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Varric stormed into The Hanged Man with a thin sheaf of papers in hand and a frown on his normally smiling face. Hawke looked over his tankard of ale and nudged Isabela’s side. Isabela nudged him back, a little harder than necessary, really, and the weak ale sloshed over the tin rim of the tankard.

“Hawke, we’ve got a problem,” Varric announced when he reached the table. He slammed the papers (a pamphlet, Hawke realized) on the wooden table. It was a nice pamphlet. Crisp paper, clear typeset, fresh ink. Hawke didn’t know what the problem was with it, but he didn’t know much about the print business. Perhaps he should know more. His best friend was a writer, and a famous one at that.

“More friend fiction, Varric?” Isabela asked, peering over and tilting her head so she could read the title. She scanned it, mouthed the words slowly, repeated the title again, slower, incredulously, and then she threw her head back and laughed. Varric glared at the pamphlet on the table.

“Glad you find it funny, Rivaini, because I sure don’t,” Varric grumbled. Hawke cleared his throat and nudged at the pamphlet with his free hand, half afraid it might spontaneously combust from Varric’s glare alone.

“So, someone’s selling a pamphlet full of fiction entitled… ‘Whiskey and Roses,’” Hawke said slowly, “and it’s on the… fourth chapter.”

“Four chapters!” Isabela exclaimed, laughing again. “You’ve gotten four chapters of this romantic tripe out?”

“Public’s devouring it,” Varric grumbled. “They can’t get enough of it, and Andraste blast it to the Fade they haven’t even kissed yet!”

“Not once?” Isabela asked, her eyes alight with glee and her voice full of mock sympathy. “Oh, Varric, is the slow burn making your smalls tight?”

“Can it, Rivaini, or I’ll write an addition to Hard in Hightown where Captain Belladonna settles down in a Chantry monastery,” Varric grumbled. Isabela leaned back and smirked, but said nothing more. Hawke was still as confused as ever. He set his ale down on the table and took the pamphlet in hand.

“‘Ferris was a simple man,’” Hawke read aloud. “‘He woke every morning with the sun. He spent his days working the bar at The Hanged Man, and his nights too. His free time was eaten away either by sleeping or taking on odd jobs with various merc crews in need of an extra blade. Ferris didn’t try to think beyond what tomorrow would bring.

But that Chantry Healer remained in his thoughts, a twist in his mind that would not go away. That Chantry Healer made Ferris’s simple life, the life he worked so hard to keep, complicated.’”

Hawke set the pamphlet down on the table again.

“More friend fiction, Varric? I thought Hard in Hightown was plenty,” Hawke joked, “And then there was Swords and Shields…”

“We don’t talk about Swords and Shields, Hawke,” Varric grumbled. “But this one’s doing well. Really well.” And Varric was utterly miserable about it, Hawke thought. He seemed despondent. Even his magnificent carpet of chest hair looked sad. It wasn’t nearly as fluffy as it usually was.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Isabela asked, “Andraste’s Granny Panties, Varric, it’s good work! I’m not one for romantic drivel, and even I’m interested in where this goes! Though I’d avoid letting Fenris get a hold of this. A bit personal, don’t you think?”

“Hmm?” Hawke wondered what Isabela meant by that remark. Fenris wasn’t the best reader (Hawke had been a bit negligent with the reading lessons, he thought with some guilt), but he wondered just how personal Varric had gotten with his friend fiction spin-off. Friend fiction of friend fiction? What did you even call a serial novel based off of another serial novel?

Isabela pointed to the pamphlet title. “Whiskey and Roses. Chapter Four. It’s all about Ferris and his life in Kirkwall. Pouring drinks, watching Guardsmen do Guard Business, pour more drinks, pine uselessly over the nameless Chantry Healer with beautiful golden hair and sad eyes- Maker’s Arse, Varric, you can just say Sarend or something, we all know it’s Anders.”

Varric grunted in response, grabbed Hawke’s ale, and drank it. Hawke didn’t protest. The ale wasn’t that great, anyways, and Varric looked like he needed a drink. Friends always let friends have a drink when they needed one.

“So, is it personal because it’s Fenris, or personal because you took the tension between Anders and Fenris and made it… romantic?” Hawke flipped through the pamphlet, and a few words stood out- gold, laugh, magic, fear, revulsion, loathing, sorrow- pretty intense word choices for Varric.

“We go deep into Ferris’s history- he’s not an amnesiac slave from Tevinter, so it isn’t as if Varric’s telling everyone about our grumpy elf. Ferris grew up in the slums and Alienages of Nevarra,” Isabela reassured Hawke. “But the whole mental state, character voice, whatever writers call it, it’s our Fenris. It’s intense. I had feelings, Varric! Me!” She reached across the table, took the ale from Varric, and took a great big gulp. Hawke sighed. Well, at least someone was drinking it.

“It’s good work,” Varric grudgingly admitted, “But it-”

“Oh, Isabela!” a voice trilled from across the tavern. Merrill hurried over from the entrance of The Hanged Man and joined them at their table, her bare feet skimming the ground as she bounced her way towards them. She sat next to Isabela, her hands clutching a stack of papers to her chest.

“Oh Isabela, the new chapter is out! Varric, it’s so lovely!” Merrill enthused, and she dropped the papers- another pamphlet, slightly wrinkled- onto the table. “Poor Ferris! Poor, poor Ferris! Varric, you really did listen to me when I talked about the Alienage! It’s so-” Merrill sniffed and wiped tears - Maker help them, actual tears- from her eyes. Varric’s expression softened.

“Daisy, of course I listen. It’s what I do,” Varric said soothingly, and he pulled a clean, lace edged cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Don’t you cry.” Merrill took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes before handing it back to Varric.

“Poor Ferris! Orphaned, homeless, eating rats and stealing rotten fruit to try and survive- it’s exactly what happens in Kirkwall,” Merrill explained. “And the way you had him say it- so matter of fact, so casual- that is how it is for so many in the Alienage. Ferris is so numb to it all that he doesn’t believe it will ever change- and that’s why he can’t stop thinking of the healer, isn’t it?!” Merrill gasped and grabbed Isabela’s hands in hers, clutching them so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“That Chantry Healer is trying to change things when Ferris thinks it can never happen, and he’s jealous and- oh Isabela! How is this ever going to be untangled?” Merrill exclaimed. “Will Ferris ever figure out how he feels?”

“We’ll just have to wait for the next chapter, Kitten,” Isabela said soothingly. “Now, don’t tell me any more, I need to read this latest bit. I’ll take this, Hawke.” Isabela snatched the pamphlet Varric brought in up from the table and began reading intently. Varric sighed.

“It’s shaping up to be a bestseller. Possibly my best seller,” Varric snorted. “Never was good at romance.”

“Right. Maybe you just hit on it this time,” Hawke suggested carefully. “Inspiration struck or whatever?”

“Hard work and practice makes a writer, Hawke. Hard work and practice,” Varric said absently before stealing the ale tankard back from Isabela and downing the rest of it. Merrill was reading over Isabela’s shoulder and glancing back and forth from the page to Isabela’s face. Isabela’s eyes were nearly glued to the page as she read. Her expression shifted slightly from curious to grave to humored to- was that surprise? Grief? She pursed her lips and read on, and then gasped, shock draining the color from her face.

“Varric! You bastard!” she exclaimed as she slammed the pamphlet down on the table and rattled the cutlery and tankard. “Granted, it sounds exactly like our Fenris and Anders to say those things to each other, but the inner monologue was- did you have to go so hard on the self loathing? I took time applying kohl to my eyelids this morning and you’ll make it run!”

Varric grunted, and Isabela returned to greedily reading the pamphlet, Merrill reading over her shoulder. Hawke sighed and flagged down the bartender. He might as well get another round of ale, since he didn’t get to enjoy his. Hawke wondered how Varric managed to find the time to write yet another serialized novel for the public to devour. He also wondered how he was going to keep it a secret from Fenris, who would undoubtedly be displeased at the prospect of being the main character of one of Varric’s tales. He would murder Varric if he learned it was a romance, and a romance with Anders of all people. Hawke almost chuckled at the thought of Fenris’s certain apoplectic fury. Best keep it a secret, Hawke thought. What Fenris didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

At that very moment up in Hightown, a certain elf in a certain rotting mansion put pen to paper and smiled.

“Ferris,” Fenris said aloud as he carefully penned the name in a beautiful, spidery script, “was afraid of change, but fear makes for a poor companion. He would no longer live in fear.” He grinned as he wrote that line. No more hesitation. No more fear.

That sounded nice, didn’t it?

That was what this was all about in the first place, Fenris thought as he set the pen down. He started writing to improve himself and overcome fear. His penmanship was nearly as good as Sebastian’s now. He was forever grateful towards the Chantry brother for taking over Hawke’s admittedly mediocre reading lessons. Hawke meant well and tried his best, but his explanations and impatience left both of them frustrated. Sebastian was patient, but pushed Fenris to try harder and reach further. He was the one who suggested that Fenris write down his thoughts and his past.

“You have many tales to tell, Fenris, and someone will want to read them,” Sebastian told him after one of their lessons. “Someone will need them, I think.” At the time Fenris brushed off the comment as Sebastian being honey-tongued and too generous with his praise, but later he wondered. Perhaps his stories would be important for someone. Perhaps he should keep them safe. Permanent.

So he began to write. He wrote whatever came to mind- tales from his past, stories he heard in Tevinter and Seheron, even small stories about his mundane day to day life in Kirkwall. He wrote and wrote, and his penmanship and spelling improved every day. Fenris wrote everything, and when he ran out of things to write, well…

Was it a crime to take another man’s characters and write his own tales? Especially, Fenris thought wryly, when one of the characters was so clearly based on himself? Varric barely tried to hide it- Ferris? Really? It wasn’t exactly subtle. Ferris was a white haired elf who worked as a bartender at The Hanged Man. It was a shallow character, only there to bring a little more depth to the setting. Well, Fenris thought, he could do better. He could give Ferris a backstory, a character, a life that- well, it wouldn’t be his life. Fenris wasn’t that brave. But it would be a life, it would speak some sort of truth, and perhaps… perhaps he could say a few things that he was too afraid to say out loud.

That was how Whiskey and Roses started. Fenris wanted to practice his writing, and Varric’s Hard In Hightown provided a frame in which Fenris could work. The first chapter had Ferris listening to tales his patrons brought to the bar, each tale intercut with his own thoughts on these wild adventures. It wasn’t particularly impressive or profound, but it was neatly penned and grammatically correct. Fenris was also proud of the several challenging words he managed to spell correctly by sounding them out. He set it aside and wrote another chapter, this one about Ferris wandering Kirkwall and thinking of his past.

He couldn’t make Ferris a slave, oh no- but he thought of the Alienage, the dark, damp rooms, the faces pinched by hunger and fear- and he thought of where he traveled when he was Danarius’s dog- Antiva, Rivain, Nevarra- and an idea formed. Not a slave, but an orphan, a beggar, a Nevarran street rat. Fenris was no stranger to need, and he poured his familiarity and knowledge into Ferris. He ended the second chapter with Ferris engaging in a small skirmish with a Templar, a small nod towards the gritty nature of Kirkwall and the way power could be misused. Ferris was scratched by the blade, and he limped his way up to the Chantry to deal with the Chantry healer. He was ready to write chapter three.

It was when Fenris finished the second chapter that his writing was discovered. It was Aveline who found it, snorted, and asked when Varric had taken to writing his stories in Fenris’s home. And Fenris, well… Fenris lied. He said that Varric let him borrow the stories to read, and it was a little embarrassing so please pretend you never saw it. Aveline seemed delighted by Fenris’s interest in reading (“A good step to become a model citizen, Fenris!” she said), and did not question him further. But Fenris knew he had to do something with his story now that someone knew it existed (though they didn’t know the true author).

He packed up the first chapter and made the journey to Lowtown and Varric’s editor. He informed the hard faced dwarven woman that Varric asked him to deliver this latest story. She took the chapter, thanked Fenris, and that was that. The chapter was released a fortnight later, and Fenris quietly sent the next chapter via a messenger. The arrangement continued, with Fenris writing chapters and sending it to Lowtown by runner, and Varric’s editor and publisher took care of the rest. Fenris didn’t much care where the money went. He made more than enough on his adventures with Hawke and he didn’t need more. He just wanted to write.

Now Fenris was writing chapter five of Whiskey and Roses. He developed Ferris and his stagnant life in Kirkwall. He chronicled Ferris’s past, his frustration, his anger, his sense of helplessness- and then he gave Ferris a rival. The Chantry Healer.

It was Anders, of course. It was obviously Anders. Who else was a healer and golden-haired? Fenris wondered at the logic of associating Ander’s character with the Chantry. Anders hated it- he complained about it often enough whenever Hard In Hightown was brought up. But the nameless Healer was the perfect foil for Ferris. Ferris was resigned to the toxic environment that was Kirkwall. He grimly accepted that all things would go wrong in his life. Life was to be survived, not lived or enjoyed. But the Healer? The Healer fought for a better life and a better world.

They were perfect opposites to each other. Fenris couldn’t let an opportunity like that go to waste.

“The Healer picked at the wound with a pair of long metal tweezers, pulling bits of fiber and wood out of the deep cut,” Fenris muttered as he scribbled the thought down on a spare scrap of paper. “‘Couldn’t come and get treatment when you were injured, had to wait until you had an infection- but the Maker seems to always favor fools.’” Fenris grinned and wrote more, establishing an entire scene that he would incorporate in a later chapter. The thought had come to him and he couldn’t let it go by without writing it down.

Anders’s words flowed through Fenris’s pen and onto the paper, imbuing this nameless Chantry Healer with a life of his own. The Chantry Healer was a bit arrogant, a little pampered, sheltered- and damn it all he was clever and brilliant and kind. Fenris liked writing him. He had the sort of boldness Fenris (and Ferris) longed to have. He was determined to stick out and have his voice heard, where Ferris (and Fenris) was content to lay low, be quiet, and sneak by. He enjoyed writing the arguments between Ferris and the Healer, and, much to Fenris’s surprise, he liked it when the Healer made valid points. Perhaps it was a bit of vanity on Fenris’s part, but he liked that he could write a nuanced character who could be right and wrong and fundamentally disagree with his own point of view.

Writing down his arguments with Anders also helped Fenris understand what Anders was trying to tell him, which was a perk. Fenris tapped the end of his pen against his chin and pondered what to write next. Perhaps this nameless Healer should be given a name.

-

It was nearly another fortnight later when the next chapter of Whiskey and Roses dropped in Kirkwall. By now the first three chapters had made their way across the Free Marches, and the first chapter was making its debut in Val Royeux to the delight of all of Varric Tethras’s readers. Varric, however, didn’t seem particularly thrilled by the praise given to Whiskey and Roses. Isabela and Merrill were great fans of the series, and even Aveline would join in on their theorizing of where the story would go next. Hawke didn’t read it. He always was a bit uncomfortable with the knowledge that the characters were based on his friends. Sebastian claimed he didn’t read them, but they all knew he was lying.

Anders was furious with the series.

“Varric!” he exclaimed as he slammed chapter five of Whiskey and Roses down on the table in Varric’s room. Varric sighed, and Hawke patted the man’s back. He just spent nearly an hour dodging Isabela’s pointed questions and Merrill’s pleading. He wasn’t ready to take on an enraged Anders on top of it all.

“What is it this time? Angry that Ferris is a pining mess? Mad about the name choice? Or is it the way you’re described?” Varric listed off the various complaints he had lobbed at him over the past few months. He pointed to the pile of correspondence he had sitting in a wicker basket near the fireplace. The little basket was nearly overflowing with letters.

“My fanmail. All about Whiskey and Roses,” Varric said with a snort. “Of course. So, what is it, Blondie?”

“I- well, Andrew is a decent enough name, I’ll grant you, but-” Anders shook his head. “No, that wasn’t what I was talking about! Why are you making it a romance?” He flopped down in the chair next to Hawke and slouched like a bag of bones.

Varric shrugged. “Stories take on a life of their own.” The door to Varric’s room swung inwards, and Fenris entered the room. He carried a pack of playing cards in one hand and a large cask under his arm. It was a welcome sight. Not that Fenris wasn’t ever a pleasant sight, Hawke thought. Fenris was always handy to have around when you were in a fight. But Fenris bringing alcohol and sharing? That was new and appreciated.

“Isabela informed me that you may need a drink,” Fenris told them before kicking the door shut.

“Oh, so now you’re playing bartender too? Like in the story?” Anders asked with a sneer. Fenris shrugged, his expression placid.

“Only for friends. And the author, of course,” Fenris replied as he set the cask down on the table with a dull thud. He tossed the pack of cards into the center of the table, and Varric took them in hand and began to shuffle.

“Of course,” Anders retorted, but he quieted down when Fenris handed him a tankard of ale. He drank without complaint, and Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“Your… companion is allowing you to drink? I had thought…” Fenris trailed off, and Anders grimaced. Hawke reached over to the cask and unplugged the cork so he could fill his own tankard. He plugged it back and took a sip. Good brew for once. Someone donated extra coin for it. Hawke suspected Isabela. She must have had a sudden spasm of sympathy and bought the cask for Varric. Nice of her.

“Justice thinks I’ve earned it after having to read all this,” Anders said before taking a deep drink. “What are you thinking, Varric? Fenris is going to tear us apart once he realizes what you’ve put in here.”

“I like to think I have more self-control than that,” Fenris replied, taking a seat across from Hawke and to Varric’s left. “It’s hardly an insulting or upsetting story, though some members of the nobility have started noticing the gloomy white haired elf who lurks in Hightown.”

Anders spluttered and quickly drank his ale, almost choking on the drink. Hawke winced. Maybe it was time for some diplomacy. He cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

“Fenris. It’s a romance. Between you and Anders,” Hawke explained carefully. Fenris hadn’t read the pamphlets. Maybe he only knew what Isabela and Merrill told him. Maybe he didn’t realize that his friend created a fictional character based on him and romantically paired that character with a fictional version of Anders. Well, it was going to become a romance, or so everyone said. At least, that was what Hawke was told. He hadn’t read it.

“Ah. I thought their names were Ferris and Andrew,” Fenris said dryly, and Anders made an odd, strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat. Hawke was inclined to agree. He gaped, slack jawed and wide eyed at Fenris who looked rather unimpressed by Hawke’s shock.

“I can read,” Fenris muttered defensively. “It’s good practice.”

“You’ve read them too!” Anders exclaimed, “So you agree that this is- is utter-”

“Andrew and Ferris are hardly romantic,” Fenris retorted, and when Anders started to protest Fenris held up his hand to silence him. “Yet. They have quite a bit of… growing… to do first. It may never happen.”

“But you admit that there’s tension there?” Anders pressed, and Fenris sighed. Hawke glanced over to Varric and raised his eyebrow. It was as if they didn’t exist- maybe Varric was on to something, the sly dog. Who would have thought that Anders and Fenris would have such chemistry? Varric didn’t even notice. He was focused on shuffling the cards in his hands.

“Yes, there’s tension. There’s tension in every sort of… relationship. Even between rivals,” Fenris said firmly, “which is what Ferris and Andrew are right now.”

“Ugh. Figures we’d disagree on this too,” Anders snorted, and he returned to his drink. Fenris began drinking from his own tankard of ale, and that seemed to be it. But Anders kept glancing at the chapter of Whiskey and Roses, and Fenris kept glancing between the pamphlet and Anders when Anders wasn’t looking. Hawke coughed and drew everyone’s attention, and pointed to the cards Varric was shuffling.

“So, Wicked Grace? Varric can deal,” Hawke offered. “Since he’s our host tonight.” Varric silently divvied up the cards and dealt them all in.

-

Hours later, after the sun had fallen past the horizon and the lanterns were lit across the city, Fenris sat back in his chair in his mansion and stared into the fire. He felt… guilty, he supposed. Varric wasn’t enjoying this surplus of fanatic adoration. Perhaps he should wrap up the tale and tell Varric the truth. It would only take a few more chapters to tie up loose ends, but Anders had made an irritatingly interesting observation, one that Fenris hadn’t considered.

Romance.

“Nonsense,” Fenris muttered, leaning forward to toss another log into the fireplace. “They’re rivals, not lovers.” There was nothing romantic about having a stab wound cleaned and stitched closed, or even healed shut with magic. It was a painful experience, especially when you were being scolded by a healer who nagged like a fishwife!

But still. Romance. Opposites could attract, after all, and the Chantry Healer was Ferris’s foil. They had an interesting dynamic already. Fenris wanted them to bicker, but still come to each other for help. Ferris went to Andrew for healing in Chapter three, and in Chapter five Andrew went to Ferris when his elvhen patients began disappearing on him. Fenris wanted them to cooperate and learn to get along even with their differences and disagreements. It wasn’t supposed to be a romance. Fenris never intended his story to be one! What did he know of romance anyhow? All he wanted was for Ferris and Andrew to become comfortable with each other, because the Maker (or whoever or whatever was watching) knew that Fenris and Anders would never reach a place of comfortable acquaintanceship.

Fenris saw the way Anders stared at the latest chapter of Whiskey and Roses, as if the thing was going to burst into flames at any second. He heard the grumbling before he entered Varric’s room. Romance? Fenris didn’t intend to write a romance, especially between proxy characters that represented himself and Anders! But it was there. Fenris had enough awareness to realize that his protests were just that- protests. The romantic tension was not overt, but it was present in Whiskey and Roses. And if it was present in his writing...

He had some thinking to do. And, Fenris thought with a wince of sympathy towards Varric, he had more writing to complete before he could even think of finishing Whiskey and Roses.

-

“I know that you love using the Kirkwall Guard as inspiration for your tales, Varric,” Aveline announced when she reached their customary table at The Hanged Man, “but this is ridiculous!” She punctuated her statement by slamming another chapter of Whiskey and Roses down on the table. Hawke leaned over and read the title. Whiskey and Roses, Chapter Eight.

“What is it this time?” Varric asked, “And what’s the damage?”

“Slavers. Andrew’s elvhen patients are going missing under his nose, he recruited Ferris to help him look into the matter, and in this chapter they’re tracking a band of slavers up and down the Wounded Coast,” Aveline said grimly. “And now my guardsmen are all fired up and want to do their part to tear apart the illegal slave trade!”

“Hardly seems like a problem to me,” Hawke offered. If Varric’s story was helping bring attention to one of Kirkwall’s many problems, then it was having some positive impact on the world. That was good!

Aveline groaned and sat down in her customary seat. “The enthusiasm isn’t the problem,” Aveline admitted. “It’s the over-enthusiasm. I have members of the Guard who are working triple shifts because they’re so inspired by Andrew’s devotion to his patients and Ferris’s determination to uncover the truth! When they aren’t reading your stories, Varric, they’re out on patrol working themselves to exhaustion!” As Aveline spoke, Sebastian entered The Hanged Man and approached their table. Varric scowled, but said nothing.

“Enthusiasm and interest in protecting the people of Kirkwall is a good thing,” Aveline continued, “but I can’t have my men falling asleep on their feet while they do it. I’m going to have to restructure everything! As if fixing the previous Guard Captain’s mistakes wasn’t enough work.”

“It has been a refreshing change of pace,” Sebastian added when he took his seat at the table. “Some of the younger Sisters want to open a clinic in the Chantry and use healers from the Gallows. Meredith would never allow it, but I’ve heard rumors that it may happen in other Chantries. Your stories are changing lives, Varric. You should be proud.”

“Anders must be thrilled,” Hawke said, but Varric shook his head.

“Nah, Blondie’s pissed that it took a romance to get people to think of mages as people who can do good in the world,” Varric muttered. “Can’t blame him for being frustrated, though. I can relate.” He didn’t expand on this statement, however, as Anders entered the establishment. Hawke noticed that he also had a copy of the latest chapter of Whiskey and Roses clutched in his hands. He marched over towards Varric and held the chapter.

“Varric, where did you hear this?” Anders asked quietly. It was almost polite, which was far scarier than Anders’s usual irritated grumbling or loud protests. When Anders got quiet and polite, Hawke could almost see the Grey Warden he claimed to be. Varric sighed and took the pamphlet from Anders.

“Which part? I hear a lot of shit, Blondie, you’re going to have to be specific,” Varric said. Anders rolled his eyes and flopped down in the seat to Varric’s left. He nodded to Hawke, then Aveline, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sebastian.

“I heard about some Chantry sister wanting to open a free clinic. Heard you were also involved,” Anders said awkwardly, “so, well, the thought was… nice. Thanks for trying.” It wasn’t praise, not really. Hawke had heard far better and more graceful thank yous from his siblings (like “Thanks for not killing me while we were practicing sword fighting with giant sticks,” or “Thank you for not being a complete idiot,”). But it was a thank you from Anders to Sebastian, and that was impressive.

“You do good work in Darktown. If Varric’s tale is what makes a difference,” Sebastian shrugged. “Then I’m glad to help.” It was by no means the beginnings of a strong friendship, but it was… well, it was something. Hawke would take it. Now if only Fenris and Anders could reach the same sort of gracious truce… ah, one could always dream.

Anders, meanwhile, looked over at Varric, who was flipping through the copy of his latest chapter and frowning thoughtfully..

“Third page, fourth paragraph. How did you know that?” Anders asked patiently.

Varric cleared his throat and read the paragraph aloud. “‘I brought white willow bark. For tea, you know. I heard that those caves are cold and damp, and if we find all the missing elves down there… with so many people crowded about they could be sick with fever. The tea will help,’ Andrew explained carefully, as if he thought Ferris couldn’t possibly understand why he was packing up his entire infirmary for a simply scouting mission.” Varric set the pamphlet back down on the table. “That’s it?”

“I don’t remember telling you that about willow bark, that’s the point!” Anders exclaimed. “So who did?”

“Writers use multiple sources, Blondie,” Varric replied.

“No you didn’t, I know I’m the only healer you know, unless…” Anders paused, then leaned over and snatched the pamphlet off the table. He read furiously, half mumbling to himself as he scanned words and flipped through pages. Then he shut the pamphlet closed, folded it up, and stuffed it into one of the pouches hanging at his hip. Anders stood up, nearly tipping over his chair in his haste to get away.

“Sorry to bother you, Varric, I’ll talk to all of you later,” Anders said swiftly. “Goodbye!” And then he ran out of The Hanged Man, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. Sebastian, Aveline, and Hawke watched him leave as Varric pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you think we should go after him?” Hawke asked. Aveline shook her head.

“Just let Anders be Anders,” she said. “He’ll figure himself out.” Hawke sighed and stood up.

“So, I’m planning another trip up Sundermount, and I could use some help,” he said, hoping to change the subject from the latest chapter of Whiskey and Roses and how Varric’s latest masterpiece was changing the world. “Anyone interested in coming along?”

-

Meanwhile, up in Hightown, Fenris was shocked out of his writing by the sound of three firm knocks on his door. Knocking? Hardly anyone knocked. Most of his acquaintances just barged into the mansion and tried to find him. Fenris debated grabbing his sword off the weapons rack before answering and decided against it. Instead he picked up a letter opener on the table and gripped it loosely. Small, efficient, good for stabbing. It was only until he was halfway down the foyer that Fenris realized how silly it was to think that one of Danarius’s hired thugs would knock and alert their prey to their presence.

“Probably just a guardsman sent by Aveline,” Fenris told himself as he tucked the letter opener into his belt. “Or someone asking if I’m ‘Ferris’ again.”

It was neither. Anders stood on the doorstep, a wrinkled copy of the latest chapter of Whiskey and Roses clutched in his hand.

“Fenris,” Anders said cautiously. “Good afternoon.”

“Anders,” Fenris replied, just as cautiously. What was Anders doing here? Why did he have a copy of Whiskey and Roses, Chapter Eight with him? And why was he staring at him like he was looking for some sort of answer?

“Won’t you invite me in?” Anders asked. “It’s awkward to stand out here like this.”

“Ah, yes. Come in,” Fenris said, and he stepped aside so Anders could enter the mansion. Fenris shut the door behind Anders. He attempted to pass Anders and head down the foyer to- well, somewhere less awkward than right inside the front door, but Anders placed his hand on Fenris’s shoulder and stopped him. His hand was warm. Anders cleared his throat and handed Fenris the pamphlet. The paper was soft from being folded so many times.

“I think we should talk. About this,” Anders said without preamble. “Varric didn’t write it.”

“Oh?” Fenris froze under Anders’s palm. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you did,” Anders stated firmly. “And I can prove it.”

Fenris couldn’t say a word. Shock- and a tendril of icy fear- turned his legs to stone. Anders sighed and curled his hand around Fenris’s bicep.

“Maker’s Balls, you’re tense,” Anders muttered. “Come on, we’re going to sit down and talk.” When Fenris didn’t reply (he couldn’t even move), Anders sighed.

“Fenris, I’m not angry. Surprised, but not angry,” Anders said, “I just want to talk with you.” He tugged again, and Fenris found he could move (and breathe) again.

Anders headed down the foyer until they reached the formal dining room (or what remained of it). Fenris turned it into his office. The table was covered in the materials Fenris used to craft Whiskey and Roses. Parchment, ink, and pens were scattered across the wooden surface. A dozen failed drafts were crumpled up into balls and tossed in one corner of the room. A pile of reference books were precariously perched on one corner of the massive dining table. One place setting had several mugs surrounding it. Anders glanced over at the mugs when he navigated Fenris over to a set of armchairs by the fireplace.

“Tea,” Fenris explained, finally finding his voice. “It’s… relaxing.”

“Hmm. Sit,” Anders ordered as he gently pushed Fenris down into an armchair, “I’ll brew some. I think we’ll need it.”

We. It was a nice word, we. It meant not being alone, Fenris thought, which was a pleasant sentiment. Fenris found himself watching as Anders fumbled with the logs in the fireplace. His hair kept falling into his face, some of the strands too short to be held back by that little strip of leather he used to hold his hair back. Was it leather? It might have been wool. Strange to have not noticed before. Fenris prided himself on being observant. There was a spark at Anders’s fingertips, and the fire crackled to life.

“You’ve got a kettle?”

“Kitchen. I’ll get it,” Fenris replied, pulling himself out of the chair. At least he could do something instead of sit in a chair and wonder at how Anders figured out that he was the one who wrote Whiskey and Roses. There had to be something that gave him away, Fenris realized as he grabbed a bronze tea kettle and filled it with water from the pump in the kitchen. But what was it that tipped Anders off? Fenris stopped to collect two mugs and a sachet of tea before heading back to the dining room.

Anders was still crouching next the fireplace when Fenris handed him the kettle. He set it inside the fireplace near the logs. He stood up and walked over to the other armchair before flopping down into it as if he were boneless. Like a scarecrow, Fenris thought, but less cheerful looking. Fenris set the mugs and tea sachet on a stool he moved from the kitchen to set next to his chair, and then took a seat himself.

“So how did you figure it out?” Fenris asked once he settled into the worn cushions. “No one else even guessed, and Aveline saw that I had the first chapter before it was published.”

“White willow bark for fevers. I remember giving you that last winter, when you were under the weather and refused to let me use magic. Which is just as well,” he added quickly when Fenris began to protest, “as magic isn’t the best tool to use to fight against a fever or the common cold, but still. No one else turns down magic as a cure, save for you, and you’re the only patient I have who obsessively asks what each ingredient in my potions and teas does.”

“Oh. Perhaps I should have used feverfew or meadowsweet,” Fenris mumbled.

“That would have been even more obvious, I think,” Anders replied. “Anyhow, I knew Varric didn’t add that detail. He always asks me for medicinal information if he needs it for his work. Easy fountain of knowledge, that’s me. But he never asked about willow bark. You’re the only one I know who would know, and we all know that Whiskey and Roses is published in Kirkwall using Varric’s publisher, so… well.” Anders shrugged and spread his hands out, open, as if he was revealing himself and had no secrets to hide.

“So you assumed it was me,” Fenris stated dully. Such a small thing, willow bark tea, and that was what gave him away.

“Not quite. I went to Varric to ask why he went to you and asked about medicine, but when he read the passage,” Anders said with a wry smile, “it was like he never read it before. Not even Varric’s that good a storyteller.”

The kettle began to issue steam with a high pitched whistle. Anders stood up and folded the ends of his coat over his hands before taking the kettle out of the fireplace. He set it down on the hearth and carefully lifted the lid.

“Here,” Fenris said as he handed the tea sachet over. Anders dropped it into the kettle, replaced the lid, then settled back into his armchair.

“Now we wait,” Anders murmured, “it’s a bit uncivilized, but Wardens were never fancy.”

“I’ll… remember that,” Fenris replied. Anders was surprisingly competent, wasn’t he? Fenris was so focused on how annoying he could be, how wrong-headed he thought he was, how much Anders talked when silence was perfectly acceptable and wanted that he… well, he forgot that Anders was knowledgeable, intelligent, and could adapt to any situation he found himself in. Fenris forgot, or chose to ignore things about Anders, and Fenris didn’t like forgetting or ignoring anything.

“You… had questions,” Fenris finally said once the silence between them stretched beyond awkward and into uncomfortable. “You still have them, I presume.”

“Dozens,” Anders confessed. “I know how much you value your privacy, Fenris. It’s… well, I understand and respect that, if nothing else, but… why?”

“I would ask you to elucidate, but I think I know what you mean,” Fenris murmured. He settled back into his chair and stared at the fire. How was he going to answer this question? How would he ever manage to retain that privacy he so valued? Would Anders reveal everything to their shared friends? To the world? Fasta Vass, he didn’t think Anders would have any desire to read more of Whiskey and Roses! Fenris thought he disliked the series!

“It started as writing practice. I was, until the past two years, completely illiterate,” Fenris stated. “Varric’s stories were familiar enough for me to practice my penmanship and sentence structure, but gave me the freedom to experiment with… well, I suppose it is my creativity.”

“You taught yourself to read and write in two years,” Anders said flatly. He stared at Fenris as if he was looking at a stranger, as if Fenris had somehow changed into someone else in an instant. Anders leaned forward, his forearms braced on his thighs, and breathed in deeply.

“Right,” he finally said, his voice unsteady. “Please continue.”

“Hawke taught me the basics, and Sebastian continued the lessons,” Fenris said awkwardly, hoping that would relieve some of the tension, but it clearly didn’t. “I decided that, as Varric so clearly based the character of Ferris off of me, I was entitled to write about his life. It was… amusing.”

It had been more than amusing, Fenris thought even as he let the word drop into the air between himself and Anders. It was wonderful! It was cathartic! It was a relief to pour out his thoughts and feelings onto paper. It was comforting to write his anger and sorrow and resignation into a character and let him be! And it was gratifying to know that there was a world out there who wanted to hear these tales and were inspired by them. Writing was far more than amusing.

“You taught yourself to read and write in two years, and now you’re writing what may be a literary classic,” Anders said, his voice still weak. “Andraste’s Tits, Fenris, do you realize you’re a- a prodigy? A Maker damned genius?”

“Excuse me?”

“You taught yourself to read and write in two years, and you write like an- an aristocrat with the best tutors money can buy! And that’s not all, is it? You’re fluent in multiple languages, you remember everything you’re told,” Anders stood up and began pacing along the dining table, his eyes darting over every page, every book, everything Fenris had placed there. He wasn’t even looking at Fenris, but Fenris had never felt more exposed or raw in his life.

“I’m willing to bet a solid gold sovereign,” Anders announced gravely, “that every balled up parchment in that corner of the room could be a masterpiece. That someone a hundred years from now would write an academic treatise on your writing and use those as sources to illustrate your brilliance.”

“You shouldn’t gamble,” Fenris retorted once he found himself. “You’re terrible at it.”

“This isn’t gambling,” Anders replied. “How come I didn’t realize this sooner? In a different life, you could have been, could be, a diplomat. A brilliant one. You’re intelligent, witty, multi-lingual, understand and follow other culture’s customs when needed- and you’re writing Whiskey and Roses!”

“I am surprised you’re still reading it. I thought you didn’t approve,” Fenris remarked. Anders snorted and returned to his armchair before flopping down in it.

“You think critique is disapproval, Fenris? Anyhow, I don’t hate it,” Anders said. “I thought Varric was- well, never mind what I thought Varric was doing. I think it’s brilliant, Fenris, really. You’ve made Ferris so intriguing, and Andrew is… well, it’s rather flattering, if you really think I’m that much of an optimist.”

“You’re not,” Fenris muttered. “But you and Andrew are stubborn and nosy.”

“Oh, are we?” Anders chuckled and leaned down to look at the kettle. “That should be enough time for the tea to steep. Hand me the mugs.” Anders poured the tea and handed Fenris a mug before settling back down in his seat.

“What do I have to do in order to maintain your silence?” Fenris asked. Anders sipped his tea and looked up at the ceiling. The firelight played on his skin, his hair- it was golden, but also had strands of red and silver playing between the gold. He looked tired, Fenris realized with a stab of (shockingly!) sympathy. When was the last time Anders slept through the night?

“Nothing. I’m not telling a soul,” Anders promised. “But if it will make you feel better…”

“Yes?”

“I want in,” Anders said bluntly. “If you need resources, someone to bounce your ideas off of, someone to talk to- if you need inspiration for Andrew, tell me.”

“Why?” The question tore out of Fenris’s mouth before he could think better of it. Wasn’t it enough that Anders promised not tell? Wasn’t it enough that the price of his silence was so easy to pay? Wasn’t it enough? It should have been, but Fenris wasn’t satisfied.

“Now you’re asking the questions,” Anders laughed at that, as if he thought he was supremely clever. “I like the story, Fenris. I think… well, I think you’re incredibly talented.” Fenris told himself that the flush to Anders’s cheeks was just the firelight and his imagination. Anders wasn’t the sort of man who blushed!

“Also it’s hilarious to watch Varric fume about a story the public adores that he hasn’t written,” Anders confided. “How long do you think we can keep it up without him realizing?”

“I was hoping to end it in fifteen chapters, but it looks like it will be closer to twenty before I can end Whiskey and Roses to my satisfaction,” Fenris confessed. Using Varric’s name to publish his own work was… well, it was shameful, and Varric was terribly unhappy. Yet Fenris couldn’t leave the story unfinished.

“I’ll let him know when it’s done. I didn’t write it for money,” Fenris added quickly, “so I can’t pay you for your assistance, but…”

“No payment necessary,” Anders replied. “I think… well, Justice thinks I must offer my assistance, as your serial is bring so much positive attention towards Mages. And while I agree, I also think it’s… fun. Something we both agree on, for once, right Fenris?” Anders smiled at him then, and Fenris stared.

Anders was rather handsome when he smiled, wasn’t he?

“So, do we have a bargain?” Anders asked, and he held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Fenris took it. They shook hands. Anders’s hands were warm.

“Yes. Shall we get started on Chapter Ten?” Fenris asked, and Anders grinned.

-

It was another month, and the next chapter of Whiskey and Roses was released, just like clockwork. It was on the tenth chapter now, and the tension between Ferris and Andrew was growing so thick it could be cut with a dull knife. Not that Hawke knew about it from personal experience. He hadn’t read it yet.

“It’s a mess,” Varric confessed as he tossed another thick letter into the fire, “but I won’t run out of fuel for the fire, that’s for sure.”

“Shouldn’t you answer those?” Hawke asked.

“No. They want to talk to the writer of Whiskey and Roses,” Varric muttered. “Blast it all, how am I supposed to answer questions for them?”

“That’s you, isn’t it?” Hawke asked. Varric snorted and tossed another letter into the flames before setting down the pile and sitting back in his chair.

“Might as well tell you the truth, Hawke,” Varric announced. “I didn’t write it, and I have no idea who did.”

Varric’s room was silent, save for the sound of the hungry fire devouring the letter Varric fed it. Varric glowered at the stack of fanmail, and Hawke blankly stared at Varric. He was joking. He was obviously joking. But as the silence grew Hawke realized that Varric wasn’t joking. He didn’t write the latest literary crazy that was sweeping Thedas. Varric Tethras didn’t write Whiskey and Roses. He just had to put up with all of the credit.

There were authors who tried to cash in on Varric’s name and fame before, writers who were easily tracked down and… dealt with. But Whiskey and Roses was different, wasn’t it? First off, Varric hadn’t claimed it as his own, had he? He was raking in the money and the praise and the mountains of letters, but he never did say he wrote it. Varric never denounced the work, but he hadn’t claimed it either. He was taking the adoration with plenty of ill-humor and a distinct lack of grace. He’d grumble, he’d shrug, he’d throw his fan mail into the fire- and that wasn’t like Varric, was it?

“Maker’s Balls,” Hawke breathed out. “No wonder you’ve been pissy.”

“Hawke, it’s good. It’s better than good, damn them,” Varric said as he lowered himself into his customary chair by the fire. “I just don’t know why they won’t take the money! My publisher’s been on my ass, and my editor too. They want more spinoffs in the vein of Whiskey and Roses, and I’ve tried to explain that it’s not mine and…”

“They think you’re lying?” Hawke couldn’t believe it. Varric was good at spinning tales, it was true, but he looked utterly miserable. This wasn’t the sort of lie Varric would tell. But Hawke knew Varric and knew him well- and he was one of the few people who could claim to know Varric Tethras.

“Of course they think I’m lying! My editor thinks I want to get out of the work involved with writing another series, and she doesn’t mind as long as money comes in, but the publisher is another story completely,” Varric explained. “Hawke, it’s a disaster!”

“You said,” Hawke murmured. There had to be some way to get to the bottom of this mystery, but how? How did you track down a writer who didn’t want to be found? Hawke wasn’t good at finding people. He left that to others, and then came in with the fire power. But this was Varric, and Varric was his friend (best friend, even), and Varric never asked for anything that he didn’t give back ten times over. Hawke owed him, and even if he didn’t he would help.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Varric,” Hawke assured his friend. “I promise.”

“Thanks, Hawke,” Varric replied, finally smiling a genuine smile. “You’re a good man.”

-

Meanwhile, up in Fenris’s Hightown mansion, things were getting a little heated in the dining room.

“Andrew? Flirting with a slaver? Absurd,” Anders said dismissively. “Completely out of character.” He took the tea kettle out of the fire and set it on the hearth before dropping a tea satchel inside. Anders has taken to brewing a pot of tea every time he came up to visit Fenris and provide “assistance.” Fenris didn’t mind the tea. Anders brewed a good pot. The assistance, however...

“He’s trying to provide a distraction, Anders,” Fenris muttered half-heartedly, “so that Ferris can pick the locks of the captured elves and help them escape.” He agreed with Anders’s assessment of Andrew’s character- he was more likely to scream and rail at a band of slavers and their leader than to coo and flutter his eyelids. But it still stung for Anders to dismiss the idea so quickly!

“He wouldn’t flirt,” Anders insisted. “Andrew’s not the type to flirt with people he hates, and he hates these slavers and what they’ve done to people, his patients, innocents-”

“Yes, yes, on this we agree,” Fenris retorted, and Anders sighed irritably before settling back into his seat across the table. He brought the cast iron tea kettle and set it on a thick clay tablet to prevent the formation of scorch marks on the table. Fenris didn’t care if the table was damaged, but Anders did. It was one of those quirks that made Anders interesting: he didn’t take much care of himself, but Fenris and his possessions were given utmost consideration.

It was… flattering.

“I suppose the question I should ask is what you’re trying to achieve in this scene,” Anders said. “Both plot wise and in terms of character growth. What do you want to do?”

Fenris considered the question carefully. “Ferris and Andrew need to help the elves escape. And it feels better to have an elf do the saving instead of a human.”

Anders nodded in agreement. “Yes, it works better with Ferris- he’s taking on an active role in making the city better. He’s no longer living with his head down.”

“Exactly!” Fenris exclaimed. “But you are right about Andrew, as much as it pains me to admit it. He isn’t… he’s a flirt, but particular about the objects of his affection.”

“What were you hoping to do with that scene?” Anders asked, and Fenris squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

What had he planned to do? In this first draft he had Andrew flirting, sliding up to the slaver band’s captain, fluttering his honey gold eyes and saying sweet nothings to keep all eyes on him while Ferris saved the captured elves. He detailed the rage in Ferris’s heart, the jealousy and bitterness warring with his common sense- and it was good. But Anders was right. It didn’t make sense for Andrew to flirt with a man he despised on principle.

“Were you trying to make Ferris jealous? Get him to realize how he feels for Andrew?” Anders suggested carefully, his brown eyes kind, understanding, warm- Fenris wanted to curl up into a ball. How did Anders know?!

“Perhaps,” Fenris muttered. “What do you advise?”

“Have Andrew mouth off at them,” Anders said promptly. “Let him go off on a diatribe and he gets a fist to the face. Always worked in Kinloch.”

Fenris didn’t expect the wave of rage that swelled up inside him at Anders’s automatic answer and explanation. It fit, of course. Anders has good suggestions and excellent reasoning. He was a fantastic writing partner (even if he did none of the writing himself). But Fenris didn’t expect the anger he felt when Anders said he was hit in the Circle. Fenris didn’t expect to be angry. He hated that Anders was hurt, that he was beaten, that no one protected him.

Fenris hated that he couldn’t go back in time and protect Anders, and that was confusing. Something had changed between them, where Anders became more than Hawke’s irritating Mage friend with Opinions that were Wrong. Anders was now Fenris’s writing consultant, who brewed a strong pot of tea, was opinionated and passionate, and had a smile that made the crow’s feet around his eyes more pronounced and lit his face up from the inside. Anders was a friend now, and Fenris wished he could go back and protect his friend. But Fenris couldn’t do that, so he asked questions instead.

“That happened in the Circle?” he asked instead. Anders merely shrugged.

“In my experience? Yes,” he replied, “but not everyone lived like me. Some had it worse.” Anders reached out to the tea kettle and poured out the tea. He placed a mug in Fenris’s hands, and their fingertips touched and sent tingles through Fenris’s arm. Magic? But no, the lyrium markings were quiet. There was no magic. Fenris sipped on the tea and glared at the papers before him. This was the third time he made the attempt to write this particular scene, and it was going as poorly as the first two times. But Anders’s suggestion stirred something in him.

“If I change it, Ferris will no longer be warring with jealousy. He won’t wonder where it came from and why he cares,” Fenris said slowly. “Ferris won’t have the realization that he… wants Andrew’s attention. He won’t get it.”

Anders smiled softly and poured his own mug of tea. “But don’t you think,” he said gently, “it would be better if Ferris had a different reaction? If, instead of feeling jealous over fake flirting, he felt… protective? Wouldn’t that fit with his character arc and speak to his better nature?”

Fenris considered Anders’s suggestion. Fasta vass, the man was right! Ferris growing more protective of others, getting involved in other problems, letting himself be vulnerable and feel for another person- seeing Andrew get hurt and feeling a need to protect him would fit his character arc! Anders was right. Again.

Fenris couldn’t even be angry. He had to write. He set the mug of tea down, took up his pen, and began to scribble down the bare bones of the scene. Yes, this was much clearer now. The cave was full of shadows, the only light coming from a lantern that bathed the figures in a faint, flickering yellow glow. Andrew would be quietly telling off the slavers and their captain, a brutish man with a thick black mustache and a bald head, his dark eyes cold as Andrew spoke. Andrew’s voice would grow louder, more furious, and his flood of words would be silenced by the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then a body falling to the floor. Ferris would panic, wondering if he should abandon freeing the elvhen captives in order to save his companion, or if he should follow their plan. What should he do? What would he do?

“Thank you,” Fenris murmured as he wrote. “It’s good.”

“Hmmm,” Anders hummed in response. “The other ones weren’t bad, per say, but it wasn’t your best. You could do better.”

That was flattering. Fenris couldn’t deny the flutter in his heart and the lightness in his gut when Anders complimented him. He was used to comments on his appearance or his strength. But Anders always had something to say about his intelligence.

Fenris thought of the first day Anders came to the mansion, and the way he insisted that Fenris’s writing was good. Better than good. Even thinking of it brought a flush to Fenris’s face and the back of his neck. He wasn’t used to anyone noticing his mind over his body. Fenris liked it. He liked it a good deal more than he should have. He liked Anders more than he should, and that… well, nothing would come of it, but he kept on thinking that perhaps, maybe, if they spent more time together… as foolish as it may be, Fenris wanted Anders’s attention to himself. He wanted to earn more than the tendrils of friendship forming between them, but if he couldn’t have that, Ander’s friendship was something worth striving for.

“I purchased a gift for you,” Fenris said. “To thank you for your help so far.” He set his pen down on the table and pointed to the package wrapped in thick brown paper that sat at the end of the table. Anders stood up and stretched, lifting his arms above his head. His joints cracked a little as he held his arms up and arched his back.

“What sort of gift? An exciting one, I hope,” Anders teased, and he stepped around the table to reach the package. “Should I open it here or somewhere else?”

“Here,” Fenris said promptly. He wanted to know if Anders’s liked the gift, if he was being presumptuous, if he was going too far, if he was moving too fast- Fenris felt like he was sitting on pins and needles as Anders undid the twine the wrapped the package and unfolded the thick brown paper.

“Oh, more paper underneath, how thoughtful!” Anders teased as he peeled away the brown paper and revealed the pale, thin paper underneath. He opened that, revealing a flash of teal fabric.

“Fenris, what-” Anders gasped as he pulled the fabric out of the package. “You didn’t!” He held the length of teal fabric up to the light, a fine silk the dressmaker called shantung. The thick belt at the waist was a deep plum velvet. The dress was beautiful, and it was displayed in the shop window for ages. With a few minor alterations and charms stitched into the cloth, the dress was converted into the sort of formal robes any Mage would be glad to wear. Even as a free man in Kirkwall Fenris could never neglect safety. He suggested several of the design choices himself- slits for ease of movement, a high neckline to protect the neck area, a thick belt that would serve as extra protection around the waist and abdomen… it was pretty and practical, and well worth the cost.

“You were admiring it for some time,” Fenris mumbled. “I thought it would be a good gift.” Anders was busy stroking the fabric with a sort of reverence that rarely crossed his features.

“It’s beautiful, but how much did it-” Anders hesitantly set the robe back down in the paper wrapping. “I can’t accept this, it’s too much!” But his fingers still stroked the fabric, as if he was afraid the robe would dissolve if he stopped touching it.

“It’s a gift,” Fenris said. “If you like it, then it was worth it.”

Anders picked the robe up and held it to his body, and grinned. “Justice says it would be a slap to your generosity if I decline again. And I’m a little too selfish to refuse this.” Anders carefully folded the robe back, placed it in the paper, and folded it back into a neat package. Fenris watched as Anders’s fingers deftly tied the twine into a neat bow.

He was so careful about everything, wasn’t he? Anders took his time to do things properly when it mattered to him, such as when he brewed tea or when he measured potion ingredients. Or, Fenris thought with a grimace, when he stitched wounds and used his magic in battle. Anders was careful and precise. He had strong hands and a delicate touch. What would it be like if those hands touched him for something other than healing?

“Fenris? What are you thinking about?” Anders’s voice broke Fenris out of his reverie and nearly startled him out of his seat. When had Anders moved so quickly and so quietly? He stood by his chair, staring down with the strangest sort of expression on his face. If Fenris was the sort of person who gambled, he would have said that Anders looked… fond. But Fenris didn’t gamble. He disavowed all gambling. Yet here Anders stood, his mouth soft with a smile and golden eyes bright with humor.

“I wonder how long you’ve been watching, to notice me coveting a pretty dress in a shop window,” Anders teased lightly. “And how much longer you’ve been watching me before that. Andrew is… well, he has been well fleshed out from the moment he was introduced in your story, Fenris.” Anders bent down a little, still hovering at Fenris’s side, but his face was closer, so much closer, and his mouth-

“What makes you think I was watching?” Fenris whispered.

“A lucky guess,” Anders murmured. “And hope.” Anders bent down and pressed his lips to Fenris’s slightly agape mouth. He tasted of mint tea, and he was warm. Fenris didn’t know (and later couldn’t remember) who moved first, but he knocked over his chair and Anders sat on the table, and they were kissing.

“Andraste’s Tits, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Anders gasped when Fenris pulled back. Anders looked rather handsome when he was half dizzy from kisses, Fenris thought with some pride. His hair was ruffled, his expression dazed, his clothing mussed. Fenris kissed him again, clumsy and incredibly pleased with himself.

“How long?” Fenris couldn’t help but ask as he pulled Anders closer. Anders grinned.

“Do you know why I was so angry about Whiskey and Roses when I thought Varric wrote it? Can you guess?” Anders confided, his eyes bright and expression full of- oh, it was fondness, wasn’t it? Fenris shook his head. Anders’s face grew even softer.

“Because I thought he noticed me pining uselessly over you, and that he was teasing me,” Anders said. “Which was ridiculous, because Varric isn’t the sort who would do that, but still. Then when I realized that you were the author- Fenris, I was wondering when you’d say something!”

“I hardly knew myself until just now,” Fenris muttered. “I thought that friendship would be enough. But it wasn’t. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Anders replied with a laugh, and he tugged at the collar of Fenris’s shirt. “Come over here, we have a lot to catch up on.” And Fenris followed Anders’s lead, chasing him down for yet another kiss, rough drafts and dresses and mugs of tea long forgotten.

They had a lot to make up for and a lot to learn about each other.

-

There were nineteen chapters of Whiskey and Roses out in Kirkwall, and Hawke was no closer to discovering the true author that he was the day Varric confided in him. No one seemed to believe anyone other than Varric wrote the blasted serial, and Varric couldn’t convince anyone else of his… lack of authorship. Varric was miserable, Hawke was near exhaustion trying to uncover the mystery, and they made little progress.

“Maybe we should just give up,” Hawke muttered as he looked over the chapters of Whiskey and Roses. “It’s been months and we’re no closer to unmasking our writer.”

“Damn,” Varric said, his voice grim. “Hate agreeing with you, Hawke, but you’ve got a point. No one believes me when I say I didn’t write it, and no one has come forward to take the credit or the money. It’s a damn mystery.” He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the rough timbers that held up the ceiling.

“Wish I knew who it was,” Varric added, sounding almost wistful. “They’ve got talent, Hawke. Wouldn’t mind giving them a boost, turning the Dragon Age into an era of great literature.” He chuckled then, deep and bitter.

“But now it’s the Era of Tethras, all due to a book I didn’t even write!” Varric sighed and gestured to the scattered chapters on the table. “It’s a shame.”

“I’m sorry, Varric. We tried,” Hawke consoled his friend by pouring out another glass of wine. If anyone deserved a drink, it was Varric. Hawke brought a few bottles up to Varric’s room so they could drink and commiserate together, but Hawke wished he could have done more to help his friend. This whole Whiskey and Roses business was causing Varric endless misery and endless piles of correspondence. Varric was running out of ways to get rid of it all.

“We did try. That’s what matters in the end,” Varric replied, but his comment was interrupted by a knock at the door. Hawke stood up and made his way over. Who could it possibly be?

“Probably Anders or Fenris,” Varric stated. “Wanted to apologize to them for being the main characters of ‘my’ romance serial. Tell them the truth, if they’ll believe me.” He didn’t sound particularly confident. Hawke opened the door inwards.

Anders and Fenris stood on the other side. Fenris held a stack of paper in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Anders was- well. He looked pretty cheerful, and was standing rather close to Fenris. Their arms brushed against each other, but neither of them bristled at the contact or pushed the other away. That was new.

“Mind if we come in?” Anders asked politely, and Hawke stepped aside to let them into Varric’s room. Varric saw the papers in Fenris’s hands and groaned.

“Maker’s Balls, Fenris, what’s the problem with this chapter of Whiskey and Roses? You’re not mad because of the explicit sex scene in Chapter Sixteen, are you, because I didn’t-”

“No,” Fenris said swiftly, crossing the room and setting the bottle of wine down on the table before handing the collection of papers to Varric. “It’s this.” Fenris sat down, and Anders sat right next to him, still close enough that they were touching from shoulder to hip. When had they gotten all buddy-buddy? Was this the work of Whiskey and Roses as well?

Varric stared at the pile of papers. His face went pale. He lifted the first paper off the stack and cleared his throat before reading the title out loud.

“Whiskey and Roses, Chapter Twenty,” Varric said softly before setting the paper back down and looking at Fenris, really looking at him. Varric reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of gold wire spectacles, and put them on before resuming his long stare. Fenris returned the look with his own neutral gaze. Hawke sat down near Varric and tilted his head to read the first page of the paper. It was handwritten with a beautiful, neat script. The writing was surprisingly familiar.

“So… it was you,” Varric stated quietly. Fenris nodded.

“I didn’t take the money. It’s all yours,” Fenris said firmly. “That wasn’t why I wrote.”

“It should belong to you,” Varric replied.

“I don’t need it,” Fenris protested. “I have all I need.”

“No, but you earned it. You also earned all of this,” Varric gestured to the pile of fanmail. “And you deserve to have your name on this, not mine.”

“No. It’s… dangerous. You know that,” Fenris insisted. “I’m sorry for using your name to put this novel out into the world, but I can’t…”

“What Fenris means,” Anders cut in helpfully, “is that he won’t be able to take credit for Whiskey and Roses, what with being on the run from slavers and such. But he wanted to apologize for using your name, Varric. He wanted to show you the final chapter and epilogue and tell you the truth now that it’s all done.”

“Yes. Thank you, Anders,” Fenris said, sounding utterly relieved.

“So you’ve been working with him too, Blondie?” Varric asked. “How long?”

“Willow bark tea, Chapter Eight,” Anders and Fenris replied automatically.

“And how long has that,” Hawke asked, gesturing at the physical closeness of their bodies, “been going on?”

Fenris’s dark cheeks burned a deep red, and Anders’s pale face turned pink. The two looked terribly sheepish as they avoided meeting Hawke’s questioning expression. Eventually Fenris answered, so soft that he was inaudible.

“Didn’t quite hear that, you’ll have to speak up,” Varric said, his expression finally softening from shock to bewildered amusement.

“We were writing Chapter Twelve,” Fenris confessed. Varric blinked and then, to Hawke’s relief, laughed heartily. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. Varric still looked like he hadn’t slept through the night in weeks, but he looked a lot more like his normal self. Happier. At least the mystery was solved, but Andraste’s Ass, Hawke would have never guessed that Fenris was their mystery writer!

“Nug shit!” Varric exclaimed with a grin. “All this time, and none of us even guessed! Damn.” He shook his head and smiled. Fenris cautiously smiled back.

“You know, Fenris, when we get that bounty off your head and knock off that magister, you can publish as many novels as you like under your own name,” Varric suggested. “Already got an in with my publisher, and if it’s half as successful as Whiskey and Roses… the possibilities are endless.”

“We’ll see,” Fenris replied, leaning into Anders. “I will have to speak with my editor.”

“So, drinks all around?” Hawke suggested, opening another bottle of wine. It was far nicer to share wine in celebration than in misery, Hawke thought as he poured. Far nicer to share than to drink alone. And a good bottle of wine was best shared with good friends.

“Granted, in my next work, you two will not be love birds. You’ve written enough romance in my name to last me a lifetime,” Varric said firmly as Anders leaned over to plant a kiss on Fenris’s cheek and Fenris irritably batted his amorous pursuit away. Anders laughed and wrapped an arm around Fenris’s shoulders.

“Feel free,” Anders informed Varric cheerfully. “We’ve gotten enough comments on how much we look like Ferris and Andrew. Another novel will bring only more attention when we don’t need it!”

Hawke sat back and watched his friends laugh and talk. He watched as Varric, who had been so miserable for the past few months, cast off the gloom that hung over him. He watched Anders, who had been sad and run down as of late, laugh and smile and light up the room with his happiness. He watched as Fenris, normally so dour and sharp, turned soft and content as Anders heaped praise and affection on him. And to think this all started from a scrap of mysterious friend fiction.

“We should gather the rest of the crew,” Hawke announced. “Let them know that we’ve got two brilliant writers in our midst.”

As no one protested, Hawke sent out for the others and returned to celebrating because what else were friends for? Throughout the night they congratulated Fenris on his success, praised him for his talent, and scolded him and Anders for keeping so many secrets to themselves. And when all was done and everyone headed back to their respective dwellings for the night, Anders and Fenris left The Hanged Man for Hightown hand in hand, and Hawke settled down in his chair and began to read Whiskey and Roses in its entirety. After all, it was his policy to never start a story until it was finished.

“Life is whiskey and roses,” he murmured to his sleeping mabari hound. “There is the bitter with the smooth, and the sweetness with the thorns, and all is balanced and made whole with such contrasts.”

Chapter Text

After 293 Years, The Author Of “Whiskey and Roses” Is Finally Revealed!

By Mariah Te’mass

For nearly 300 years the epic romance “Whiskey and Roses” has delighted millions of readers across Thedas and the rest of the world. The novel is held up as the quintessential romance and one of the literary pillars of the Dragon Age, cementing the glorious artistic legacy of genius writer, adventurer, and politician Viscount Varric Tethras. As many fans and scholars of Varric Tethras’s works have observed, Tethras never openly commented on “Whiskey and Roses.” He famously stated in his autobiography that the work “speaks for itself.” With the tricentennial anniversary of “Whiskey and Roses” fast approaching, the discovery of a cache of Varric Tethras’s diaries and private correspondence has rocked the literary world to its core.

“It really is quite extraordinary,” says Dr. Elias Anderson of the find. Dr. Anderson, Professor Emeritus at Kirkwall University and current head curator of the Tethras Literary Collection, believes that the diaries are one of the greatest literary discoveries of the age.

“With [the diary], we now gain a deeper insight into Varric Tethras’s life and inner thoughts. The man was a political maverick and brilliant satirist- but, of course, the most remarkable revelation has been Tethras’s volatile relationship with… well,” Dr. Anderson says, dropping his voice as if he is imparting a great secret, “it’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?”

Tethras’s diaries and letters reveal that he was not, in fact, the writer of “Whiskey and Roses.” While the novel bears his name and uses his publisher, Varric Tethras reluctantly used his name and influence to distribute the work for another famous figure who resided in Kirkwall during the Dragon Age. In life Tethras never named an author, but in these letters the truth has been revealed. “Whiskey and Roses” was the first publicly distributed work of the masterful Dragon Age poet, playwright, and fencing master Fenris.

Fenris, who served as a diplomat and advisor during Varric Tethras’s reign as Viscount of Kirkwall, came to Kirkwall as a refugee before the First Battle of Kirkwall in 9:34 Dragon. Fenris rose from humble origins as a runaway slave from the Tevinter Imperium to become one of the most well-respected and knowledgeable men of his age. An ardent supporter of elvhen rights and universal emancipation, Fenris is known for his viciously witty political pamphlets and passionate letters. And now he is finally receiving recognition for creating one of the greatest love stories ever told.

“It was abundantly clear that Fenris inspired aspects of the character of Ferris, but to know that Fenris was the writer only adds layers to [the work],” Dr. Anderson says. “And now we can finally give credit where it is long due.”

The Tethras-Fenris letters are a rare find, considering both the age and the pristine condition they are in. What makes these letters even more remarkable is that both sides of the correspondence remain intact. Tethras’s letters were found during a restoration project of Kirkwall’s Keep, and Fenris’s letters remained in the hands of private collectors through the ages. Dr. Anderson and his team have taken on the onerous task of fitting the letters into a timeline and tracking down where Fenris and Tethras were at the time of writing.

“There are enough revelations in these letters to boggle the mind,” Anderson confesses. “It’s truly thrilling.”

The letters also disclose that Fenris did not write “Whiskey and Roses” alone. His primary editor and co-author was the infamous rebel and firebrand mage rights activist Anders. Tethras’s diaries also hint towards the reasons he allowed Fenris to publish under his name. Not only did Varric Tethras have an established audience at the time, but Fenris’s status as a runaway slave and Anders’s involvement in writing the novel provide possible explanations as to why Tethras was willing to take credit for a work that wasn’t his own.

“Tethras’s protective nature is well known to scholars- there are ledgers full of transactions he made to bribe Carta mercenaries to protect his friends who lived in dangerous areas of the city,” Anderson explains. “It isn’t too far of a stretch to argue that Tethras published Fenris’s writing under the Tethras name to keep bounty hunters off his [Fenris’s] trail.”

The Tethras-Fenris letters reveal a friendship between two masters of the craft who deeply respected each other. The two argue philosophy, metaphors, and current events with a wit and charm that, even three hundred years later, delights readers. And that, Dr. Anders asserts, is exactly was Tethras and Fenris would have wanted to hear.

With a smile Dr. Anderson adds, “I have no doubt that Varric Tethras would be thrilled [by the discovery]. ‘Whiskey and Roses’ can speak for itself once again.”

The exhibit, entitled “Whiskey and Roses: Behind The Manuscript,” will open to the public on the tenth of Harvestmere in the Kirkwall Museum of Art and History.