Chapter Text

“Dwarf,” Cassandra hissed.

Varric reconsidered. Was it really a hiss? It could have been a snarl, or even a spit if she had enunciated just a little more. He didn’t have long to ponder his choice of verb, however, as the Seeker proceeded to throw a familiar pamphlet into his lap.

“Explain this poorly-written drivel.”

All right, he was definitely leaning towards hiss again, especially as she was being such a harsh critic.

“What’s there to explain? Would you like me to read it out loud?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. Maker, she was fond of doing that. “Would that accomplish anything?”

He shrugged. “Does your keeping me here accomplish anything?”

It had been a long time since he last laid eyes on this pamphlet. Ignoring Cassandra’s glare, he thumbed through the yellowing pages. “I’m impressed that you found this at all, Seeker. I would have thought that someone like you wouldn’t give it a second glance. What hidden information could possibly be in my romance serial?”

Cassandra threw her hands up in frustration. She was going to get a lot of practice with that. “Enough! Just read it out loud and explain your ramblings to me afterwards.”

“You’re not my usual demographic, but I suppose I’m not in a position to be picky here.”

Varric cleared his throat, licked his thumb, and flipped open the pamphlet to ten years ago…

By the same mind that brought you the acclaimed epic "Lowdown in Lowtown" as well as the new series "Hard in Hightown"

ROGUE HEARTS AND HEALING ARTS

By the Paragon of Manliness

(Issue no. 1)

9:31 Dragon

*All characters represented within this and all future installments are works of fiction and should not be sought out by any means from their respective, decidedly fictional locations within this city.

In a hole in Lowtown lived an apostate.

Not a nasty apostate, the likes of which you hear about cutting themselves and bleeding all over the place, but a healer, who wiped the noses and bandaged the wounds of the poor elves in the alienage. Word had it that this healer apostate ran a free clinic where all who sought out the smoking chimney were welcome.

In all my time as a traveling bard and wordsmith, I have never heard of another creature - human, elvhen, or dwarven - helping its fellows for free. Being the cynical, jaded Kirkwaller that I am, I simply had to see this man for myself.

And so it was that one misguided morning I left the comfort of my tavern suite for the sorry sight of Kirkwall's alienage, already feeling very noble and self-sacrificing just by looking at all that elvhen misery. As the sky already grew dark, I found it easy to spot the plume of pale smoke rising from a sorry-looking excuse for a chimney that rose in turn from one of the most dilapidated shacks I've ever seen. And as a well-traveled bard and wordsmith, let me tell you, I've seen a lot of dilapidated shacks.

The moldy wood panels alone easily guaranteed it entrance into the top ten list of dilapidated shacks, and the roof that was more hole than roof dared to edge out even the Fereldan refugee shanty that had previously held first place. It was still a close match until I got close enough to get a whiff of the place’s pure stench.

Sheer human and elvhen stink greeted my nostrils and insisted that they stay for brunch. I'd like to think that I've accumulated quite a healthy resistance to foul smells from all the seedy taprooms I've frequented on top of my natural dwarven stamina, but even my eyes watered as the crowd's aroma wafted down to my face. By this point, this shack had taken the first prize and even gotten into the pants of the judge for “most dilapidated shack.”

But believe it or not, the crowd didn't seem to mind - in fact, they only crowded closer around the doorway of the legendarily dilapidated shack in some semblance of what I would have called a queue, if alienage elves were in the habit of queuing.

I elbowed my way through the throng (which wasn't actually that hard due to how skinny most of the congregated elves were) and made it to the very doorstep. The door was being held open simply by the press of bodies queued around, though I doubted it would have closed or even swung very far from how rusty those hinges looked.

Inside the shack was exhibit ‘A’ of Kirkwall's crazy mages.

Perhaps that's unfair. This crazy mage, as I mentioned earlier, was really an outlier of the general craziness of mages in this city. The only blood I saw was from the wound of the poor sod he was currently patching up, and the healer was doing a pretty good job of mopping it away, considering the unsurprisingly filthy state of the one-room shack.

The healer in question had the kind of face that sticks out across a crowded room, though that may have been due to the blue glow of healing magic lighting it up. In any case, he didn't look a native Marcher - my guess was that he was Anders, judging by his blond hair, dangerously pointy nose, and general paleness. This probably-Anders had a face designed by the Maker to break hearts all over Thedas, even if he was currently contorting it into a frighteningly intense stare.

"This dwarf is trying to cut in line! 'E's not even injured!" One of the skinny elves I elbowed past interrupted my analysis of this strange new player in Kirkwall.

The probably-Anders lifted his eyes from his patient to regard me.

I will take this moment to digress.

Many of the readers of Lowdown in Lowtown felt the need to voice complaints about the amount of descriptions in the series - citing the concerns that they were pandering purple prose and slowed down the thrilling narrative action without adding much to the tale. Some have even suggested that without my florid descriptions perhaps Lowdown in Lowtown could have been finished without nearly as many editions and wouldn't have sent its Hightown printing press to its early grave.

However! Just as many (if not more) readers lavished praise upon said descriptions, with many even being generous enough to send me their own painted portraits of the characters based on my verbal portraits. As these portraits decorate the walls of my den and smile down upon me as I write this, I can't possibly bear to disappoint these readers.

To make peace and keep everyone happy, I've decided to come up with a new system - I'll simply mark a section before I launch into a vivid detailing of a character's appearance with the warning UPCOMING DESCRIPTION. When I'm done, I'll print END OF DESCRIPTION. This way, those whose sensibilities are offended can simply scroll past the bits that offend them while those who rightly understand the crucial importance a character's appearance has on his or her role in the plot can continue to enjoy the work as I intended it.

Never let it be said that I'm not a receptive creator. I'm no Maker perched away from the concerns of the people.

UPCOMING DESCRIPTION

It's something of a cliché to describe eyes, but these eyes were worth describing. They were a warm honey-amber, framed with delicate dark lashes colored more like the stubble that graced his cheeks and jaw, accented by similarly darker brows currently furrowed with disapproval. Those eyes were haunted by shadows but still held a burning intensity and life that rooted me to the spot. These were the kind of eyes you would find on a man who dreamed, had his dreams broken and took all kinds of shit in life, but kept right on carrying that broken, bust-up dream.

And yes, I did get all that just from his eyes. I told you they were worth describing. I haven't even gotten to the rest of him yet!

His lips were naturally, effortlessly pouty, set in a lean jaw that combined with the nose, looked like it could cut diamond. His face was framed by messy blond hair tied loosely in a half-ponytail. His hair couldn’t have been more carelessly tousled if he tried. His figure was as lean and sharp as his face, bony-looking even through his violently feathered robes.

All in all, the effect was very staggering, even to me, a taken man (Bianca is doing very well, thank you for asking). The would-be starving artists and poets of Kirkwall should all take a field trip to the alienage for some style tips. This healer exuded hopeless romantic tragedy easier than getting into a knife fight at the Hanged Man.

END OF DESCRIPTION

On second thought, it might be a good idea for those of you who skipped the description to go back and read it anyway. I really think that the events unfolding will make a lot more sense to you if you know exactly what all the people involved look like, especially as this healers’ smoldering tragic countenance probably had a lot to do with his life. It’s a pretty good description, too – at least in my top ten.

Anyways, probably-Anders lifted his eyes to me and spoke.

“If it’s a rash, it can wait. People with great big holes in them take precedence over some itchy parts, I’m afraid. Please get into line properly.”

He had a noticeable Anders accent. It looked like I was right after all.

I lifted my hands in a gesture of peace and told him of my life’s work to chronicle all the unusual going-ons and interesting personages of Kirkwall and someday all of Thedas. I wasn’t sure if he was listening, as he carried on wiping blood away from his patient, but he looked at me again when I stopped talking.

“You’d do well to look elsewhere, then,” he said rather shortly as he made an effort to clean his hands on a handkerchief that looked dirtier than they were. “There’s nothing here but wounded elves, Fereldan refugees, and an apostate mad enough to wallow in the muck of it all.”

As any good storyteller knows, that statement only made me want to dig deeper.

“Come on,” I fished around for something to call him. ‘Mage’ was too confrontational, and I could have been wrong about him being Anders, so that name was out. I settled on “Blondie. You have a story. I can make sure it gets told. Who knows, maybe some Hightown noble or merchant prince will take a fancy to your altruism and help you out.”

He affixed me with a Look. The arched eyebrow accentuated the capital L. “I get the feeling that drawing attention to the apostate in the alienage is the best way to ensure that I have a very short stay in Kirkwall indeed.”

Of course, the elves lined up behind me had to cramp my style at the worst possible time. “Oy dwarf! The Warden’s busy! Flap your gums at him some other time!”

“Warden?” I repeated, my eyes widening in disbelief. Blondie scowled, both at me and at the elf who gave it away. “Well, well, Blondie, it sounds like you have quite a story to tell after all.” My instincts were never wrong.

“I would prefer it not be told, if it’s all the same to you,” he replied tartly as he motioned the next patient to come in.

“It’s going to spread anyway. Or did I just imagine that elf just now?” I persisted in the hunt, in the knowledge that I did this not only to satisfy my own insatiable curiosity, but for my loyal legion of readers. “You may as well make sure it spreads to the right people. I doubt you’ve been here long, but if the Carta or Coterie get a whiff of this place, you’re toast, Blondie.”

“Fels,” he sighed, barely reacting to the horrid angle the elf’s broken arm was at. “Not Blondie. Please.”

“What?”

“Call me Fels. It’s short for Anderfels. And if you insist on bothering me, come back later, after I’ve seen to all these people.”

“All right, Blondie, I can wait for a good story.”

He shooed me off impatiently and I tried to find a corner of the alienage as far away from Fels’ little clinic as possible.

Later turned out to be later rather than sooner. The sun had already reached its zenith, sending hot sweat rolling down the backs of all the already stinking people standing around. But the line still showed no signs of letting up. Where were all these injured people even coming from?

It was about now that I decided to look for my friend Auburn Falcon.

You may remember his name for his small role in the first issue of Hard in Hightown, as the Fereldan refugee who stowed away along with his little sister Elizabeth and the up-and-coming Guardswoman Red on the slaver ship, successfully escaping at Kirkwall and liberating all the slaves aboard the ship and then some.

If you haven’t read Hard in Hightown (which you really should), here’s the lowdown on Falcon.

I met Falcon a few weeks ago as he and Elizabeth wanted in on an expedition to the Deep Roads that my enterprising brother was planning (my dear brother had caught me when I was on the Kirkwall leg of my grand tour of Thedas, and insisted that I had to join him). I had managed to convince my brother that the two Fereldans were very, very competent, but our expedition still lacked coin and an entrance. My brother decided that they could join if they found those two things.

UPCOMING DESCRIPTION

Falcon has the most innocent face you’ve ever seen on man, dwarf, or elf. His healthy smattering of freckles and auburn hair made me mistake him for Guardswoman Red’s brother when we first met. At first glance you might think him a bit of a fool, with that naïve grin and those wide blue eyes beneath guileless brows and red bangs. Only the long scar across the bridge of his nose (earned from a year in a mercenary band) suggests a harder man than what’s on the surface. But spend some time around him, and there’s a quiet confidence in the movements of his stocky build, a resolute strength in his red-stubbled square jaw and blunt chin, a calm but brilliant fire in those bright blue eyes. You’re not even sure if Falcon’s aware of it, but you find yourself drawn in by a charisma that seems to come out of nowhere.

END OF DESCRIPTION

In short, Falcon’s the kind of man who looks like he can change the world. He probably thinks it, too, but in the least arrogant way possible. The man is like a giant puppy, unsurprising considering his Fereldan heritage.

The gears in my head got to turning, and I figured that Fels, who was presumably a Grey Warden (did the Anderfels export anything besides Grey Wardens and zealous priests?), was our best ticket to a Deep Roads entrance. No one knew the Roads like the Wardens, after all, and who knew? He might have even had maps.

Trouble was, Fels didn’t seem like a profit-driven kind of man, unless those alienage elves were actually smuggling him lyrium beneath their rags. And as good of a story as that would make, even I can tell when something’s simply too complicated to work.

So that’s where Falcon came in. That man could sell you a pair of torn trousers and make you feel like you’ve done a good deed by supporting the Ferelden refugee cottage economy in Kirkwall. And he would honestly believe that too. If there’s one thing that can move an altruist, it’s another altruist.

All I had to do was get Fels and Falcon into the same room, and I was sure we’d be in the Deep Roads before the day was done.

But of course, you know what they say about the best-laid plans of nugs and dwarva.

When Falcon and Fels locked eyes from across the room, I knew that this was the moment I had been waiting for in all my years as a traveling bard and wordsmith. This was the kind of moment that storytellers dreamed of and feebly tried to recreate in lesser incarnations, that stars aligned and constellations crashed together for.

Normally if you ask me, I won’t give ideas like fate a second thought. But here in the finally-empty clinic, my tired eyes thought they saw the strands of destiny swirling between the Ferelden refugee and the Anders one. In that shared gaze between blue eyes and amber ones, my tired ears thought they heard the sounds of blue stars colliding into golden ones far away in the heavens.

Then Fels spoke, and the moment was broken. But it was that moment, dear reader, that convinced me to put pen to paper once more and bring their tale to you.

“I am through with the Deep Roads,” he declared. “And I am through with the Grey Wardens. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat.”

Falcon gave him a look that would have made a puppy’s heart feel tender. “I’m so sorry to hear about your cat,” he said with utmost sincerity. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t detect a single note of irony in his earnest voice. “You truly cannot help us?”

Just as I predicted, Fels’ hackles deflated beneath that blue stare. He might try to fight fate, but my storyteller’s sense had the odds massively stacked against him. “Perhaps… you can help me first.”

It turns out that Fels had come to Kirkwall with the purpose of meeting his friend Charles, who was a mage in the Circle.

That alone nearly made me rethink the whole venture – it’s never a good idea to get mixed in with that eternal conflict. But between the allure of the Deep Roads maps and the promise of a story worth telling, no, the story worth telling, I stayed my ground.

It turns out Charles and Fels had been sending letters to each other, and Charles’ last letter had been something of a cry for help that Fels of course had to answer. At that point, Falcon probably would have ended up helping Fels even without the promise of Deep Roads maps – he was the kind of man who left no kitten stranded up in a tree, and Fels’ pout had the force of several hundred kittens at least.

And so it was that we ended up taking a visit to the Gallows Courtyard, where the Tranquil sold their enchanted wares. The plan was that Charles would disguise himself as one of the Tranquil vendors and we would simply whisk him away to safety.

Remember what I said earlier about the best-laid plans of nugs and dwarva?

When we met Charles in a shady corner of the Courtyard, I already had the horrible feeling that his disguise and acting were far too good, and in all my travels I’ve never heard of any mage thespians. Even Fels was taken aback by the listlessness of Charles’ grey eyes and the monotone of his voice. But Charles allowed Fels to throw a cloak over his silver-haired head and shepherd him out just after the Templar guards changed shifts at the gate, Falcon wary and watchful.

We got as far as the docks until it all fell to pieces.

“Fels, give yourself up,” Charles spoke at last when we stopped to rest, breaking the tense silence in the air.

“What!” Fels nearly fell over. His amber eyes widened in shock. “Why are you still talking like that?”

“I know you too well. You must learn to master yourself, as I have.”

Fels briefly reached out to touch the Chantry sun burned into Charles’ forehead – burned, not painted. He clenched his burning eyes shut, face contorted in agony. “No… no!”

Of course, the entire thing had been a set-up from the start. A group of templars and their hired help awaited us as we rounded an alley corner. Well, I suspect that they were only awaiting Fels and Charles – the addition of Falcon and myself was probably an unpleasant surprise. And while it’s my general rule to avoid fights with Templars (or to avoid even being around them), I’ll maintain that I acted in self-defense.

Falcon’s twin daggers flashed in the light of Fels’ crackling electricity spells as the two men fell effortlessly into the dance of death. I added a few snatches of Bianca’s song here and there, but Fels and Falcon had a natural rhythm together, a harmony that too much interference from me would only disrupt. I had already known Falcon was more than competent with those dual blades of his, but with Fels at his back, he was an unstoppable force on the battlefield. You would never have guessed it from that innocent face and kind demeanor, but Falcon fought like the wickedest of rogues. He darted from enemy to enemy with ruthless efficiency, blades finding every chink in their armor. I wonder if the Hero of Ferelden could have avoided all her troubles just by finding Falcon and pointing him at the Archdemon.

The battle was won – I don’t think any other outcome would have been possible with Falcon at my side. As those of you who read the first issue of Hard in Hightown know, he single-handedly defeated an ogre on the way from Ferelden to Kirkwall.

Through the entire fracas, Charles had barely moved from under his cloak. As Fels reluctantly turned to face his friend, I got a glimpse of his face and immediately wished I hadn’t. His bright amber eyes were like dark pits now, robbed of vitality and sunken with sadness.

“Charles… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He drew a knife from his belt.

“Wait!” Falcon’s hand shot out to grip Fels by the wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Tranquility is a fate worse than death,” Fels breathed, making no move to shake off Falcon’s hand but staring up into his azure eyes with the most intense gaze I had seen from him so far. And considering all of Fels’ intense gazes that I’ve already documented in just the first chapter of this tale, you can know, dear reader, that this was an intense gaze indeed.

“Charles and I… we’ve shared so much. I cannot allow him to exist as a shell of what he once was. This… is what he would want.”

Those eyes could burn down to the very quick of a man’s soul, and Falcon was certainly no exception. Actually, Falcon was probably more like the opposite of an exception.Visibly shaken, he released Fels’ wrist.

“Do you want me… to do it?” he asked, guileless forehead wrinkled in concern.

“No,” Fels pulled away, blond hair strewn about in disarray. “This is for me to do, and me alone.”

He drew his blade and touched his other hand to Charles’ face with surprising tenderness. “Goodbye, Charles,” he whispered, and blade in hand, put an end to a story that was lost on the rest of us and was not mine to tell, not even in these pages.

I couldn’t bear to watch that private moment any longer, so I turned to Falcon. The Fereldan looked almost as distraught as the Anders. His eyes were wide and brimming with unshed tears above his tightly drawn lips. Poor Falcon – he had such a big heart that he could never stand to see other people’s pain. And it was probably especially painful for him to see Fels like this.

You might say I’m jumping to conclusions, but from the moment I brought Falcon to the clinic I could tell that he was fascinated, even captivated. I wasn’t surprised at all – even without that whispering of fate and the story worth telling between them, Falcon would have found Fels’ battered brand of altruism and tragic heroism irresistible. And I had only known Fels for all of one day, but my storyteller’s sense knew that Falcon could be the balm to ease his troubled soul, if the healer could only let him in.

This was all wrong now. How would Fels and Falcon ever get a chance to act on the strands of fate that bound them together, when their first meeting ended with this tragedy? I couldn’t bear to see the directives of the stars themselves shafted like this, this wasted potential of souls meant to entwine.

But, as Falcon placed a gentle hand on Fels’ shoulder, saying, “Come, we can’t stay here, it’s not safe,” and as Fels turned his tearstained face up to Falcon’s, I realized I had been foolish. Oh, me of little faith.

I had underestimated the strength of fate once again – a fatal mistake for a storyteller and traveling bard. Theirs was a connection that transcended time and space, that would rise up above any tragedy that attempted to suppress it.

Fels shakily took Falcon’s helping hand and rose from the spot, leaving Charles’ still body where it lay.

I couldn’t have made up better symbolism if I tried. I’m telling you, this kind of thing surrounds star-struck couples like a shroud.

We returned to Fels’ alienage clinic in silence, Falcon’s concern practically rolling off him in waves that lapped against Fels’ distant shores.

“Thank you for your help,” Fels said at last. “Most people would not stand by the side of a mage, and an apostate at that.”

“My father was a mage,” and Falcon paused before continuing to say, “and so is my sister Elizabeth.”

I was impressed – Falcon didn’t go around sharing that privileged information with just anyone. But then again, fate had decreed that Fels would be far from just anyone to Falcon.

“I’m sorry things turned out this way,” Falcon went on. “No one should have to go through this.”

I watched them talk for a while longer, Falcon gently reassuring and comforting him as he told his tale of woe. At last, something like a smile, or at the very least an attempt at one, crossed Fels’ lips. And as upsetting as the whole evening had been, I couldn’t help but cheer silently.

Fels ended up being the one to bring up the maps again – Falcon had all but forgotten about them.

“This is all wrong,” Cassandra snapped. Good timing too, as Varric’s throat was beginning to go dry from all that reading. “You told me earlier that Hawke and Anders went to the Chantry to find Anders’… former lover, Karl. What is this nonsense about whisking him out of the Gallows Courtyard itself?”

“Seeker, I may be an ass and a braggart, but even I wouldn’t publish something implicating someone in a crime a mere matter of months after it occurred.”

“And what are these ridiculous fake names you insist on using?”

“Hey, were you listening at all when I was reading the fine print at the beginning? None of these characters are real people.”

“Do you take me for a fool, dwarf?”

“Like I was saying, I don’t actually write about people I know. I just write about people who share… certain characteristics with those I know. I’m starting to think you just like the sound of my voice. I really don’t see what value the Chantry could possibly get out of Rogue Hearts and Healing Arts.”

“Not to mention this strange fantasy of yourself as a traveling bard!”

Varric tried affixing her with a steely glare of his own for once. “A dwarf can dream, can’t he?”

She shook her head. “Just… keep going.”

The next few weeks saw me in a flurry of activity, following Falcon around on his acts of random altruism and good-doing to earn enough coin to finance the expedition, as well as helping my dearest brother arrange all the contracts and assorted delights of management. More often than not, Fels ended up tagging along with the rest of the strays Falcon had collected.

It turned out that fate had thrown yet another wicked snarl into the threads of destiny. Fels was a man with a cause – unsurprising, given that the man voluntarily chose to spend his days in a stinking shack surrounded by blood and pus. He meant to dedicate his entire life to improving the lot of mages. And while Falcon could sympathize, given his father and sister and general big-heartedness, he could never fully see eye-to-eye.

You see, Falcon and his sister had had a lifetime of running. And sometimes, the two of them, though they’d never admit it to each other, would wonder privately if maybe it would have been better if they didn’t have to. Falcon, much like Guardswoman Red, believed in order and law.

And so, despite the burning sexual and romantic tension between Falcon and Fels, and despite Falcon’s kindness and Fels’ noble and selfless heart (as Falcon was fond of rambling to me about after a few too many rounds at the Hanged Man), the two men were starting to develop a tense rivalry that was agonizing to witness.

They were so right for each other, but for this fatal difference.

Matters came to a head on yet another of Falcon’s mundane quests for one of the many people in need in Kirkwall (there’s never a shortage of those, which is why I always return to this city for the best story sources). An elvhen woman came to Falcon for help in locating her son, who had run away upon discovering he was a mage, fearful that his mother would turn him in to the Circle.

It turns out the boy had ended up being captured by unsavory types in his escape attempt. Falcon, Fels, Guardswoman Red, and I tracked him down to a cave on the Wounded Coast.

And no shit, there we were, surrounded by a veritable army of slavers.

Their leader had his knife against the throat of the boy in question.

“Move a muscle, and the boy dies.”

Falcon’s blue eyes flashed with righteous rage. “This is as close as I get.”

And quick as a snake, he drew the small throwing knife he kept at the back of his belt. Time itself seemed to slow and fold around the rogue as his arm whipped around to fling the knife with deadly precision into the slaver’s throat, covering both him and the boy in a fine patina of blood.

After that followed another battle of epic proportions – Guardswoman Red’s shield like a battering ram for Fels to cast his spells from behind as I rained a torrent of bolts from Bianca-

Cassandra groaned. “Not another fight scene! Haven’t we had more than enough of those already? They’re all so repetitive!”

Varric sniffed. “Do you want me to read this or not? These fight scenes are crucial to the aura of mystique and power that Falcon eventually cultivates. I can skip it if you really like, but the rest of the serial might not make sense.”

Anyways, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I rained a torrent of bolts from Bianca, providing Falcon a chance to dart in with his twin daggers and wreak havoc among the slavers right and left. Blood arced and spattered all over the floor as Falcon danced between slavers, dealing righteous retribution.

I was so caught up in watching Falcon at his work that I didn’t notice a stray slaver sneak around to strike at Fels’ back until I felt the cool whoosh of ice from his defensive cone of cold across my cheek. But the slaver sliced through the brittle crystals and continued his deadly path towards Fels, who wielded his staff like a cudgel in an attempt to fend him off.

Fels’ grip slipped on his staff with a particularly vicious blow from the slaver, and he was disarmed, left sprawling and helpless. I tried to reload Bianca as fast as I could, but I was surprised by a slaver of my own to contend with. I had to settle for bludgeoning him over the head with Bianca’s frame and running towards Fels as fast as I could.

Luckily, Falcon was able to get to Fels’ side much faster. He leapt in front of Fels in the nick of time, stabbing both daggers into the slaver’s chest like the vicious twin-fanged bite of a snake just as the slaver raised his sword for a killing blow.

I dispatched the last of the stragglers as Falcon whirled around, wild-eyed and blood-stained, to face Fels.

“That was close,” Falcon breathed, still panting from the adrenaline rush and exertion. “That was much too close.”

“I… if you hadn’t,” Fels gaped up at him, eyes wide and receptive to the burning stare of Falcon at his wildest. Falcon bent down to help him up, and in the aftermath of his panic he must have pulled too hard, for Fels overbalanced and stumbled into his arms.

It was one of those moments that the characters thought were accidental, but the fates knew exactly what they were doing.

Their faces leaned closer. Fels’ eyes slipped half-lidded and Falcon’s lips parted-

“You could have killed me!”

Leave it to the brat to ruin the moment.

Fels and Falcon hastily broke apart. Beneath the freckles and the bloodstains, Falcon was flushing as red as his hair as he flew to the boy’s side.

“I’m sorry to have frightened you. Are you all right?”

“Other than nearly getting a knife in my face,” he scowled. “Let me guess, the Templars sent you to drag me to the Circle? I’m not going!”

“Of course not,” Fels said. “How could we send anyone to that prison–”

“I think… it’s for the best,” Falcon interrupted, face pained.

“What are you talking about! How can you say that when your own sister-!”

“Elizabeth had Father to teach her to control her powers. But he doesn’t have anyone, and his mother told us he was having nightmares already. Not to mention he almost lost his life in this escape attempt.”

“I would rather lose my life than live a mindless slave.” The passion of the earlier moment he had shared with Falcon now burned as rage, as Fels snarled and balled his hands into fists.

“I’m sorry, Fels, but this is the right thing to do.” Yet Falcon couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with the man whose life he had just saved seconds ago.

“Fels, listen to Falcon. He’s right,” Guardswoman Red chimed in. “The boy is in worse danger if we let him run amok.”

“All of you will never understand,” hissed Fels, eyes burning, but he made no move to fight. He must have known he would stand no chance against Guardswoman Red and Falcon together, yet I was certain there was more to it than simply that. Falcon occupied a strange space between enemy and friend, between star-crossed lover and hated rival. I don’t think Fels could have turned against him if he wanted to.

He did, however, storm away in silence as Falcon and Guardswoman Red made to escort the boy back.

That night, Falcon downed far too much of the Hanged Man’s swill as he laid his troubles on me.

“Have I done the right thing?” he half-sobbed into a pint. “W-what if Fels hates me forever now? I couldn’t bear it!”

I gave him a reassuring pat on his shaking shoulder. “He’ll come around. And for what it’s worth, it wasn’t an easy call to make. But Guardswoman Red did think you were doing the right thing, and if she’s not a moral authority, I don’t know who is.”

Falcon hiccupped gloomily into his drink. Not many people got to see this vulnerable human side to him, the side behind the shining beacon of heroic light he usually was.

“Cheer up, Falcon, you’ll be happy to know that I counted today, and we finally have enough coin to finance the Deep Roads expedition!” I tried changing the subject – as fascinated as I was by the blossoming, hopelessly complex relationship between the two of them, Falcon was in no shape to keep thinking about Fels.

“Do you think… I should say goodbye? Before we leave…?” Falcon directed his watery gaze towards me, and I was hit by the full force of those limpid blue eyes at their rawest. Just looking at his face made me feel some of his gloom.

“Shouldn’t he come with us? Being the Warden who actually has been in the Deep Roads?”

Falcon shook his head emphatically, swaying from side to side from the drink. “No, I couldn’t do that to him. Haven’t you heard him talk? He hates the Deep Roads, has nightmares about them. And he has his patients to attend to. And and and… he never wants to see me again,” his last sentence broke off into a sobbing wail.

“There, there, Falcon.” It wasn’t easy being the protagonist in a star-crossed lovers’ story, that was for sure. It was in times like these that I was glad to be the one who just told the stories and didn’t live them.

We took another week or so to finish preparations for our expedition, a week of Falcon agonizing over whether or not he should go to the alienage clinic and either explain his thinking or apologize for everything he had ever done. After much prompting from me to try and get their story over this hump, he swallowed his anxiety and made his way to Fels the day before we were scheduled to leave.

“The chimney is not smoking. Go away,” came Fels’ muffled voice through the door when Falcon knocked.

Falcon cringed and probably would have fled had I not gripped his arm and rooted him to the spot. Sometimes you had to take fate into your own hands.

“It’s me, Falcon.”

Nothing but silence from within. Falcon chewed at his lip.

“I just wanted to tell you that we’re leaving tomorrow. On the expedition.”

More silence.

“Fels… I’m sorry. I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do. But I couldn’t see any other way,” Falcon forced the words out, leaning his head to rest on the perilously hinged door.

The door flew open, and Falcon nearly fell into the shack.

Fels’ eyes burned with just as much rage as they had in that cave on the Wounded Coast. It might have just been me, but his hair looked even more carelessly, effortlessly unkempt than usual. “It bloody wasn’t the right thing to do! What’s next? Will you turn Elizabeth in to the Templars as well? Would you give me over to be made a Tranquil slave?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? We’re mages too, you know. Dangerous to ourselves and others, isn’t that what you said?”

“But you… you’re different!”

Fels exhaled slowly, his fiery glare turning to ice. Falcon visibly wilted beneath the force of it. “To all of Thedas, I am a mage before I am a man. For all my life, that is what has defined me to the world. If you cannot understand that, then we have nothing more to say.”

He turned away from Falcon. “Safe travels,” he said, pointedly directing it only to me. Well, good to know I wasn’t implicated as well. He stepped past Falcon and shut the door behind him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Falcon managed to choke the words out before practically running out from the alienage.

And so it was with a heavy heart that Falcon departed with me for the Deep Roads, taking Guardswoman Red and Elizabeth with him.

He might have thought his relationship with Fels was beyond repair, but I wasn’t going to give up just yet. Fate is not to be so easily trifled with.

Don’t miss the next issue of Rogue Hearts and Healing Arts!

“There’s so much that you left out here, compared to what you told me earlier about what happened in Hawke’s first year in Kirkwall.”

Varric sighed. He supposed it was too much to expect a Chantry Seeker to understand the finer points of dramatic narrative. “That’s because this is a romance serial. I had to focus on the relationship between Fels and Falcon–”

Cassandra snarled at him.

“–Anders and Hawke,” he coughed. “What, don’t tell me you thought there weren’t enough fight scenes?”

“Maker’s Breath, of course not!” The Seeker paced some distance away, then sharply turned her head around to face Varric again. “As painful as this drivel is to read, it is crucial for us to understand the nature of this Anders’ relationship to the Champion. As we understand it, it was a critical part of what happened.”

“Don’t I know it,” Varric couldn’t help his wince.

“I will tell the other Seekers to locate the next installments. In the meantime, you will continue to tell me what really happened.”

Varric groaned.