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“Hawke, I’m leaving too.”
The suddenness of Varric’s declaration stuns Hawke. He looks at down at his trusty dwarf with concern, “You’re not serious.”
Varric shakes his head, sighing, “Afraid I am. You know me, I’m not much of an outdoorsman; I won’t last much longer out here. I figure, if Aveline and Donnic are heading back to clean up Kirkwall, I better go with them.”
Aveline’s responsibility to the guard was always going to take her away from him; with every day taking them further from the city, Hawke expected her departure was imminent. But every fiber of his being told him Varric would stick by him through anything, or at the very least until Isabela decided it was time to sail off into the sunset.
“Need to check if the Hanged Man’s still standing?”
“Something like that,” Varric chuckles. “I’ve got an idea for a book I want to get working on and it isn’t easy keeping a manuscript in order on the road.”
The shock finally passed, Hawke stretches out a hand, “Keep a spot at the bar open for me.”
Varric firmly clasps it with his own rough hand, “Drinks will be on me.”
----------
At first, letters arrive two at a time, filled to the brim with questions.
How long did it take you to travel from Lothering to Kirkwall? Did you meet Rivaini before or after you tracked down Blondie for the maps of the Deep Roads? How many dragons did you slay at the Bone Pit? And many more of the sort.
“Did Varric ask permission to make you the subject of his next novel?” Still practicing, Fenris reads over Hawke’s shoulder.
“It’s not about me. It’s about the legendary Champion of Kirkwall.” A fictionalized account of her exploits.
Varric’s been spinning tales about her since the day they met; a novel will only add a little more truth to rumor. Hawke doesn’t mind – her story is public knowledge, but there are personal details she would rather remain private.
To be sure, she responds with answers and instructions.
There are several items of a personal nature I must ask you not to include, but the omissions, I believe, will be beneficial to the text overall. First, leave Bethany out of it. The Champion’s lost her home to the Blight, her sister does not need to die again in the name of a tragic hero’s backstory. Second, nothing about myself and Fenris. This will be a boon to you as your ability to write romance is still somewhat suspect after your last work. Thirdly, and only to reiterate, the events at Vimmark are not to be repeated.
Varric’s later reply is agreeable.
I’ve got your back, Hawke. Your secrets are safe from the pages of my books. Any preference as to what you’d like your first name to be? No one would believe the hero’s name is Marian.
----------
Letters arrive with less frequency once Varric completes his ‘research’ and resume with rave reviews of Mr. Tethras’s latest masterpiece.
He spends about a page detailing how critic’s proclaim The Tale of the Champion to be his greatest work to date, surpassing the latest chapter of Hard in Hightown. Or how the failure of Swords & Shields was just the impetuous he needed to write something truly exemplary.
Of course, Varric then spends the next three pages complaining about the book’s one negative review.
Hawke snorts when he reaches the part where the critic attempts to weed out a plot hole from Orsino’s sudden turn to blood magic.
“Are you prepared for another wave of notoriety?” Fenris’s tone is tenuous.
Hawke remembers the strained months after the Arishock duel, between Anders appointing himself personal caregiver to Hawke and officials of all kinds begging at his feet for favors, it was near impossible for anyone else to get close. By the time the hype died, Fenris had thrown himself into tracking Varania, though Hawke was unaware of it.
“I’m not sure it ever went away. We’ve just gotten better at hiding.”
Fenris’s lip curls and Hawke cannot help himself.
“Shall we stop in the nearest tavern and find out what new songs they sing about me?”
----------
Hawke chews her nails.
A horrible habit, mother chastises her from beyond the Veil. A horrible habit for a horrible situation, Hawke retorts silently.
A kiss placed between her shoulder blades relieves some of the tension.
“You worry too much,” Fenris whispers.
“It’s been two months.”
“Varric’s a busy dwarf. He will send word when he has the time.”
Her laugh is hollow, “He’s a writer. You’d think you could manage a short note.”
It is another week before they have news. Trekking across the coast has made them difficult to reach by any of the crew; it’d be quicker to send Isabela after them than a letter.
But when Hawke breaks open the seal, it is not Varric’s scrawling hand. Aveline’s boxy letters fill the page with ill news.
“Taken for questioning? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it says, I’d imagine.”
Hawke’s been a bad influence on Fenris.
Don’t go after him, Hawke. There’s nothing you can do that’ll help the situation. Varric’s an accomplished liar. He’ll keep the Seeker off your trail.
----------
Like before, Hawke and Fenris reach the nearest port town and step into the tavern with the worst name. This time it is the Broke Pauper.
Fenris finds a table in the corner while Hawke entreats the bartender for a pair of flagons and any mail addressed to Garrett de Launcet. It was Varric’s idea of a joke to use the family name that might have been mother’s as a pseudonym, but it’s done the trick. No one would ever suspect Kirkwall’s champion to hide under an Orlesian name.
The whole idea to keep in contact through messages left at pubs with horrible names had been Varric’s too. So long as Hawke and Fenris kept the gang updated on their movements, they could predict what village they’d hit next and send letters ahead. It took a while, and Hawke’s sure they’ve missed some letters by days, but the system’s worked.
Hawke sips at his ale, expecting the bartender to return with an update from Merrill or nothing at all. To his surprise, Merrill’s letter is accompanied by four from Varric, forwarded by their ever-reliable captain of the guard.
Either Varric lost track of their directional course or he’s still attempting to throw the Seeker off their trail.
Locked away in their room, Hawke reads the letters aloud.
The first details how the Seeker dragged him to Haven, the explosion at the Conclave, red lyrium at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Herald of Andraste. It all sounds like ammunition for his next book – semi-biographical author that he is now.
The other three are itemized lists of every complaint he has from Storm Coast to Fallow Mire. Varric does not scrimp on descriptions of every member of the inner circle either.
Hawke’s reply is not quite as lengthy, but feels just as heavy.
He’s worried about Carver – this false Calling Alistair warned him about. Aveline will keep his brother from doing anything rash, but no matter what, it’s Hawke’s job to protect the little shit. Carver’s just about the only thing they’ve had heated words over, but Varric’s the only person in Hawke’s life who understands what it’s like to have siblings.
They’ll remain in hiding, Hawke and Fenris. Whatever the Seeker was hunting him for has yet to blow over, that much Hawke is sure of. Templars and mages still at each other’s throats, red lyrium at the Conclave: all of it points back to Hawke. Blame’s all still there.
He updates Varric on their plans. Can’t have him falling out of contact again. Hawke doesn’t need another person to worry about.
----------
Fenris sniffs the air. A cold wind fills Hawke’s lungs. Trouble is on its way, she’s sure of it.
She felt it when Carver joined up at Ostagar. Again, when the Arishok summoned her by name. When they tracked the carta to Vimmark and when she met Knight-Commander Meredith; that same prickling at the back of her neck every time.
This time the feeling creeps from every word of Varric’s latest on the Inquisition. A magister in Redcliffe, a glimpse into the future, red lyrium infected people, this Elder One…
Unsettlingly familiar. Something is coming. They just can’t see it yet.
“You are considering the journey to Haven.”
Hawke stares, “Nobody said anything about that ramshackle village in the Frostbacks.”
Fenris nodding at the letter still clutched in Hawke’s fist, “You did not have to.”
“Oh. I’m just holding onto it because I wanted to read you the bit about Varric’s new Red Jenny pal dropping trou before a group of Orlesian courtiers.” Fenris does not betray the slightest grin, his brow knits and Hawke sighs, “I thought my sense of humor was what you liked about me.”
A nasty wind fills Fenris’s silent response. Hiding behind humor is getting Hawke nowhere and soothing Fenris’s fears even less. If only simple honesty came as easily to her.
Breathing deep, “Yes. I considered it, but I won’t lead you anywhere you do not wish to go.”
“I would die for you, but you do not think I would walk into a mage-infested camp at your side if you asked it of me?”
“Fenris…”
Tucking the letter away, she reaches for his shaking fist. He draws away at her touch.
“No. You want to go because you believe it is your responsibility – your fault. It isn’t. You know who is to blame. If we go, we go for Varric. He, at least, is worthy of your concern.”
The furrow in his brow isn’t irritation as Hawke thought; it’s worry. All this time, Hawke thought she hid her fear and guilt so well, but Fenris can see right through it, suffering enough for both of them without a word.
She kisses the lines on his brow, “Varric doesn’t need me yet.”
----------
Hawke traces the line of Fenris’s cheek, counter to the lyrium lines; it is not the raw power of experimental magic he will miss. Fenris stirs only a little, responding to Hawke’s callouses.
A millstone hangs around Hawke’s neck. He wouldn’t leave if he didn’t have to, but there are things he just can’t do.
He can’t ignore the ill tidings hastily scribbled down in Varric’s hand. Corypheus alive. How he doesn’t understand, but he fears what else it might mean. He shivers, remembering the mountain trembling beneath his feet when Corypheus awoke; it will take more than an avalanche to put an end to the darkspawn.
He can’t let Fenris throw his life away, for him least of all. Fenris has found his purpose; Hawke has none, if not to set this right.
What was it the old hag said when he fulfilled his end of the desperate bargain?
Hawke pulls his hand away from Fenris with a final brush of the hair out of his face.
I’m coming, Varric, he composes the response in his head, no need to be sent.
----------
Mud splatters the hem of Hawke’s cloak; she pulls the hood up as she follows the last pilgrim-trod steps to Skyhold. To slip into the fortress unnoticed will be something short of a miracle.
But fortune has her back in a way it hasn’t since – well, ever. Luck’s a tradeoff and usually Hawke’s at the short end of it.
There’s a distraction in the courtyard, directing the Inquisition’s attention away from any new arrivals. The crowd cheers uproariously as a sword gleams in the sunlight. Hawke ignores the commotion and flies up the ramparts to the designated meeting place.
She commends Varric his choice; out of the way, but with a vantage point over the whole fortress. The Inquisition couldn’t do much better for itself.
“This is a surprise.”
Hawke grins to herself, “You didn’t request one disgraced champion in the flesh?”
“I did,” Varric smirks, “but I thought she’d bring reinforcements.”
Her smile slips. “‘With the strength of an army, Hawke delivered the final blow to the Arishock,’ your words, were they not?”
“Poetic license. I believe, I also said you were ‘as humble as a chantry sister’.”
“Name one humble chantry sister you’ve ever met,” Hawke rolls her eyes.
This is the type of banter she’s missed since Varric went away. It’s been too long, but they fall into their witty pattern with such ease Hawke wishes she could forget the circumstances which brought her here and pretend they never left Kirkwall.
Only things have changed. Varric laughs but has no comeback. Hawke jokes without mirth. The times are different; they’re different.
“So Corypheus… You think there’s something I can do.”
“More like hoping,” Varric admits. “There’s some weird shit happening, Hawke. Magisters messing with time. Templars infected with red lyrium. The Grey Wardens vanishing,” he mentions the wardens more like a concerned question.
Alistair’s warnings – not Carver’s, because when would the stubborn mule ever pick up a pen to write – echoes with near certainty. If Corypheus is back, the wardens are vulnerable and Hawke has to know if Alistair found anything.
“Aveline’s keeping Carver out of trouble, but I may have another lead on the wardens.”
Varric nods, “I’d better fetch the newly-appointed Inquisitor then. She’s read the book, so you may want to get into character.”
Hawke snorts. No way is she playing into that version of herself.
Varric turns to go and Hawke realizes there’s something she hasn’t said, “It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
Hawke tries to ignore how wretched he sounds.
----------
Fenris spits every curse in every tongue he knows at Varric, a pair of the dwarf’s new friends preventing Fenris from getting a chokehold on Varric’s neck.
Varric coughs, “Bull, Dorian, have you met Fenris? He’s an old friend of mine from Kirkwall.”
Neither of them makes any sign of acknowledgement. Either they are smart enough not to indulge Varric’s pretense of pleasantries or they are too dumbfounded to speak.
Fenris responds with another string of Tevene obscenities.
“There’s no need for that sort of language,” quips the human on his right.
Fenris snarls at the man, starting to glow dimly, but all his anger is directed at his so-called friend. The Tevinter surrenders his hold.
“You alright, Varric?” the qunari on Fenris’s other arm inquires, his iron grip unrelenting.
“I will be, Tiny. Just a little spat between friends.”
Fenris’s head clears enough to rage at Varric in a language he understands, “Is that what you call this? You liar! You let Hawke die!”
Varric flinches. His eyes exhausted, guilt-ridden. Good. He’s suffering.
Anger satiated, Fenris stops glowing, though his scowl stays.
“Would you give us a minute?”
Tenuously, “Varric.”
“It’s alright, Sparkler. Choking people is just how Fenris greets people. Trust me, you don’t want to know how he bids them farewell.”
The Tevinter complies, but the qunari hesitates before letting go, suspiciously assessing the situation and probably wondering if it might not be better to stay close at hand.
Fenris wants to launch himself at Varric again, to allow his anger to take hold of him and finish the job. He should; it’s Varric’s fault and Fenris has never had reservations about slaughtering those accountable before.
Hawke’s ghost casts a shadow over him. He would never allow his friends to hurt one another. He would calm Fenris’s rage, stay his hand, and lead him to better choices. Varania only lives but for Hawke. So too will Varric.
“His last words were about you.”
Fenris meets Varric’s gaze.
“Lavellan says he apologized.”
His rage shatters. Fenris quickly turns his head so Varric cannot see through the cracks.
“By the time she told me, you’d gone off the radar.”
He’s a damn good storyteller, Fenris will give Varric that. As if anything Varric says could make up for Hawke vanishing in the middle of the night, leaving only Varric’s last letter as his explanation – as a goodbye.
No. He will not let Varric’s lies bring his resentment back to the surface.
----------
If he’s honest, and he rarely is, Varric is the least honest with himself.
“Why did you write that damn book?”
If he’s honest, it’s the same reason he began writing in the first place. But Varric couldn’t tell Fenris that.
He doesn’t think any answer, let alone the truth, would have satisfied Fenris. What little trust the elf had was lost when Hawke abandoned him.
Varric can add that to her list of defects and character flaws.
Luckily, Fenris meant the question to be rhetorical, so there was no need to forge a new lie out of the half-truths Varric has told himself in the months since he walked out of the Fade and Hawke didn’t.
He thinks Fenris did this on purpose though, leaving the question dangling. Fenris doesn’t want an answer because Fenris doesn’t need an answer. Varric doesn’t need a truthful answer either; he needs a convincing enough lie to believe the truth isn’t true.
He knows precisely how to spin an answer for everyone else.
To Aveline, he would say he wrote the Tale to set the record straight, even if he did use colorful prose.
Isabela he would flatter and say her sexual exploits and most infamous theft needed to be shared with Thedas.
He’s pretty sure Sebastian never bothered to read the book, so Varric feels safe in telling the prince he felt it was the divine hand of the Maker which moved him to write it.
If he ever sees Anders again, Varric will tell him it was so the public could judge for themselves who was innocent and who was guilty.
Merrill was easy to explain it too: he wanted to remember the good years they spent together in Kirkwall.
And Carver, “Oh Junior, there just wasn’t enough material to write a novel about you.”
But for Fenris and himself, no falsehood will satisfy and the reality is unacceptable.
He wonders if Hawke would have laughed at the truth. She certainly would have assumed it was a joke at the start; he would have too.
If he’s honest, there’s been nobody since Bianca and there’ll be nobody after Hawke, but even with himself, Varric’s rarely honest.