Chapter Text
Mr. & Mrs. Egan Davri
Request the Pleasure of Your Company
at the Marriage of Their Daughter
Bianca Davri
to
Bogdan Paedus
the Fourteenth of Guardian
Twenty-Seven Dragon
at Eight Bells
in the Hightown Chantry
Reception to Follow
He could hear the wedding bells. The toll sounded mournful, deep tones echoing against the building, casting discordant harmonies down the alleys he walked. Running caused too many stares.
When he reached the square, he could see the chantry, and the family and friends already gathering on the stairs.
Varric stepped quickly, not caring if her family saw him. There was a gaping wound in his heart and he would give her one last chance to say yes. One last chance to run with him.
I'm not just going to walk away. He ground his teeth, feet a quickening rhythm on the pavement. He walked up the first three steps, trying to steady himself. What was the plan, here?
Someone grabbed him, tugged him off the stairs, pushed him bodily against the Chantry board.
He felt steel at his throat.
"Varric Tethras." A woman's voice, struck through with honeyed gravel.
The wedding bells rang again.
"Hi. Can you maybe wait ten minutes?" He tried to push her off of him but she had him pinned.
"No. You're coming with me."
"I'm really not." He stomped on her instep and ducked under her arm, twisting her grip behind her, finally breaking free and sprinting up the stairs.
He heard a sharp whistle, then shouted orders and the clattering of heavy boots.
Curse these blighted stairs.
Several pairs of hands grab him, force him to the ground.
The woman who'd held the blade to his throat steps over him, boots by his head. “Let's go.”
He's lifted, hauled backwards.
“No!” He kicks. He hits wildly. He bites one of them in the hand. “Let me go!”
They drag him back, down the few steps he'd managed to climb, across the square. The chantry gets further and further away.
“I swear, you can do whatever you want to me. I don't care. Just let me go for five minutes!”
The woman snarls, a scar pulling up her lip where it slashes down across her face. “Someone gag him.”
But he shouts again, “No! Fuck! Please!”
Then he sees her. Bianca's face is sad but she's still beautiful in a yellow dress with green trim. Her hair is up, loose blonde curls fluttering against her face in the morning breeze. In her hands is a bouquet of white and yellow flowers. Her eyes are on the ground.
Her mother guides her by the elbow as they walk to the chantry doors. They don't mount the stairs. They step from an alcove to the side of the Chantry.
“Bianca!” He shouts, voice grinding to gravel at the abuse. “Bianca!”
Just before his captors drag him behind a column to the side of the square, he sees her head lift, sees her eyes scan every face she sees.
“Bia-”
The woman punches him, hits him square on the bridge of his nose and his head snaps back, hitting the stone column. He sees stars, blood rolling down his lips, and then a rough ball of cloth is shoved in his mouth.
He gags on it, tries to spit it out, but they tie another cloth around his head, muffling his cries.
Bianca.
“Keep hold of him. Let's go.”
They haul him away and he fights, head still spinning, muscles growing weak, but he fights them every step of the way. His knees scrape along the pavement but he will not make this easy. He waits for the slightest loosening of their hold, but they never let up.
And for the first time since he was a child, Varric finds himself praying. Maker, please. Please. No. He tangles his legs with those of the man on his right and they stumble, but none of them let go of Varric's arm.
The sharp point of a dagger against his spine, another at his ribs, and the iron grip of the men on either side of him.
Maker, please. No.