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asimplearchivist · 3 months ago

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❝ 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖙 . ❞

𝐂𝐇. ? 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 ? 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐄𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] [ AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST ] summary ♜ ⤏ rook has experienced few but devastating losses during her life. she's not certain she can take even one more. ⤏ good thing varric tethras is as stubborn as a druffalo. pairing(s) ♜ varric tethras & rook (fenalan aldwir) word count ♜ 3.5k a/n ♜ [gif credit] | [divider credit] ⤏ spoiler warning: this contains spoilers for some of the clips that have been revealed since the embargo lifted for those who went to the pre-play event! please do not proceed if you're avoiding any spoilers about the prologue! ⤏ I am uncertain if and where this will fit into the greater scheme of things since there are several pieces we're still missing from the prologue of Veilguard. this may end up needing tweaking later, it might be better as an in-between UA scene, or it may be scrapped from the fanfic for my canon altogether—we'll see! ⤏ but, until then, I wanted to indulge in giving Varric some well-earned TLC and to explore his dynamic with my Rook, a Dalish Veil Jumper with the Spellblade specialization: Fenalan Aldwir. This was honestly such a delight to write. I've missed my babies. :') ♜ MASTERPOST ♜

“There’s nothing more that you can do for him, Rook.”

Logically, Fenalan knew that the other mage was right. Besides the sweat beading on her brow and the leaden exhaustion dragging her limbs, her Keeper’s stern advice never to overtax her mana supply due to the potentially devastating and long-term issues that the strain could pose floated unbidden through the back of her mind. But, given the circumstances, she could not readily dismiss the unsteady thrum of her apprehensive heart against the inside of her ribs.

Fenalan leaned all of her weight against the side of the bed since her knees were dangerously tottering on the verge of giving out completely. Her empty stomach had cramped since she’d started casting her limited experience with healing magic upon Varric’s wound in hopes of negating its worst effects before it had the chance to cause fever or become infected. The elf grimaced, her hands well past numb from the unceasing spell, and cast a glance towards the detective hovering in her periphery with a concerned wrinkle marring her smooth brow.

Neve had already completed the brunt of the work, taking care of all the cosmetic abrasions and hemorrhaging littering the dwarf’s body incurred from his tumble down the stairs, but she’d only been able to hold back the worst of the bleeding until Fenalan had awoken from the dream that had plagued her bout of unconsciousness…though perhaps it had been closer to a nightmare, in retrospect. The Dread Wolf, of all fucking people, digging his treacherous fingers into her mind? She shuddered still at the mere thought of her poor lot, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on it now lest she crack under the pressure of all else that had been unexpectedly dumped upon her shoulders in the span of a few measly hours.

“Rook,” Neve repeated, her voice taking on a firmer edge. “At least sit.”

The Tevine leveraged a chair close enough for the Dalish to sink down into it. Fenalan was uncertain how long she had stood there. “‘Ma serannas,” she murmured, eyeing her patient.

Varric was deathly still, save the slow rise and fall of his exposed chest. She knew he would vehemently object to the ruination of his clothes, custom-tailored and as expensive as they were, so she had compromised with Neve to slip the shirt and coat from his torso once they had swiftly removed Fen’Harel’s bloody lyrium dagger from the wound and poured spells of regeneration into the puncture directly after to stave off the shock his body would experience. His skin was clammy, his face worryingly wan, but his pulse was steady even if it only pressed halfheartedly against her questing fingertips pressed against the inside of his wrist. He did not stir, even as she finally released her white-knuckled grasp of the Veil and braced her elbows against the edge of the mattress to drop her grimy face into her hands.

Neve nudged her shoulder to offer a strikingly ornate goblet filled with something dark and fragrant. A cursory whiff told Fenalan that it was likely an equal part mixture of a restorative potion and a port of unknown origin.

“You’ve already raided the Dread Wolf’s pantry?” Fenalan asked wryly, daring a sip and smacking her lips at the taste. Orlesian. It wasn’t half-bad, but the bitter earthy aftertaste certainly left something to be desired. It would nevertheless serve well enough to quell her frayed nerves and resupply her energy both.

“Kind of him to keep enough food on hand for all his guests,” Neve replied dryly.

“At least we’ll have something to eat while we figure all this shit out,” Fenalan sighed She leaned against the sturdy back of the chair, kicked off her boots, and lifted her socked feet to rest on the edge of the bed. The aching muscles sang with relief as blood flow resumed in earnest. “Nothing’s crept out of the woodwork to kill us while we sleep?”

“No. It seems we’re alone here—for the time being, at least.” Neve regarded the supine dwarf. “He looks a little better than he did before. I didn’t think you were a healer.”

“It’s not my specialty.” Fenalan was beginning to feel the full effects of the reminder of that fact right about then. “He still looks like he’s toeing death’s door to me.”

“He has a bit more color.” Neve leaned over and lightly touched the ragged flesh around the injury site. “You’ve done a marvelous job of sealing that off, Rook. Scarring from a wound like this can’t be avoided, but it won’t be nearly as bad as I feared. He should pull through, provided he rests enough. I’d give him at least a week before I’d suggest he try to stand.”

Fenalan swallowed a deep drag of her new contact’s likely unrecommended concoction. “I tried my best,” she responded under her breath. “Let’s hope it is enough.”

Neve eyed her for a moment, gauging. “You ought to get some rest of your own, Rook.”

“Sure.” She crossed one leg over the other. “I’ll get on that just as soon as I finish this.”

The detective’s brow wrinkled again. “I meant away from here. In a bed. You don’t honestly intend to stay there.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Fenalan leveled her with an unyielding stare. “And if you take the chair, I’m sleeping on the floor instead. Take your pick.”

“Rook…” the Tevine began, frowning, then seemed to think better of arguing with Varric’s appointed second in command—and friend to boot. She sighed. “Fine.”

Fenalan inclined her head towards the door. “Harding doing all right?”

“As well as can be expected. I don’t think she’s being honest about how well she feels, but that’s an issue we can address once we all recover from this.”

“We don’t have much time to spare,” the elf reminded her. “The sooner we can get back on our feet to do damage control, the better.”

“It can wait until you take a nap, at least.” Neve shook her head. “I can see why you two get along so well.”

“Lace is tenacious, I’ll give her that,” Fenalan shrugged.

“No, I meant you and Varric.” The Tevine folded her arms. “I think you’d both work yourselves into the ground before you called anything to quits if you feel it’s necessary.”

“It is necessary. We don’t know exactly what we’re facing,” Fenalan pointed out gravely.

“But you won’t be able to solve it if you’re half-dead on your feet trying to fight back against whatever those blighted monsters were,” Neve retorted.

Elgar’nan. Ghilan’nain. Names to which Fenalan had never expected to assign faces.

The elf released a long, heavy sigh. “I know.”

“We’ll be within earshot should you need us,” Neve told her. “Find us when you’re ready.”

“Will do.” Fenalan drained the rest of the cocktail as the detective headed for the door. “Thank you, Neve. I would thank you, but I suspect you would deny it.”

“I would.” Neve opened the door. “But you’re welcome, Rook.”

Fenalan set the goblet on the floor behind the chair’s legs, grasped one of Varric's cold hands, and tucked her chin against her collar. The blissfully dreamless oblivion welcoming her closed eyes was lovely, dark, and deep.

The twitch of chilled, blunt fingers clamping around her own roused Fenalan before the low, hoarse wheeze of the bed’s occupant did. “Rook.”

“Varric,” she rasped, instantly dropping her feet from the edge of his bed to sit up as she swiped the crust from her heavy-lidded eyes. She gave him a lingering once-over, taking in his pale face against the coarse hair of his beard. His hair was in dire need of a wash, his forehead gleamed with sweat, and his grip was far too weak for her comfort—but he had come through the worst of the entire ordeal no worse for wear given what could be expected from such a potentially grievous wound.

He was awake. He was alive. She had not lost him. That was enough.

The tightness in her chest gradually loosened with every labored but steady breath he drew into his rattling lungs. “...You look like shit.”

“Thanks. Pot meet kettle,” he remarked. He made to shift a bit to get more comfortable, but he winced as soon as he twisted his shoulders and thus jostled his bandaged torso. She leaned forward to cup a steady hand under his nape so she could flip and fluff the pillow for him. She swept his hair away from his damp neck and lowered his head back down with as much care as she could manage with her heart lodged firmly in the pit of her throat. She managed to do it all without giving into the tremor wracking her elbows and threatening to ricochet down into her hands. It gave him better leverage to gaze at her through glassy, dazed eyes. “Here I thought I would look as sunny as my disposition suggests.”

“It’s nothing new. Your age has been trying to catch up with you for at least as long as I’ve known you, old man.” Fenalan straightened, perched on the edge of her seat even though she draped her arms off her knees. “How are feeling?”

“As you so eloquently put it,” he drawled, “‘like shit.’”

“At least it isn’t ‘like death.’ You ventured dangerously close to it.” Fenalan lowered her chin to inspect the dried blood itching beneath her nails. “I cannot think of a worse idea than grappling with the Dread Wolf for his enchanted, world-ending ritual dagger. That certainly takes the cake, even over talking him out of his dastardly decade-long plot to use said dagger to tear down the Veil.”

Varric scoffed, but it tickled his undoubtedly dry throat and sent him into a wracking coughing fit. He clamped a palm over his wound as Fenalan snatched a waterskin from the side table and unstoppered it before holding it to his cracked lips to drink. He shooed her hands away once he had his fill and cleared his throat. His voice demonstrated a notable improvement now that he was no longer parched. “That’s worse than busting the scaffolding holding up an ancient statue imbued with probably enough arcane energy to flatten a mountaintop?”

“Touché.” She set the waterskin closer to the edge of the same table so he could reach it if he needed it. “But it really was a patchwork job for the weight of all that rested on it for his ritual. He really should have hired a carpenter.”

“Then we’d be ass-deep in demons.”

“I think I’d rather take that over this mess, honestly,” Fenalan muttered with a sigh, leaning back into the chair and pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain effort to dissuade the pressure building behind her eyes.

Varric squinted at her. “What do you mean? We stopped the ritual, didn’t we?”

Fenalan frowned. “You don’t remember?”

“Things got a little fuzzy after my friend stabbed me between the ribs, so forgive me if my memory’s a little patchy.” He huffed and shook his head, as though such a reprehensible action was no more offensive than having a tankard of ale spilled down the front of one’s favorite shirt. “What happened?”

“It’s likely a good thing you’re not standing,” Fenalan began slowly, pursing her lips as she gathered her scattered, racing thoughts. This is your responsibility now. Fenedhis. “How much do you know about the other elven gods?”

“Not a whole lot, other than from the few stories that survive. What’s left of the Inquisition has been conducting intensive research into ancient Arlathan ever since Chuckles dropped that revelation on us, but primary sources are scarce at best. You ought to know that better than most.”

“I do.” Fenalan swallowed. “Apparently he had them imprisoned…somewhere in the Fade? I’m still not exactly clear on that.”

He extended a finger. “I knew that much.”

“And they were…‘tyrannical, sadistic’ rulers wanting to be worshiped.”

A second joined the first. “Yep.”

“And they are blighted.”

His hand dropped to the sheet covering his belly as he stared at her. “Come again?”

“They’re blighted, Varric,” she repeated grimly.

“Please tell me you mean the ‘those blighted elven gods are assholes’ kind of blighted. And why are you using the present tense?”

Fenalan slumped forward and dragged a hand over her face.

“...Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure we’re not dead?”

“Does this look like the loving embrace of the Maker’s bosom—or whatever you Andrastians believe—to you?”

“No, but it’s not the topside of Thedas, either.” He surveyed the room with a critical eye, grimacing at the strain of turning his head to and fro. “Rook…where are we?”

“Solas’ headquarters,” she informed him dryly. “The Lighthouse.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We’re in the Fade?”

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve to feel the familiar texture beneath her fingertips. “No, somewhere in between—or so I’ve been told.”

“The Crossroads, then.” Varric released a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to admit, I didn’t think I’d ever wind up back here.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Not exactly.” He closed his eyes briefly before refocusing on her, more alert than before. “I told you about the day we found out Chuckles’ big secret, right?”

“The Inquisition was attending an enclave at Halamshiral,” she confirmed. “Orlais wanted it pulled under heel and Ferelden wanted it dissipated. The Chantry was caught in the middle of it all trying to mediate.”

“Right. I’m so glad you listen to my stories—see? It turns out that they’re all useful for something after all.”

“I never said they weren’t. You just use too much purple prose.” She nudged his ankle with her toe. “Go on.”

He exhaled heavily. “That wasn’t the first time we’d traveled through eluvians, or even passed through the Crossroads—although I’d never cared to repeat the experience, honestly—but it was the first time we ever saw glimpses of elven ruins between the mirrors. It was a network, all disjointed and labyrinthian…it was a clusterfuck, honestly.” Varric tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “We were finding Qunari outposts left and right, dismantling them as we went to keep them from blowing up all the cultural centers of the known world. We were trying to figure out who in the Void this ‘agent of Fen’Harel’ character was that so benevolently decided to tip us off as to the Viddasala’s plan, and why there were all these connections to the ancient elves woven through all the stops. Puzzles and shit, history we didn’t understand. And, in the middle of all that…the Inquisitor was losing her arm.”

Fenalan watched a dour shadow pass over the dwarf’s face—an expression he only ever wore when he spoke of ill-fated friends and the travesties they suffered in his company. “The Anchor was consuming her.”

“It was eating her from the inside out, more like. Whatever kind of magic Solas had summoned to be able to enter the Fade was just short of corrosive to mortals. She wasn’t meant to bear the Mark—no one but he was—and she isn’t even a mage. And with him tucking tail as soon as he cleaned up his mess with Corypheus…” Varric ground his jaw. “...two years without him warding it nearly killed her before we ever got her to him. Not that we knew at the time that was his plan all along.”

Fenalan’s brow furrowed. “He set all that up to manipulate the Inquisitor into finding him? So he could…what, take the Anchor back after all that time?”

“He had Dread Wolf shit to do in the meantime, I guess.” Varric’s fingers tightened around the cotton. “He fixed it, in the end—if you could call petrifying what was left of her arm to crumble into dust ‘fixing it.’ I didn’t see him again until…all that happened. We’ve all been chasing him ever since, hoping to talk some sense into him. The Inquisitor insisted on that. Even after what he put her through, she still thinks there’s something left inside him to save.”

Fenalan’s lips thinned. “You wanted to redeem the same man who killed thousands by lack of foresight via a quick and quippy dialogue about changing his mind? You don’t seem as keen on the idea now as you were before.”

“We’ve already been through that song and dance,” he reminded her wryly. “Someone had to. The Inquisitor wasn’t here to do it, so I was the world’s next best shot. And she would’ve been inconsolable if I hadn’t given it an honest try. So much for that, though.”

“Would the results have been any different if she had been there? Why would she want to help him if he’s so dead set on destroying the world?”

Varric loosed another sigh, this time fretful, remorseful, and resigned all at once. “...I don’t know, Rook. She was closer to him than anyone else, except maybe the Kid—but maybe he doesn’t count since he could actually read the bastard’s mind. They were…close. It made me wonder sometimes. But if anyone could get through to him, it would be her.”

“Why? I thought he has a problem with humans.”

“Sibyl is…different.” Varric’s expression eased into the faint crinkling of affection. He so rarely used her real name—from protecting her or revering her, she was uncertain—that it took Fenalan aback at first. “She was from the very start, and that intrigued him at first. She didn’t speak a lick of Common when she got here, but she recognized enough El’vhen to get by until I caught her up to speed. It gave them something to bond over, and the rest is history.”

Fenalan’s face scrunched with confusion. “You’ve never mentioned that she’s foreign.”

“She’s so foreign that she makes the mysteries of Amaranth and Par Vollen seem like bedtime stories.” Varric’s eyes drifted shut, and Fenalan stiffened a bit as what little wakeful tension in his body began to relax while his voice quietened. “But that’s a story for another time. Remind me to tell you that one—it’s probably one of my best.”

Fenalan leaned over to grab his loosened hand. “Varric.”

“I’m just tired, Rook,” he rumbled and cracked his eyes open to give her the most earnest look she’d seen from him in a while, “I’m not going anywhere. You try getting impaled with a blade of pure lyrium and see if it doesn’t take all the fight out of you.”

“You’ll be lucky if I ever let you onto a battlefield again,” Fenalan croaked.

He turned his palm over and squeezed her fingers. “Let me catch another nap,” he told her, “have some of that fireside stew and flatbread you make with a red Antivan vintage waiting for me when I wake up, and I’ll be as right as rain in no time—battlefield or no. I can honestly take or leave all this adventuring shit at this point. I’m getting too old for it.”

Fenalan combed a few loose strands of hair off his forehead with her free hand, her brows knit and her teeth clenched. “We might be on short supply of mutton and wine, but I’ll tear this place up from the foundations if I have to. Just…” She swallowed roughly, her throat too tight to utter another sound.

“Rook. Look at me.”

She did, reluctantly. His resolute calm was far more effective a balm than anything else could be to curb the hot sting of her childhood fears and experiences welling dangerously along her lash line. She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“You won’t lose me that easily,” he told her. “Got it? It’ll take more than an elven god to take my last life.”

“Just don’t keep flouting it about as if you’ve got the other eight.” She coughed and snuffed, turning her head down and away just long enough to get her bearings. “Promise me you won’t do something that stupid again, ma falon.”

“I promise I won’t leave you alone to deal with all this, at any rate. Just give me some time to get back on my feet and I’ll be watching your back again.”

Fenalan nodded stiffly.

“Aw, come on. Don’t cry on the dwarf. I might melt, and then where would we be?” He tugged her hand gently, smiling despite the exhaustion obviously creeping over his entire frame. “You can tell me what you were dancing around confessing later. As long as you weren’t possessed by a demon or bound by any illicit magic rituals, we can handle it. Together.”

If only he knew. She doubted he would guess it, anyway. She suspected that Varric was going to have a fit once he found out about the not blood magic Solas had used to implant himself in her head.

Fenalan tightened her grip on the dwarf’s warming, roughened hand once more before she released him and stood on aching legs that protested every movement. “Get some rest, old man. I’ll see what I can scrounge up for supper.”

“I can’t wait. You’re one of the best cooks in Thedas, you know—and that’s a high bar because Sibyl was a damn good one…”

She waited until Varric drifted off and went limp before she sucked in a shaky lungful of Fade-charged air and slipped out of the room as quietly as possible.

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