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That cathartic moment of dawning realization. It was always a rush in Varric's stories, meant to knock the reader off their feet right along with the protagonist, making them both wonder if every single decision, every seemingly insignificant footstep, led up to this point.
It was all bullshit.
But Varric dealt in bullshit, so why should this be any different?
Once the Inquisitor emerged from the wreckage, looking pissed and proud and damn tired, Varric laughed—a bittersweet, Thank the Maker kind of laugh. Corypheus was really gone this time, and he wished Hawke could be there to see it in person.
He needed to write her, tell her he made it, make sure she was fine, or at least as fine as she could be in the belly of the Warden beast.
Before Adamant, the notion of Hawke not being fine would have made him laugh. Hawke always made it back to him. This was Hawke; anyone who could persuade Broody and Blondie to work together could do anything.
But in the Fade, he couldn't pretend anymore. Not when she had tried so damn hard to stay there to die, as if it would balance out the scales in her head. As if the hell her family went through and everything that happened in Kirkwall was somehow her fault. Glancing at the Inquisitor now, Varric wondered how much of Hawke's survival had to do with him.
Hawke made it back to him, but it was too close. He never wanted to be that close again.
He had no choice but to believe she was going to burst out of Weisshaupt any day now, staff and eyes blazing, even if no one else did. Well, Junior would make it out behind her, surviving on pure spite.
That was the way it had to be. He couldn't bear anything else.
It was up to him to pick up the pieces here in the meantime. And when the Inquisition’s needs weren't so pressing, he'd sort things out in Kirkwall. Someone had to, and since Hawke was occupied, who better than the city's favorite dwarf?
It certainly wasn't going to be Bartrand.
Hours and many casks later, long after the Inquisitor had retired to her quarters with Curly a hair's width behind, it hit him. Even with ale in hand and tales of the Inquisition's triumph on his lips, he was still thinking of Amanda Hawke.
It wasn’t a sock in the gut, but a tap on the shoulder. He stopped mid-sentence to utter a nearly silent, "Oh."
Well, it did make sense.
Buttercup picked up where he left off, words slurring with drunkenness, sleepiness, or both. "...annen Kitty put one right betweeniz eyes an’ crushed his glowy bits with her bare hands!”
The tale was just fine in her capable hands, one of which was curled around Dagna’s waist, the other around a tankard, raised high. Ale sloshed out as she knocked it against Hero's mug.
“Shame about that orb, though,” said Dagna. “I wonder if that’s why Solas ran off.”
“Who cares about Solas? We won!” And with a triumphant snort, Sera fell asleep on her Widdle’s shoulder. Blackwall chuckled.
“I think Buttercup’s got the right idea,” Varric said, standing up from the table.
“So early, Varric? There’s still plenty of ale to go around,” Blackwall pointed out.
“Have another one for me, Hero. I want to get some of this down for posterity.” Varric smiled. “You know, before it all falls out of my head.” It wouldn’t. But Blackwall didn’t know that, or at least he wouldn’t realize it until he sobered up in the morning.
Varric bid his friends goodnight and retired to his quarters, but he didn’t sleep for a long time.
Now that he was past How am I still alive? and Yep, it’s Hawke, Bianca finally found her way into his head and kept him up like she never had before.
Unlike the crossbow, she hadn’t made the best impression on the Inquisitor. Varric could hardly blame her; the adventure in Valammar hadn’t left the best taste in his mouth, either, and not just because Bianca had gotten in over her head. That part wasn’t really her fault.
It was the way she took him for granted.
He had no right to start complaining about it now; it had been this way since the beginning and he knew it going in. Reveled in it, even. Who didn’t love an underdog? And being a martyr, well, there was nothing more romantic.
Plus, he had always been too busy staying alive to let it bother him. Now, for the first time in over a decade, he had options. There had been no peace after Kirkwall—Blondie and the Seeker had made sure of that. At least it wasn’t personal. Well, maybe it was in Cassandra’s case, but that interrogation was water under the bridge.
Now that he had a moment to breathe, it wasn’t Bianca he wanted to spend that breath on.
Well, he couldn’t put off that visit much longer, anyhow.
~
All in all, it wasn’t his worst trip to Bianca’s workshop. The lack of assassins meant it didn’t even scratch the top 5.
Somehow, she knew. He didn’t even have to explain himself; she always knew more than he did. She was angry, but not with him. Not with Hawke. And that was that.
Weeks later, she sent him a new grip for Bianca, her finest yet. Probably her last. An apology, not a last-ditch effort to save what was already lost. If someone didn’t make her a Paragon soon, Varric would have to start a letter-writing campaign.
In another week, he received the letter he really wanted. Amanda was working her magic (be it actual magic or utter chaos, Varric couldn’t be sure) at Weisshaupt, but she was thrilled at the Inquisition’s victory. Corypheus’s defeat was one checkmark off the long list of things Amanda shouldn’t feel guilty about but did, and delivering the news was the least he could do for her.
I’m so deep in Warden bullshit that you can probably smell me from Skyhold. It’ll take years to wash off the stench, Varric, but for you, I’ll try. Promise you’ll wait for me.
But he didn’t read much into that. He knew those tactics too well. She was never so brazen as Rivaini, but unlike Isabela, he could never be sure if Amanda would actually make good on her words.
Fourteen years told him that the answer was no, but Varric didn’t let that bother him, either. He specialized in one-sided relationships.
He did wonder if there might have been something between her and Blondie. Anders didn't do subtle, and there had to be a reason she kept him around even after he got his vengeance. But when he split, she didn’t follow.
And it wasn’t as if Anders was her only admirer. Any of their band of misfits, save Aveline, would have jumped at the chance. Still would, Varric wagered, except for the Prince of Starkhaven. No real loss there.
No, Amanda didn’t seem interested in anyone. And that was fine. The beauty of it all was that nothing had to change. She never had to know, because she already knew he loved her. Loved her like he had never loved anyone else in his life. Who else would give so much of herself to a city that gave nothing back? Because Dorian wasn’t wrong; Kirkwall was a shithole, but it was Varric and Hawke’s shithole.
He laughed to himself. Aww, we’ve had a child this whole time, and I bet Aunt Aveline never lets him have any fun. Well, he and Hawke would get back to the baby eventually.
Not that Kirkwall’s Champion had much left to give her city. He saw it when she arrived at Skyhold—after stopping Meredith, if he was being honest. He saw her suffering, even if no one else did, and he would be her strength.
Besides, no one else was so willing or able to keep up with his jokes, and Varric wasn’t about to ruin that arrangement. Nothing was worth giving that up.
But this is Hawke. Some new—are they really new?—feelings weren’t going to change anything.
~
But what if things did change?
He was still two weeks off from Kirkwall when the question popped up. The Provisional Viscount had sent so many panicked letters that the Inquisitor had practically pushed Varric out of Skyhold.
Being begged to return was flattering, but once he got there, Varric had no idea what he would actually do. Helping people one by one, throwing his money around, showering the enemy in arrows, those were things he could do. But advising a leader?
Kirkwall had never had a useful leader as long as he could remember, unless he counted Hawke. As far as he could tell, all the Viscount did was keep people waiting, and it sounded like Bran wasn’t doing much better. At least Varric probably couldn't make things any worse.
But it was Aveline's words more than Bran's that convinced him. I can keep order but I’m not a politician, she had said. The people need one of their own up there, and I’ll be right below to keep an eye on you.
The way Aveline put it didn’t sound so bad. The worst part would be working in the Keep, not because of Aveline, but because it was so stuffy.
As good as Varric was at talking, he was twice as good at listening, and he had the connections to make things happen. Time away from home had only expanded his network, and though he’d never think of imposing, he had a feeling the entire Inquisition would be happy to breathe down Choir Boy’s neck if he ever thought of invading again.
But even if the people needed his connections and his money, he needed Hawke.
She said she was coming back after she and Junior finished cleaning up after the Wardens, and when she did, she wouldn’t be shy (or polite) about sharing her ideas for putting Kirkwall back together. Aveline’s going to eat her words, he thought with a chuckle.
If other things changed when she got back, things could be good. Damn good.
No one could deny it—Hawke and Varric had chemistry. She was beautiful, and he couldn’t say the thought had never crossed his mind before. They had joked about it, after all, and there was no better way to conceal the truth. But he didn’t want to overanalyze.
He tried not to dwell on fantasy that they could be something other than what they were, because this was not going to be Bianca all over again. If he and Bianca were as good of friends as he and Hawke, things might have worked out. Losing that friendship to something as trivial as one-sided sexual tension was stupid, and Varric refused to let that happen.
Still, the long, lonely journey home left plenty of time for his mind to wander, and he could only plot so many novels at a time.
Amanda wasn't as gigantic as her brother, but she was tall, and even though he could write a damn sexy scene about it, Varric had never actually been with a human. It wasn't so complicated that he’d ever considered taking Isabela up on her unsolicited offer to demonstrate, but the logistics had to be a bit different.
There had only been other dwarves before Bianca, save a night of mutual drunken debauchery with an elf. That night was so far behind him, he barely remembered anything but the name Lannya.
But it wasn’t going to happen. Just idle curiosity; thoughts to kill time. He didn’t need extra fingers to count how many times he and Bianca had slept together in the last 10 years, and he could get on just as well without.
Still, it would be nice to find out if that steamy scene he’d thrown into Dust Town Deception actually worked...
~
“And here I thought I’d never get an appointment in the Viscount’s office.”
“Just because I can keep people waiting doesn’t mean I do,” Varric replied with a smirk. He set down a stack of invoices and rounded his desk to welcome Rivaini into his office. The sea suited her; he had never seen her smile grow quite so wide, or come so easy.
“Well, then you’re clearly doing it wrong,” she drawled, perching herself on the edge of his desk. “You have to make them want it. Create some mystery.”
"Well, I’m just an advisor. If you want to see the Viscount, it’ll be at least a few more hours."
"Next time I come back and you’re the one running this city, I expect to wait a full week for an audience,” she said.
Isabela was always good for a laugh. “For you? Two weeks.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” She crossed her legs and put a palm to the desk to prop herself up. "But seeing as you’re not the Viscount yet, you have no choice but to regale me with tales of the Inquisition. Is the Inquisitor as ruthless as they say? Does the Commander’s hair really cascade over his brow like stardust on a summer’s night?"
Varric shook his head. "My publisher will wring my neck if I start giving sneak peeks. You’ll just have to wait for All This Shit is Weird."
"Is that what you’re calling it?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
He shrugged. “It’s a working title.” Rivaini went on pouting and he sighed. “Fine, since you’re a close, personal friend, I can tell you that Curly’s hair is everything they say and more.”
At this, she broke into a fit of laughter that Varric couldn’t help but join. Once she finally calmed down, she asked, “And how does the Inquisitor, Trevelyan, was it? How does she feel about the book?”
“She thinks it’s hilarious. Wanted me to say she was 10 feet tall and tossed people into rifts when it pleased her,” said Varric with a chuckle. “But I have my credibility to think about.”
“Credibility?” Another guffaw. “You’re an even better liar than I am.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning against the other side of the desk.
“And that’s why I miss you, Varric. It’s so hard to find people who understand.” She rolled her neck in a languid stretch and her smile faded. “But I’m a bit disappointed that Hawke’s not here with you.” She rapped a boot heel against the desk and smirked. “Not hiding under your desk, is she?”
Varric only missed a fraction of a beat. Shit. “And whatever would she be doing there?” he asked, hoping in vain that she wouldn’t pick up on his hesitation.
“You tell me.” She arched an eyebrow. Rivaini was too quick. “I’ve already been to see Merrill, and she told me Hawke and Carver weren’t back yet. I was hoping you had more information, but rest assured we will come back to that.” He resisted a gulp.
“It’s about what you’d expect. Take a bad situation, add Hawke, and you get a shitstorm.” A chuckle helped him relax as he sifted through possible witty retorts to her inevitable question. “With bonus Junior.”
“But she’s all right?” The question came out soft, steeped in worry. He should have known that question would come first.
“Of course she is,” he said, voice firm for himself as much as for Rivaini.
She crossed her arms and grinned. “So does this mean that when she gets back, you’ll finally put that silver tongue of yours to good use?”
“You mean to tell me I’m not making the most of my abundant wit and charm?” he asked. There was no point in trying to lie to Isabela, but at least she was too kind to make him come out and say it. “What would you suggest?”
“You’re creative. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She winked and slid off the desk. “And tell her to hurry home. If I sail too far, there’s no telling when I’ll make it back here.”
“Don’t worry. When she comes back, I’ll make sure you know.” But he knew nothing would keep Isabela away when Amanda returned.
Isabela sauntered to the door, glancing at him over her shoulder. “It can wait until after you storm her fortress, mind you, so long as you tell me all about it in the letter.”
Varric shook his head. That definitely wasn’t going to happen, at least not outside of Isabela’s mind. “Hanged Man tonight for Wicked Grace?” he called to her retreating form.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
~
Varric couldn't say he was surprised when Isabela's prediction came true—the one about becoming Viscount. Bran was equal parts relieved and disgruntled, but at least things had gone smoothly despite the effective role reversal (though Varric was quick to point out that he had only served as an advisor and not seneschal).
At least things were going well. The long trip to Orlais could change that. The Exalted Council came at a good time, if there ever was a good time for this sort of crap. Now that trade was flowing again, he and Bran could get away.
The convoy was packed and the preparations made, including a few special surprises for the Inquisitor. Bran was probably tapping his foot at the gate, but he could wait a little longer. Varric had a letter to send.
Letters from Hawke had long since dwindled into brief third-hand reports from his agents. He wondered how much meaning was getting lost as the messages passed from spy to spy. "Hawke was seen in the mountains helping wounded Wardens," was pretty cut and dry but messages like, "Grunt found a severed foot yesterday," or, “Why does no one ever listen to us?” left him scratching his head and missing her more. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure why he expected anything else.
But he pressed on with lengthy pieces of home to make her smile (assuming she had time to read them).
Unlike the other letters you've received from the Viscount's Keep, this one actually comes from the desk of the Viscount. That's right, Hawke, the votes are in, and cleaning up Kirkwall is officially my responsibility now. I was doing it anyway, so I suppose if they want to give me a crown for it, I can deal with that.
I put Daisy in charge acclimating elves from alienage with the rest of Kirkwall. She's really taken to it, and everyone's taken to her sunny perspective. They set up a College here a few months ago and Daisy helps with the mages, too. No sign of Blondie, but wherever he is, I hope he's pleased with Divine Victoria's reforms. Andraste's Ass, it's weird to call Cassandra that.
By the time you get this, I'll be at the Winter Palace for the Exalted Council. Not looking forward to the council part, but at least I'm not representing Kirkwall. It’s one of the few times I’m glad that no one ever looks to Kirkwall in these situations. Still, it'll be nice to see everyone again. As far as I know, Curly hasn't popped the question yet, but I might be able to have some fun with that.
Rivaini dropped in last month. This time, she took Broody with her to Tevinter to bust up a slave ring. In other words, Broody's doing what he does best. Never seen him smile so wide. Anyhow, Isabela says if you're not back in six months, she's sailing to Weisshaupt to get you and Junior herself. I told her I’d fund the voyage myself.
You and Junior take care of each other in the meantime, because I'm still waiting. Look on the bright side: we haven’t seen each other in so long, we’ll never run out of stories to tell each other—not that we were ever in danger of dull conversation.
He signed it with just his name. Rivaini told him to mention that there was just one Bianca now, but Amanda had enough to worry about without adding letting Varric down softly to the list. She'd find out eventually; she was even better at wheedling information out of him than Isabela.
He sighed and sealed the letter. It hardly felt like two years since he had last seen her at Skyhold, but there was nothing so distracting as a worthy cause. At least Fereldan and Orlais weren’t pulling Hawke into the Exalted Council.
Now if only the Wardens would release their hold…
A cough interrupted his thoughts. “Are you ready?”
Varric looked up to see Bran standing in the doorway. “Almost. Just have to catch up on my correspondence.”
Bran approached the desk, rolling his eyes when he saw the name on the letter. “Of course.” If that was his attempt to be cordial, it didn’t bode well for the rest of the trip, and he was going to love what Varric had planned for the Inquisitor.
“Don’t worry so much. We’ll just slip in the back if we’re late.”
Bran sighed. “I’m sure that will go over well with the rest of the Council.”
“Oh, Cassandra won’t let them start without us,” Varric said. He held up a hand before Bran could tell him to use her proper title. “And you know that the Inquisitor loves a little drama.”
“I can see why you two get along so well.” He took a deep breath and Varric smiled. It took a clever man to dish out so much contempt under feigned patience. He really did like Bran, maybe enough to base a character off of in his next book. The Bitter Yes Man. Bran cleared his throat. “Shall I see that the letter gets delivered?”
Varric shook his head. “No need.” He tucked the letter under his arm and picked up a box from his desk. “Here,” he said, handing it to Bran. “Got you something.”
Frowning down at the package, Bran uttered a confused, “Thanks.” He tore the paper and pulled out the heavy wool cloak Varric had picked out with the rest of his souvenirs in the bazaar.
“Thought you’d need something warm for the road,” said Varric. For a moment, Bran almost looked touched. “And it brings out your eyes.”
The look faded. “Right.” But he threw it over his shoulders anyhow. “I will meet you outside, my Lord.”
Varric chuckled. “I’ll be right behind you.”
~
Letters from the Spymaster and the Divine were placed in positions of honor on Varric’s desk, but it took all of his willpower not to chuck yet another letter from the Prince of Starkhaven straight in the fire. Wasn’t Bran supposed to be screening for these? Varric shook his head and stood. His legs could use a stretch, so he made for the storage closets to put the letter into the moldy crate he’d dubbed the Sebastian Archive.
Maybe I’ll ask Aveline to send some soldiers up there to keep him on his toes. Better yet, I’ll ask Curly. Raid Starkhaven for agents of Fen’harel, kill a few birds with one stone. But thinking of Chuckles brought a heavy sigh. Better see if Daisy’s heard anything, he thought, coming to a stop in the doorway.
“That bad, huh?”
The voice could have been in his head. He had been working too hard, and his ears went foggy, but he looked up and the sight of her stopped his heart.
Armor worn but not broken, Hawke’s Key on her back, with more years on her face (but not as many as his), there she was. No warning, no message—had she paid off his spies? He steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe.
Yep. It’s still Hawke.
“You’ve got...” a lot of explaining to do. He meant to say all of it, almost thought he did, but the words died on his tongue.
Two years.
Hey, you got your dad’s staff back.
Have I got news for you.
Screw this, let’s grab a pint.
All those lines and nothing came out.
But then he didn’t need a line because she was hugging him, mantle hard against his nose, but warm and safe and home. He wrapped his arms around her and that Thank the Maker laugh came out—had he been holding his breath? Hawke was squeezing so hard it hurt, but his chest never felt so light.
It must have been scandalous, hugging and crying in the Keep like idiots, but Aveline’s sure footsteps in the hall kept the moment private, and Varric had no intention of letting go until Hawke was good and ready.
It could have been days before Amanda broke the silence.
“Believe it or not, Varric, Weisshaupt still stands.”
“Then you did good.” He spoke into her armor, but she must have understood, because she laughed. Damn, it’s good to hear that.
“And here I thought you’d be disappointed.” Her voice came out soft, almost wavering, and she was—was she stroking his hair? Petting him like Grunt? Or...
He shook his head, or maybe he was nuzzling. If the shoe fits. “I don’t give a damn about that fortress as long as you’re back.”
Her chin tapped the top of his head as she nodded. “I’m home.”
When the tears dried, they broke apart, but only to arm’s length. His cheeks ached but he couldn’t stop smiling.
"You know,” he began, “there's an opening for an advisor in the Viscount's office."
"Ah yes, Isabela mentioned a position.” Amanda raised an eyebrow. “Something about under the table payment?”
He almost choked. I’m gonna kill that pirate. “Hey, any arrangements you work out with Rivaini are your business, but you know I’m good for the money.” When she didn’t respond, he was compelled to fill the silence. “I hear there’s plenty of vacation time. Right away, if you’re interested.”
She drew back and scratched her chin, nail grazing a scar Varric didn’t recognize. “Oh, I’m interested. In fact, I don’t know how you’ve managed so long without me.”
“Neither do I,” Varric said, shaking his head bemusedly. If she was going to glaze over it, then so would he. It was better this way. Comfortable. How could he ever think things would be awkward? It was Hawke.
A demonic smirk crossed her face and put warmth in his chest. “We’re going to annoy the piss out of Bran, aren’t we?”
“Why that’s the best part of the job!” He took a step back and laughed. “And I bet you thought the Viscount never had any fun.”
She puckered her mouth—Cute—and crossed her arms. “I don’t know, that under the table business sounded like more fun to me...” Was that a wink? She took a step closer. Is she...
Oh. Oh. Maybe he didn’t have to kill Rivaini. Maybe he had to thank her. That was much, much worse. But worth it. “Now, Hawke, you know I don’t mix business and pleasure. Anything like that would have to be strictly off the clock.” Her grin made him feel invincible. “With some rare exceptions.”
“There must be other candidates,” she said.
Varric stepped forward to shut down any doubts. “None.”
Her eyebrows went up at this. Maybe that was her moment. He made a note to ask her later. “Then I accept. Though I think we need to work through the details, and that could take a while.”
“Tell you what. Meet me in the Hanged Man in an hour and we can talk it all over.” A laugh bubbled out and Varric tilted his head to look at her. He had missed that laugh. “What?” he asked, smiling.
“It’s about time, that’s all.”
Things didn’t change right away—it took over a decade to get there, and neither was in any hurry to tear it down. But in time, Varric was pleased to discover that his scene worked perfectly.