Work Text:
Varric woke from a fitful dream with a start. The sheets were cool and damp with sweat, and his hard breathing seemed to echo off of the stone walls. His eyes locked onto the ceiling as he laid there, struggling to slow his breathing. But a creeping sensation crawled up from his toes, acutely aware that he wasn't alone in the room. Moreover, something had stirred him awake. Wide eyes then traveled to the foot of the bed, spotting a figure in the darkness.
“Son of a nug—!” He flinched, his whole body locking up as he inspected the form. The last thing Varric ever—EVER—wanted to wake up to was Cole standing at the foot of his cot, slim and hunched over like Death themselves. Varric pressed himself into the wall behind him, the quilt held tight against his chest.
“Andraste’s tits, Cole!” he spat, his heart threatening to beat out of his sternum. “You can’t just—”
“Why’d you bring me back?” whispered Cole. Varric’s blood ran cold. Nothing about Cole was normal, but something about his voice was off. He knew what this was. This wasn’t the first time he heard the blond boy quoting the deepest depths of someone’s mind, but it was still just as unsettling. Why he had chosen to quote this to Varric, at this moment, at this time of night, the man had no idea.
Varric readied himself to console the kid (and then politely kick him out of his room), but then Cole continued:
“I should have stayed. Mother was there, with Bethany. And Father… My family. They had been waiting for me. They told me... they told me I’ve always made them proud.”
Varric’s stomach flipped. His vision narrowed. He couldn’t hear as his mind focused on one thing—Hawke. Fuck, was it Hawke? Well, what the hell was he doing?! He flung the blankets off of himself, lurching out of bed and began grabbing whatever clothes he could find in the dark. His fingers fumbled with the ties on his trousers and grew frantic with frustration.
“Where is she?” His voice was foreign to his own ears.
Cole didn’t answer near fast enough, his voice soft but strong.
“I can help.”
Varric clamped his mouth shut, very much in danger of cursing at the specter-like boy who didn’t deliver the answer he wanted. He edited his next remark, and managed a dry, “I’m sure.” Pulling on his coat, he tilted his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Cole led the two of them out to the courtyard, with Varric on his heels. He was glad to have his coat—the brisk mountain air whipped around his face mercilessly, and crept underneath the sleeves of the leather. The castle grounds were quiet. Not a soldier or civilian was in sight. He wasn’t entirely sure what hour it was, but based on the distinct lack of people milling about, he had to guess early morning, at least an hour or two before sunrise. It was eerie without others around—it reminded him of when they first discovered Skyhold, desolate and falling apart. When this had all just begun. It felt like it had been ages ago, another lifetime, even.
He shook his head at the thought, urging himself to focus.
Navigating up stairs along the castle walls and through numerous doorways, the two spotted a lone figure precariously perched on the edge of the battlements, staring out at the Frostbacks. He immediately recognized that haunted profile. The sight stopped him in his tracks.
“Hawke.”
He barely even heard his own voice. He thought maybe she hadn’t heard, but then her head turned slowly. He couldn’t see much, the light from the nearby torch dim and casting harsh shadows across her features. Her hollow eyes dragged over to him, seeing him but not seeing him. Just barely regarding his presence. The hurt was radiating off of her in waves.
“Varric.”
It was a quiet croak, her voice hoarse. He felt a schism in his chest, below the ribs, sinking into the muscle like a knife. He shuffled forward a few steps.
“What are you doing up here?”
‘Alone,’ his thoughts added. Her head turned back towards the mountain ridge, her expression lost in the darkness.
“Just thinking.” The shawl around her shoulders tightened. She offered nothing else in reply. The statement didn’t give him many options for a reply. He faltered for a moment, unsure whether to give her space or trespass into it. He went to glance at Cole in support, but the boy had vanished out of thin air. Very much not unlike a ghost. Left to decide for him, he thought for a moment, then chose the middle road:
“Want some company?”
A heavy silence crept in between them. Hawke didn't move, didn't answer. The fixed smile on his face began to falter. His fingers twitched nervously. After a long pause, he saw the roll of her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.
“That's fine.”
That was as close to a 'yes' as he thought he would get, and he would take whatever was offered. Like a dog to the measliest of table scraps. He crossed the stone and clambered onto the wall beside her, noticing how she seemed to practically press herself into the corner, keeping her distance from him. The shawl crept up higher, shielding part of her face.
He contemplated breaking the silence between them with a comical “Penny for your thoughts?” but thought better of it. He sat there with her in the dark, following her gaze towards the snow-capped mountains before them. He rubbed his hands together, both for warmth and to dispel his nervous tension, which seemed to mount with every moment ticking by.
Hawke remained silent for a number of minutes. He soon found himself worrying that he might rub his skin raw from how hard he was wringing his hands together. He desperately wanted to say something, but everything that came to mind didn’t feel good enough, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make her withdraw away from him. Even just sitting in uncomfortable silence could be enough, he told himself, if that was enough for her.
“I remember,” she then whispered, causing him to jump and look over at her. She wet her lips, and his eyes trailed down to her hands, her fingers twisting into the fraying edges of the shawl. “I remember one time, when Bethany and Carver were little. They couldn’t have been more than five or six. They were playing with a wooden pig, one with wheels that could you pull along behind you with a string. Well, Bethany was technically playing with it first, but once Carver saw it, he wanted it, so he snatches it from her. She starts cry, and they start fighting over it. Next thing I know, it comes down with a crack on Carver’s head. Blood is pouring down his face like a breach in a ship hill and he starts wailing like a damn banshee. Mother was absolutely furious at the two of them. I can’t remember what happens next, but I just remember Carver coated in blood and Bethany fuming, clenching the string. All over some stupid wooden pig whose wheels got caught on rocks more often than not.
"I wonder whatever happened to it. Honestly, I wouldn't be all that surprised if Mother tossed it into the fire as punishment.”
Well, shit. Varric wasn't expecting that to be shared. His thoughts scrambled for a moment as he tried to piece together something half-decent to say.
“... They ever learn to share afterwards?”
Hawke laughed dryly.
“Between the two of them? Absolutely not. Everything was a constant rivalry between the two of them. Toys, food, blankets, Mother’s attention, my attention. As they got older, they got better. Or maybe focused on each other. You know, they say twins are supposed to be super close and can read each other’s minds and all sorts of other hocus pocus.”
Varric raised a brow at that.
“But they were polar opposites and the exact same person. Absolutely pig-headed and self-sacrificing and determined to prove their worth. They loved each other and thus were constantly bickering and arguing.
“I miss them every day, Varric. I constantly feel their presence and have to stop myself from turning around and addressing them at times.”
Hawke shuddered a sigh, her breath catching in her throat.
“I’m their… I was their older sister, Varric. It was my job to protect them. It should have been me against the orc in Lothering. It should have been me with the Taint in the Deep Roads.
“My life is made up of ‘ifs’ and ‘should haves.’ You should have done this, Hawke. What if you had done this instead? Would the Chantry have blown up? Would the Qun have fucked over Kirkwall? Would Merrill have lost her clan like that? Would Mom have…? Would any of them have…? How is it that I’ve fucked up so many times and yet I’m still here? What is this? Is this my punishment? Am I being punished? I’ve only ever wanted to help my family, to help people? I don’t even know why I’m fucking alive when I can’t do anything right? Why am I even fucking alive? It means nothing without—”
Her voice cracked and she sucked in a shakey breath. Varric squeezed his eyes shut, combatting the painful squeeze in his chest. His hands trembled as he searched for one of hers, gripping it tightly even as it felt limp in his.
“I-I couldn’t… Do you know what I saw in the Fade, Varric?”
'Other than fucking spiders?’ his thoughts supplied, but he didn’t dare voice that aloud.
“I saw them. Conflicting images and specters of them. I saw them livid with me, cursing my existence. ‘Don’t speak to me of grief! This is your fault!’ I saw them pleading with me, asking me why I didn’t try harder to save all of them. And then I saw them surrounded in colors of white and gold, talking about how long they had waited for me to come and how we could finally be together.”
Varric felt numb, and he knew it wasn’t the cold. Maybe Hawke spoke of angels. Or maybe she spoke of demons. (Knowing the Fade, it was probably demons.) But there was something so heartbreaking in her tone—she had wanted to believe so badly that for once, her suffering had ended, and that she could get a happy ending. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for her to believe or not.
“And I believed it. I wanted it so bad, Varric. It was so real. It felt so real. It had to be real. They said it was all okay, and that I had done enough. That my fight was over. I felt free, and at peace for the first time in a long time.
“...And then I was back here. Barely alive or mentally sound with my mind a mess as people celebrated around me. Cheering, clapping, proclaiming my name. This is supposed to be joyous, right? Being alive? Because I just feel… empty.
“I was torn from that world, Varric. I think I saw the heavens above and then I was ripped out of it. Literally ripped out of the Fade or worlds beyond or what have you.
“And now… I don’t know what my purpose is. People want me to be some savior of Thedas or Kirkwall or the Wardens or whatever campaign they’re fucking pushing for, and I just can’t. I don’t belong here Varric. I don’t deserve to be here. I shouldn’t be here. Why did they bring me back? I should be dead. I want to be dead. I don’t want to be here doing this—I can’t do it.”
“Hawke.” His grip tightened on hers. “You don’t need to do any of that—you don’t owe anyone shit—”
She shook her head. “But I have to help. I can’t not help.” Her breath was coming in shallow waves, catching in her throat as the hysteria began building. “It’s my duty… Only I can—”
“Fuck that, Hawke! Fuck that,” he hissed, slamming a hand on the stone beside him. “You don’t have to do shit.”
They both fell quiet.
Maker Above, could he find nothing of substance to say? He was a writer, damn it! How could he be so inept at finding words at a time like this?
After a moment, she spoke up again, her voice pretending to be strong
“I just have to do it. You know, savior complex and everything. I love being needed by my adoring fans.” Her lips stretched into a smile, but the rest of her face was empty of jovial emotion.
He laughed dryly, head falling as he thought. She was trying to meet him halfway. Or was attempting to wall everything up with bricks of humor and deflection.
“Yeah, well, don’t forget,” he drawled, his eyes now locked onto their joined hands. “Your number one fan is right here.”
His confession was instantly met by numbing silence. He realized in that moment that he had indeed voiced that aloud, rather than keeping it safe and locked up inside his thoughts. Immediately he wished he could take it all back. Snatch the words right out of the air and all that and swallow them back down into the deepest pits of his stomach.
His sigh was heavy as he hid his face behind his hand, groaning.
“I’m sorry, I don’t… I’m not good at this. Let’s just pretend this never happened-—that I never said that out loud—”
Hawke leaned into him, and the words died in his mouth. He could feel her pressing against his form, her head lightly resting against his.
“Thank you. Thank you for always being here for me.”
He blinked dumbly, his brain refusing to operate.
“For always supporting me and being my number one fan. Not everyone writes about me, you know. Well, not positive things, like you.”
Words were slowly coming back to him now. He could do this. His shoulders rolled, his lips pulling into a smile.
“Don’t get too cocky now," he assured, his voice low and gravelly. "You know how embellished it all is—”
“Oh, yes, because writing fiction about me is much better than truth—”
“It’s for the readers. Your life is so plain and boring and needs some spicing up—”
“Ah, yes. Plain, boring Hawke. Now I know what you truly think of me.”
“Hawke, you’re hardly plain or—”
“Oh ho! Are you trying to woo me, Mr. Tethras?” Her shoulders shimmied against his, a sly smile widening on her face.
He rolled his eyes, ignoring the heat that seemed to creep into every inch of him. His face was on fire.
“Why is it always wooing with you?”
“You can, if you treat me out to dinner first.”
He simply stared at her, mouth hanging open. His brain was scrambling to keep up as her mood shifted from somber to playful. But she finally had a smile on her face, which he was definitely counting as a success. And her eyes were locked on him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.
“Well,” he murmured, patting her knee with his other hand, “That can be done.”
“I’m expecting somewhere expensive with lots of Orlesian wine. I’m somewhat of a celebrity, I’ll have you know,” she sniffed. “I expect the best.”
“Don’t worry. You’re talking to the best.”
“I know.” She bumped him with her shoulder, her smile warm.
Hawke was here. She was real, and she was hurting, but she was here. Beside him. Even if this wasn’t permanent, he would take whatever he could get and hold onto it tight. And never let go again.