Chapter Text
“One drink, Curly, that's all I'm asking. Would it kill you to put in an appearance at the tavern?”
“I do not have the time, Varric. Maker's breath, how many times must I repeat it?”
The Chantry building, re-purposed to serve as the Inquisition's makeshift headquarters, was all but deserted at this hour, yet candlelight still illuminated the war room and voices rose behind its solid door. A grand table, its polished surface covered almost in its entirety by an expansive map of southern Thedas, dominated the room. Commander Cullen stood at its far end, a collection of reports spread out before him.
Varric leaned against the table's opposite side, grinning. “Give it a few dozen more tries, and I might start to get the message. Or maybe you'll decide that finding the time would be less of a headache than convincing me you can't.”
Cullen rolled his eyes and lifted the next page from the pile of papers, his attention shifting between news from the Hinterlands and his uninvited guest. “Why are you doing this, Varric? Looking for material for your next book? Or is this part of some other project?”
Varric spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I'm a storyteller with no audience. In other words, desperate. Any other day I'd go to Ruffles, but she's got her hands full with an Orlesian Duke and his twin sister.”
Cullen set the page aside and reached for another, his tone dry. “I can only imagine. What about Solas? I understand he has a fondness for stories.”
“Not the way I tell them,” came the smirking reply. “Besides, I'm trying to avoid mages with strange obsessions. They're bad for my health..”
“Blackwall?”
“He's got important brooding to do.”
“The Herald, then.”
Varric hesitated, his expression sobering. “I've... considered it.”
Cullen glanced up from his paper shuffling. While the details changed from day to day, they'd repeated this exchange more times than he could recall. The argument had grown almost comforting in its reliably irritating familiarity. Varric's shift in tone was an unwelcome departure from their usual patterns.
Varric's hands moved at the table's edge, finally settling upon a mabari statuette that marked a position deep in the Kocari Wilds. He snatched it up and weighed it in his palm.
“And?” Cullen said at last, biting back his impatience.
“The Herald of Andraste,” Varric mused, studying the mabari. “Chosen by the Maker, marked by Prophet Herself. “A fixture at the local tavern” doesn't exactly fit.” He replaced the figurine. “Of course, they would have said the same thing about the Champion. But only because that was all most of them ever saw. The Champion.” He pronounced the title flatly, then cast a shrewd look towards Cullen. “Only a handful of us knew Marian Hawke.”
The Commander met the dwarf's gaze in silence, his expression settling into its customary, stern lines. Varric looked down at the sprawling map. “I've been thinking about her, lately. A lot.”
Across the table, Cullen's face began to harden. Their shared past, such as it was, could be best described as a decade-long series of events centered around the woman once known as the Champion of Kirkwall, and culminating in the destruction of much of the city. It was a subject Cullen had been studiously avoiding since Varric's arrival in Haven. Up until now, the dwarf had seemed to share his reluctance to revisit the past, much to Cullen's surprise and relief. Yet he had always had the suspicion that these memories were what drove Varric to seek him out time and again. For better or worse, at least they had a history. But that didn't mean Cullen wanted to talk about it.
“Do you ever wonder how things got so out of control back in Kirkwall? I mean, how could one city hold so much crazy?” Varric continued. “Not that I really thought about it at the time. Too busy telling myself that, hey, at least it couldn't get any worse, right?” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “So much for the power of imagination. That was just one city; now we're talking about the end of the world. But once you look past the scale of it, some things start to feel almost familiar, like a bad dream you keep having. Take Hawke, for instance –”
“Forgive me,” Cullen cut in, sharply, “but I am in no mood to reminisce. Not about Hawke, of all people. Or Kirkwall. Or anything else, besides.” With a brusque gesture, he swept the scattered papers into a single pile and straightened, shoulders squaring. “I believe we're finished here. If you'll excuse me.” The request carried the weight of an order.
Varric studied the Commander, his face grown suddenly weary, then turned away. “If you say so.” Four rolling strides took him to the door, where he paused, hand on the latch. “But let me offer you a piece of advice. This – all of this – the Herald, the Breach, the Inquisition.” His free arm swept in a gesture that encompassed the room, from floor to ceiling and across the war table. “It's big. Too big to control. Do yourself a favor: don't start thinking that you're directing it, or that maybe you could if you just worked yourself a little harder. You can't, no matter how many reports you read or how many pieces you have on your game board there.”
Cullen did not look up from the stack of reports. “Is that what you came here to tell me, Varric? It's the end of the world, but there's nothing to be done about it, so I shouldn't worry myself?”
Varric's grin held little amusement. “It hasn't ended yet. I'm just saying you should ease up a bit. Take a break once in a while. I've seen what happens when good people hang on too tightly to things they can't possibly manage. They have a way of getting consumed. And maybe I don't want to see the same thing happen to you.” He shrugged. “Or maybe I'm just in love with the sound of my own voice. Take your pick.”
“I wouldn't argue that last point,” Cullen replied, with a wry smile. The expected retort never arrived, and he lifted his eyes. Varric still stood at the door, in solemn silence. It was disquieting, and Cullen grasped for a way to lighten the mood. “Is this the point when you tell me you've seen it all before? Or – how did that line go? – that you're getting too old for this shit?”
A touch of dry humor returned to Varric's voice. “Commander, I'm astonished. That almost sounded like you were trying to make a joke.” He sighed and pushed down on the door latch. “And for the record, no, I'm not that old. I haven't seen it all, either. Just more than I would like.” The door swung open, and he added, “We have that much in common.”
Cullen blinked, considering, then conceded the point with a tilt of his head. “I suppose we do.”
“You have a good night, Curly. Try to remember to sleep.” Varric touched fingertips to his brow in a casual salute and stepping out, closing the door behind him.
Cullen stared at the door, then eased back from the table. It had been a long night, and there was much he had yet to finish. He glanced down at the map, sighed and reached out to correct the position of the mabari statuette. Varric had left it ever so slightly out of place.