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Varric had long been convinced that whatever story he was a part of, he was the hero.
Sure, he blended into the background—a “professional little brother,” as he liked to say. But despite not being the center of attention, he was the center of the action. Take this next venture, for instance: they were going to establish trade with the Carta, using them as a middleman between them and the deep roads. Of course, dealings with the carta were dangerous—especially since a good majority of them were happy enough simply thieving. But their new leader, Jarvia, seemed discerning, and saw the opportunity as a way to legitimize the organization and solidify its power. It was a great opportunity, but if he and Bartrand would be venturing into a Thaig filled with dwarves who would just as happily kill them as trade with them, they needed to be well-armed. Which meant they needed a smith—and one that was willing to do work on the surface. Visiting the kalnas in Kirkwall seemed like a logical choice.
That was how he met Bianca Davri.
She was magnetic. Varric wasn’t quite sure how, but she just had this charm that could instantly pull anyone onto her orbit. They’d met at the Hanged Man to talk business—and chat, a bit, because Varric always liked to stay friendly with the people he worked with—but somehow they ended up spending the next three hours talking about… everything. About Bartrand, about the merchant’s guild, about Orzammar and its customs. They debated the usefulness of castes. Bianca confessed how angry she was at her family, always making decisions for her, leashing her creativity according to precedent.
“ You’ll break the forge if you try it like that , Bianca! These ideas will never work, Bianca! You’re a surface dwarf, not a Paragon, so quit trying to be !” she quoted sarcastically, “I’m sick of it. I just know I could craft something incredible if they let me try.” And her eyes glittered with such fierce determination as she spoke, Varric believed it.
Varric, for his part, told stories he’d promised himself never to tell anyone. Stories about his father, about his mother, about Bartrand and when they were kids. It was incredibly, incredibly stupid for a spymaster to give out information, even seemingly harmless information like this, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Bianca listened with all due reverence, and an understanding that shook Varric to his core. He had to have her on this mission. If not for her expertise, then just for her company.
“So, here’s the deal,” he said, because he realized they’d reached a pause in the conversation, and he was feeling very drunk, “I want you on this trip. But I’m supposed to be drawing out some proof of your skill here that I can bring back to Bartrand. You got anything for me?”
“That depends,” Bianca hummed in mock-pensiveness, tilting her head just a quarter of an inch in a gesture that made Varric want to punch clean through a stone wall, “What’s Bartrand looking for?”
Uh. Hum. “Shit, anything?” Varric tried, wracking his hazy brain for any potential answer, “We need weapons.”
“Any smith with more than a couple weeks training can make you a sword,” Bianca snorted.
“Not just your average weapons. Good weapons. Something that will take any assassins by surprise,” Varric clarified, finally latching onto that train of thought.
Bianca seemed to think on that a moment, swishing the last dregs of her ale around in her mug, “What do you usually arm yourself with?” she asked.
“Crossbows,” Varric answered immediately, “Makes me a bit useless in the thick of things, though. Reloading’s a pain.”
Bianca looked back up at him with a spark in her eyes that filled him like a beacon.
They were giggling, drunk, stupid, carrying bundles of napkins with blueprints scrawled all over them as they snuck into the carta forge together. The idea was, if they tried it out here, they couldn’t get in trouble with the kalnas. They barred the doors and dragged anvils and weapons racks over into a makeshift blockade. And then Bianca fired up the forge.
“We are going to get in so much trouble for this,” Varric laughed, sitting perched upon the mountain of junk in front of the door.
“Ancestors, I don’t even care!” Bianca cried, obvious joy in her voice as she worked wood and metal, “I’m finally going to do something, and I’m not going to let anyone tell me no.”
And she worked. And she worked. And Varric watched, deep into the night, well past sunrise, after angry hoards of dwarves began banging on the smithy’s doors. She measured and cut and bent and strung tirelessly, joyfully. But the banging grew fiercer, and no amount of makeshift blockading would be able to stop them once the carta got out the battering rams, or worse, blew the doors open.
“We have to go,” Varric finally called it, dragging a final weapons rack down and running back to Bianca.
“But I’m not done yet!” Bianca insisted, completely engrossed in her work.
Varric heard voices outside, barking directions for where to place charges. His head was also starting to pound like a motherfucker, “Bianca, we have to go now,” he insisted, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from her work. She squawked indignantly and held fast to the half-finished weapon as Varric dragged her to the doors opposite form where he’d heard the voices and started trying to clear away the crap they’d piled in front of it. Bianca seemed to forget her upset for the moment and helped him along as best she could. Soon enough, they had a dwarf-sized entry clear from the door, and managed to just squeeze both of themselves through, straight into a hoard of bewildered carta thugs. Varric froze, but Bianca’s hand was quickly on his arm and dragging him away through a random tunnel in the thaig. They ran, and ran, and ran, until somehow—and Varric doesn’t even remember how—they found themselves above ground again.
They tried a human smithy next. They had more success there, even if Bianca grumbled about their inferior tools and criticized the smiths’ techniques. Varric was completely ready to step in and work his usual little brother charm, pacifying the people so they would let her keep working, but—and this was the miracle that was Bianca—they actually listened. She took command of the place and reorganized it into a well-oiled machine within hours of being there.
Varric was smitten.
Heh. Smitten with the Smith. Maybe he could workshop that into a book title.
Even with everything, it took another two days in the human smithy before Bianca was pleased with her prototype. Varric stayed with her the whole time. They talked, and they joked, and sniped at each other like they’d been friends for years. Varric told more stories and she analyzed his technique and style like he was presenting her with crafts from the forge. He found himself addicted to her wit.
Then she handed him the finished work, finally announcing the construction as “acceptable,” and as soon as his hand closed around the brass grip, he knew it was a work of art. Maybe even Paragon worthy, if Varric were anywhere near qualified to judge such things. It handled like a dream, and shot with greater precision and ferocity than any bow he’d handled before. Not to mention she solved his little reloading problem in such a genius way Varric had half a mind to sweep her up and kiss her.
Andraste’s ass, he’d known her all of three days.
“So,” she was smirking, watching him nail target after target on the practice range, “Good enough for Bartrand, you think?”
“Even better, it’s good enough for me,” Varric grinned back over at her, and then noticed just how close she’d gotten. He tried not to let it show on his face, but suddenly his heart was hammering hard enough Bianca could probably use it to forge him another damn crossbow. Her smirk grew regardless, and she cupped his face. Varric let himself be drawn in.
There was something about Bianca that left Varric untethered, unmoored. He’d always been so certain he was the star of his own story, until she came in; glittering, bold, bursting at the seams with creativity and rebellion. He felt quite suddenly shoved to the back seat, but it felt like a good thing, because she was there. Bianca was there.
Not every story had a happy ending, of course. He hadn’t even gotten the rejection from Bianca herself—she’d left him waiting, on the docks in Kirkwall. He waited, and waited, and waited, into the deep hours of the night, even after the captain of the ship they were supposed to flee on departed. He was just hoping for a glimpse of her. The heartbreak swam thick behind his eyes, but Varric refused to let himself cry. If he cried, that meant it was real. And it couldn’t be.
Bartrand had found him there the next morning, still waiting. He made some snide comment about his princess charming bailing on him, and Varric didn’t have the energy to tell him back off. Bartrand’s eyes softened then, and he dragged Varric home, to get him a hot meal and ale. He still couldn’t find the strength to thank his brother. Everything felt numb.
Then, in a rush, feeling snapped back into him, and he was—he was angry. He was hurt, and he was confused, and worst of all some sick corner of his heart was still hopeful. There had to be an explanation, if he could just find her and demand answers…
He had just stood up to grab Bianca (crossbow), ready to head out to the corner of Kirkwall the kalnas resided, when a couple representatives from House Davri had the courtesy to stop by and inform him he was no longer welcome there, or anywhere near Bianca (dwarf). And Varric was pissed. Before Bartrand could stop him in the name of preserving their business relations, Varric had pinned them by their clothes to the walls of the Hanged Man and took off, rushing to find her, to see her, to plead one last time that she run away with him.
He’d climbed through her window in a gesture he was sure would have been romantic in different circumstances, and found her surrounded with an armed guard. Her eyes were as big as saucers and as hardened as steel.
“You can’t be here,” she said. And the guards were moving, moving, but he had his crossbow in his arms and his fingers were itching at the trigger to stop them. They didn’t dare come close.
“I have every damn right to be here! Where were you? I thought we were gonna run away together!”
“Varric!” she cried as if her heart was breaking, and damn, his was too. Before she could get another word out, someone struck a hearty blow from behind his shoulder, and suddenly Bianca (crossbow, dwarf) was torn away from him, and he was thrown roughly outside. House Davri slammed the door and bolted it shut, with another shouted warning that he was no longer welcome there.
Varric grit his teeth and yelled, he screamed, clawing at the chalky Lowtown dirt. How could she do that to him? How could he be so stupid as to try? And now he had nothing, nothing even to remember her by. He cried, and cried, and tore at the ground, until he was empty. And then he went home.
Bartrand was waiting. He offered an awkward, unsure hug, which Varric hungrily took, even as he despised every ounce of comfort he drew from it. When it was over, Varric withdrew to his room, and they never spoke of it again.
It was a couple days before she found him—she’d snuck into the Hanged Man in carta clothing, her hood pulled up to hide her hair. “They intercepted me on my way to the docks,” she’d explained. “House Vasca got sick of waiting for me at the altar, and they’d kind of guessed I might try something like this. They said if I left, it would mean war between House Vasca and house Davri, and I—I couldn’t do that to my family. I’m sorry, Varric.” And she seemed it, eyes brimming with stubbornly unshed tears.
Varric understood, he did. It was who they both were; even when their family were utter assholes, they came first. He was just hoping he could become Bianca’s family. “So, this is it, then?” he asked, “Goodbye?”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Bianca rushed out, desperate.
“I don’t want to get in the way of your new husband,” Varric said, sharper than he meant.
“Varric, I don’t…” she struggled to choose the right words, “I don’t feel anything for Bogdan. This marriage is purely political.”
“I know, I just,” he sighed, “I’ve never been the other man before. I’m not sure I like the idea.”
Bianca was silent, a few moments. “I don’t want to lose you, Varric.”
“Your family seems to want that pretty badly,” Varric pointed out. “Suppose I should be proud that they nearly started a clan war over lil’ ole me, though,” he couldn’t help but joke.
It worked, and Bianca laughed. Well, it was really more of an exasperated snort. “Well, we can’t publicly be seen together, but we’re both pretty skilled at sneaking away by now. And while I’m off in Orlais, we can write,” she suggested.
Orlais. That had been their plan. They were supposed to ship off and make a killing together—apparently the Orlesians were bonkers over Bianca’s designs. She was supposed to be the brains of the operation, with her genius contraptions and plans, and he was supposed to be their front man, using his charm and merchant expertise to sell them off at a fair price. Guess House Vasca had a similar idea.
That felt too raw, too bitter to confront right now, though. And Varric was selfish—despite everything, he wanted to keep her. “It won’t be the same,” he said, voice low.
“It won’t be,” she agreed, “But it’s something.”
“It’s something.” He met her eyes, and they shared a quiet moment of grief. Then she produced something from her backpack.
“She was always yours,” Bianca quirked a little smile, handing him Bianca (crossbow) once more.
And so, Bianca Davri went on to use the power of her alliance to make inventions of incredible renown, becoming the first surface dwarf ever to be nominated as a Paragon. Meanwhile, Varric Tethras learned he had an odd talent for finding and following influential women. First Bianca, then Hawke, then Cassandra and later Inquisitor Adaar. And Varric’s realization he was meant to be a supporting character all along felt truer and truer, as he found himself pledged to causes that shook the very world.
Through it all, there were letters, gifts, and secret meetings between the dwarves. They each poured the stories of their lives onto the paper—as much as they could share securely, at least, since interception was always a very real threat. Over time, the distance stung less. Over time, it began to feel normal, even. Sometimes, years would pass without contact. But when they managed to meet again, it was like nothing had changed; they slipped easily back into their usual banter. Their kisses grew less frequent over the years, but each held the tenderness of years of devotion.
(Sometimes, Varric wonders, privately, selfishly, if this was the best he was ever going to get. Bianca seemed so happy exercising the status and connections her political marriage afforded her, and she was never going to get that from a surface dwarf who held no love of Orzammar or its traditions. And really, who was Varric to assume this damn Paragon of a dwarf would ever be happy with him? Varric never experienced a true call to action in his life. He was made to follow others on their far, far more interesting adventures. Maybe Bianca deserved someone who could match her drive, instead of someone who just followed her around.)
((Then she leaked the location of the ancient Thaig and it stung like their wedding day twice over. Stupid, she had been so stupid, and she hardly even seemed repentant. And of course that decision was the product of everything he loved about her; she was decisive, curious, and eager to explore further and further. But this was too far, people got hurt . He wasn’t sure if he could forgive her this time, he really wasn’t, even if he still loved her with all his heart-- ))
Strangely enough, though, he was happy. He’d found purpose in adventuring with his friends, in rebuilding Kirkwall, and surprisingly even in being Viscount. And he loved. It had surprised him, but he loved. He loved Bartrand, even after he’d gone crazy, and he loved Hawke with an intensity he had always assumed should be reserved for romance, but wasn’t. He loved their friends, even after Anders decided to blow up the entire fucking chantry. And he came to love the Inquisition as well, for all its member’s quirks. They could still play a mean game of Wicked Grace. It wasn’t the same as living in the intoxicating orbit of Bianca, but it was good. He was happy. And she was happy too, he thought.
It was a shame they couldn’t be happy in the same space, but, well, sometimes life just worked out like that.