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Some things never change.
As usual, Marian Hawke had the power to end it. And Varric Tethras knew that she always could. She’d always get what she wanted if ever she wanted it badly enough.
By the flickering light of the lantern in their secluded corner of the Herald’s Rest tavern at Skyhold, he watched her trail a graceful finger across the softened, worn edges of her cards.
He should have known by now if it was really a tell. But all he could think about was that those were his cards.
Right now, he wished they weren’t. Right now, he wished those cards were something else of his, entirely, beneath that woman’s deft fingertips; something else he’d always known she’d possessed if only she’d asked it of him; something as certain as the Angel of Death that he knew she held in her hand.
Yet here they were, still playing.
He'd marked the occasion of their reunion by finally opening the bottle of West Hill Brandy he’d been saving for only Andraste knows when or why.
“Only the best for my friends,” Varric had proudly declared.
It had been a gift from the Inquisitor—for services rendered—he’d bragged to Hawke. They sipped it in silence at first, knowing that any silence between the two of them could never last very long. And yet, to Varric, what little time they might have together would be far shorter than he’d always hoped for.
“Mmm...the Herald was right: black currant, with a honeysuckle finish,”
“Varric mused, appreciatively,” Hawke immediately continued for him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in mirth as she laughed, lowering her glass. “And it also tastes like brandy.”
“Spoken like a true Ferelden,” he declared.
“Admit it,” Hawke leaned forward, “You've missed this true Ferelden’s wily, wily ways. That, and playing Diamondback with my Mabari.”
Varric grinned, momentarily distracted by the locks of dark hair that had fallen across her cheek. She’d let it grow longer since he’d last seen her. He’d never noticed before how the ends of the fine wisps at the nape of her neck had curled, and he wondered if they felt as soft and downy to the touch as they looked.
“Well, the dog never forgot his turn.” He drew another card: the Song of Temerity, and smiled inwardly to himself, reluctant to give anything away.
“Once we sat in the light of our dreams,” sang the minstrel, Maryden, as she strummed a plaintive melody on her lute, “Once we were in our homeland with strength and might.”
Hawke surveyed the quiet tavern. “We’re a long ways away from The Hanged Man, aren’t we?” she murmured into her drink.
“Yes and no,” he said. “If it’s not one particular brand of crazy, you might say, it’s another. Some things never change.”
“But we do,” she insisted.
“Do we?” his reply was more sardonic than he’d intended. “No, wait—you’re right: instead of being unable to go one week without meeting an insane mage, it’s more like two.”
She shrugged. “Sodding demons will always do their sodding, demony things. Do you remember that…what was it called? Hanged mash?” she suddenly asked, “Served with the brandy-spiked cider?”
“Pig Oat Mash.” Varric grunted, “Kirkwall’s true delicacy.”
“This,” Hawke raised her glass, tipping it to swirl the brandy around, and around, “would go beautifully with some of that, right about now.”
“You plan to make me homesick all night? It’s your turn.”
“You know, I...finally read ‘Hard in Hightown’,” she casually added, drawing another card, while carefully observing his reaction.
“Not my best work,” he promptly said, telling himself that the flush in his cheeks could easily be explained away by the heat of the liquor.
“With the predictable mystery?” She teased, making him groan audibly. “Or all the purple prose, and overwrought similes? So what do you consider your best work, then?”
"The Tale of the Champion," he quipped back, not missing a beat.
It was Hawke's turn to blush.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret about 'Hard in Hightown'. It was rushed. I needed the money. I still don’t understand how it became so popular...”
“I liked it.”
“Really?” He wondered if she was being sarcastic.
“It made Kirkwall come alive. Reading it made me feel like I was right there, back in those streets again.”
Varric took another swig of brandy to tighten the alibi of his own deepening blush.
“Though,” Hawke continued, “that Lady Marielle character seemed a bit...familiar.”
He coughed, clearing his throat to stop himself from spitting up his drink. He tried to make it sound more like a laugh, dismissively waving his hand and saying, “Oh, everyone who knows an author thinks they recognize themselves in his writing. That’s why for fiction, there’s that routine disclaimer from the publisher: Any Resemblance to Persons Living or Deceased is...”
“Purely coincidental,” she finished, nodding. “Still, that was an awful lot of heavy-handed religious imagery. A laugh like chantry bells ringing? A voice that almost made something sound like a prayer?”
“Yeah,” Varric admitted, guiltily looking away, “it was a bit much.”
It took him a moment for the realization to sink in: she’d quoted him verbatim, from memory.
“But what I really want to know is: those...aquamarine eyes capable of making your hero feel drunk; to what extent were they inspired by reality? How much does art imitate life?”
Varric felt those very eyes—the ones that had inspired that terrible line in his novel—staring intently at him, and he looked down at his hand. He’d drawn the Angel of Temerity. He smirked at his luck, placing the card between the corresponding Song, and the three drakes he now held. It was a strong hand, and well worth the risk.
He leaned back, lowering his voice to softly reply, “About as much as the author wants it to,” as he confidently met her stare.
She returned it with a slow, satisfied smile. “Then maybe the author was lacking in imagination,” she suggested, her gaze drifting downwards to blatantly ogle his muscular chest.
“What if I promise the sequel will be better?”
"I'm sure it will be," she reached out, tracing the rough stubble along his jaw. It sent an anticipatory shiver down his spine as she murmured, “But only if you let me help you with the research, this time.”
He took a deep breath and laid his cards on the table. “All right, Hawke. You win.”
She didn’t even bother looking at his hand. Instead, she placed her own face-down without another glance, and had folded.
“Varric,” she whispered, leaning closer. Her caress flit downwards with teasing agility, skirting the edge of where his open tunic met bare skin. “Don’t you think it’s about time you called me ‘Marian’?”
He did.
Some things really did change.