he would've rub it in Anders' face, telling him this was the reason mages deserved to be imprisoned in Circles. None of that happened though. After the fight, and as Hawke was looting the bodies, I saw Fenris walk up to Anders. They didn't say a word. Instead, Fenris brushed the back of his hand against Anders', and in return Anders offered him back a reassuring smile."

"And that was when you knew they were serious about each other?" Trevelyan asked.

Varric sat back down next to the Inquisitor. He groaned as his knees creaked from old age. "I wish I could say that, kid. I only realized the importance of what they did in hindsight," he said, "It was on our way back to Kirkwall when it dawned on me, on all of us, that they were serious and wasn't faking their relationship at all."

"It was getting dark in Sundermount. No way we could get back to Kirkwall in time, so we decided to set up camp. The tents were up, the bed rolls were out, and Anders was knocked out like a bronto. He was drained of mana and needed to recuperate. The rest of us- Hawke, Isabela, Fenris, and I- sat by the fire, enjoying our meager meals and exchanging juicy gossip. Isabela was in the middle of telling us how she swindled a man out of his trousers when we heard a loud thundering noise. For a heartbeat, we thought it might've been a wyvern, or even a dragon. But no, it turned out to be just Anders. He snored while he slept. And boy was it loud. It's not an exaggeration to say the trees shook and the ground rumbled when he snored. Okay, okay, I might be exaggerating. I'm a storyteller, it's my job to exaggerate. " Varric lifted his hands up in surrender when Trevelyan gave him a skeptical look.

"My point is, Anders made a ruckus. Isabela suggested we stuff a cloth inside Anders' mouth, but Hawke decided to go with a more diplomatic route. She wanted to wake Anders. When she got up to shake Anders' awake, Fenris grabbed her by the wrist and stopped her. 'Don't wake him. He rarely falls into deep sleep because the nightmares. He needs the rest,' he said. Hawke asked what were they going to do then? The noise was bound to attract something nasty."

"To our surprise, Fenris tiptoed to where Anders slept, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. Slowly, he turned Anders' head until his airway aligned, and immediately, the snoring stopped. We were stunned. The one act alone, showed us how close they were to one another." Remembering the way Fenris tenderly stared at Anders' sleeping face, Varric scratched his cheek out of awkwardness. "I was struck by the difference I saw in Fenris. He looked younger and happier than I'd ever seen him. Carefree, in fact, with a relaxed smile on his lips. When Anders stirred, disturbed by the sound of our voices, Fenris bent his head to soothe him with a soft murmur of his voice."

"I've seen some shit. Bartrand wasn't a saint, and I've walked in on Hawke and Isabela plenty of times. But for some reason seeing Fenris unguarded, his expression tender and vulnerable...it was unspeakably intimate. Hawke, Isabela, and I- we all blushed. We turned our gaze and gave them their privacy. I realized something that day..."

"What?" Trevelyan asked when Varric didn't continue. "What did you realize?"

"I realized, even though Anders' and Fenris' love was less demonstrative than those of Hawke's and Isabela's, a mysterious and passionate intensity existed between them. Once I knew where to look, it was obvious. So when I decided to write the 'The Tale of the Champion', I wanted to respect their privacy. It was the least I could do."

"Where are they now?" Trevelyan asked. "Are they still together? Are they happy?"

Varric shrugged. "The last I heard, they were together near the Tevinter border, hunting and killing slavers. The letter I last received was from Fenris by the way. His letter was short and succinct, but yes, they sounded happy."

Trevelyan smiled. He threw his arms around Varric and gave him a tight hug. "Thank you for telling me, Varric. I feel like I got a whole new perspective of my hero. Yeah, I'm sad he's taken, but at least it sounds like he's with a great guy that loves him."

Varric laughed, tapping at the Inquisitor's arms to let go. "Anytime kid. You want to hear more about Anders, I've got you covered."

"Actually...I do have another question."

"What is it?"

"So about Orsino, did he really turn into a 5 armed blob monster?" 

"Alright, that's it." Varric stood from his chair and shoved the laughing Trevelyan towards the door. "Enough questions for the day. Goodnight, Your Inquisitoralness."

A/n: This is based off a prompt I wrote back in Feb 2017. Finally got a chance to write it out. Like I said.......it takes me a long time to get to prompts/requests....