Chapter Text
“I suppose you've heard about our visitor?” Varric asked from the open doorway, a half-dozen paces and one stout desk between himself and the Commander. His caution was understandable, given Cullen's expression.
“I was informed of her arrival. Immediately after the council session concluded, in fact.” Cullen's tone was clipped; his hands gripped the edges of his desk. He shot a hard look at Varric. “She has remarkable timing, considering how recently our relocation became public knowledge.”
Varric smiled uneasily. “She's a remarkable woman, Curly. But I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation...” He held up his hands placatingly, only to drop them again in the face of Cullen's stony silence. “Or not. Fine. Yes, I've been keeping her informed. She needed to know.”
“That wasn't your decision to make.”
“Believe it not, I wanted to tell you.” Varric snuck another glance at Cullen's unmoving visage and threw up his hands. “Andraste's breath, what else do you want me to say? Yes, it was a mistake. I'm sorry. I can't go back and change it no matter how hard you glare at me.” When no reply came, he continued, “Have you talked to her? That's all I came here to ask.”
Cullen ground out the words. “I have not.”
“Would you consider it?”
Cullen straightened, but continued to stare at the surface of his desk, jaw working. He could barely focus on the pages spread out across it; the reports swirled together in a meaningless jumble of letters and figures. The headaches had been worse today, and this conversation was not helping. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth.
“Understand this, Varric. I will exchange such pleasantries with her as courtesy requires, but I have no interest in a – a social call.” His left hand was beginning to shake; he clenched it to still the tremors. “After what she did to Kirkwall, I'm astonished that you think I would have any interest in...”
“No! Don't you lay that on her!” Varric advanced a step, thrusting a finger at Cullen. “The mess Blondie – Anders – made, was his own doing. Hawke had no part in that!”
Cullen answered Varric's outburst with a look of heavy doubt. “Are you so sure of that, Varric?”
Varric only scowled harder. “You were there, Curly; she was as surprised as anyone. Yes, she loved him. Maybe you can't understand that – Maker, I don't even know if I can understand it. But Kirkwall was her home, her city. You think she wanted it ripped apart?” His head shook. “And he didn't tell her, I promise you that. He didn't breathe a word of it. If he had, she would have done everything in her power to stop him.”
“Everything?”
Varric had no answer for that. After all had been said and done, Anders had left the Gallows alive and in Hawke's company. However much the apostate might have deserved it, or wanted it, or asked for it, death was one thing his lover had been unwilling to give him. Perhaps it had been the only thing.
“She only ever wanted to do the right thing,” he insisted. “She wanted an end to the fighting. She gave everything she had to make it happen, and it wasn't enough.” He shot an accusatory look across the desk. “But that wasn't her fault. You, of all people, should be able to understand that.”
Stung, Cullen dropped his gaze. They shared an uncomfortable silence, until Varric muttered, “I'm just asking you to talk to her. That's all.”
Cullen folded his arms, head cocking skeptically, though he did not meet Varric's eyes. “And what would that accomplish, exactly?”
“Does it have to “accomplish” anything?” Varric waved at the mound of paperwork atop Cullen's desk. “Maybe I just think it would do you some good to get away from all this for a little while. Human contact outside of working hours, remember that? Besides,” he added, “you two weren't always at odds.”
Frowning, Cullen turned to the window slit. Below, a merchant caravan inched its way across the massive bridge that was the only connection between Skyhold and the outside world. The icy riverbed stretched out far beneath it, while all around them, the mountain peaks rose to dizzying heights, their jagged, snow-crusted peaks glittering in the sun. On a good day, the view took his breath away. Today, he hardly noticed it.
“She killed Templars, Varric. My... colleagues. Men and women who were only doing their duty.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Meredith was never able to prove it to the Viscount's satisfaction, but you know as well as I...”
Varric spoke bluntly. “Some people deserve no less. Alrik was a monster.” He paused for breath, then said, in a softer tone. “I'm sure there were decent people among the Templars he commanded. But they didn't leave her much choice. And do I need to mention all of the times she helped the Order, and you, specifically? But you know all that, Curly; now you're just looking for excuses.”
That it was true only made it more difficult to swallow. Cullen stared down at his folded arms. “I... all right, Varric. I'll talk to her. I can't promise you anything more than that.”
“Thanks, Curly. That's all I was asking.” Varric relaxed, relief clear on his face. He glanced over his shoulder, out towards the wall. “To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about her.”
Cullen turned at that, brow furrowing. “Worried? Why?”
It took Varric a moment to answer, and even then he could only gesture vaguely. “You'll see.”
Cullen looked towards the door. “If you're concerned about her,” he said, uneasily, “why did you come to me?”
“Lack of options,” Varric replied immediately, then ran a hand over his face. “That sounded funnier in my head. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe it's because you might just be the only other person in Skyhold who could even begin to understand what she's been through.”
“You understand I haven't seen her since –”
“It'll be fine, Curly. Trust me. Hawke was never one to hold a grudge.”
“That's not exactly reassuring, Varric.”