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Even in the Imperium’s glittering and terrifying capitol something in Varric’s blood drove him to the grubbiest bar in the city. This place was no Hanged Man, for starters, there was only one drunk trying to vomit out of a closed window, but it’d have to do.
Ignoring the creaking in his legs that went from an occasional twinge to a constant groan, Varric sidled up to the bar that eclipsed his head by a few inches. They didn’t get a lot of dwarves in here, apparently. “My good barkeep,” he called out while climbing up the stool in as dignified a way as possible.
The second his ass hit the cushion, the whole thing lit up like a Satinalia party in Val Royeaux. Even in a hole in the wall, Tevinter couldn’t stop being Tevinter. A man with a haze over his eyes that told Varric more tales than he was in the mood for glanced his way.
“Two of your… Damn it, what was it Sparklers was always going on about? Just give me two of whatever will get you drunk but not to the point a Magister nicks your liver in an alley.”
For a brief flicker, the dull sheen sharpened, but as the bartender’s hands fell into the familiar routine, it rolled back in. It reminded Varric too much of the Gallows, a place he refused to step foot in even as Viscount. That’s what Bran was for, anyway.
I’m gonna miss him. Sure, he was skimming off the top and playing favorites among the nobles and carta, but that kind of political backstabbing is a Kirkwall kiss. At least it’s not old elven gods trying to destroy the world. Again.
“Here.” Two glasses landed in front of Varric filled with distressingly clear liquid. Varric slid one to the empty stool beside him, then inspected his. His mother always said only a fool trusts a drink you can see through, but he didn’t have the time or coin to be picky.
Scrunching his face in anticipation, Varric threw back the drink. “Andraste’s tits!” he cried out. “Don’t you water this down?”
“Of course not.”
“Sparklers, you have my respect. One more.” Varric handed over his glass, his mind aching for oblivion even if his liver, stomach, and head were in disagreement. As he watched the glass fill from a bottle that might have once held a soul, he asked, “Any chance you’ve seen an elf around here? About yay big, head like an egg, with a wolf fetish?”
The chatterjay barkeep pushed the glass back with a grunted, “No.”
“I miss Corff,” Varric moaned, hating that he felt every year spent on this quest. “And Edwina.” Home was a distant speck on the horizon, unless it was on fire, which there was a good twenty percent chance of that happening without him there. With him home, it went up to thirty-five.
Kirkwall…
To think things were easier when it was just the mages and templars going at it, the Carta trying to gut anyone who stumbled upon their business, and the roving gangs just keeping life interesting. Varric’s fingers ran over the supple wood of his crossbow as he settled into his glowing stool.
“We’re in it now, Bianca.”
“Varric!”
His dour frown instantly ticked up at the cataclysm blowing into the bar. Hawke moved with the grace of a wyvern…missing two of its legs. Not that it slowed the man down for a second as he dodged people in mysterious cloaks no doubt off to assassinate someone important.
“You made it,” Hawke bellowed.
“Against my better judgment.”
His great laugh shook the whole bar. “Since when do you have a better judgment?”
“I’m trying it out in my old age. It was either this or take up gardening.”
Hawke plummeted to the stool and threw a hand behind Varric’s. It was as if no time had passed. They were in the Hanged Man, enjoying a game of Wicked Grace where Hawke was once again losing even though he could easily see every one of Varric’s cards.
Varric always wondered if Hawke didn’t know he was cheating, or didn’t care. He never thought to ask.
“You killed all the flowers, didn’t you?” Hawke asked and picked up his glass.
“Where else was I supposed to bury the bodies? Your cellar’s full.”
Hawke laughed with his whole chest, his face turning pink before Varric so much as took a sip. “I never did find out where Bodhan was putting all of those bandits.”
After taking a long drink, Hawke slammed his glass down. “So. You’re here, in Tevinter.”
“Chasing down another old friend who wants to set the world on fire.” Ten years they’d kept their ear to the ground waiting for Solas to make his move. It was easy then, to think of Chuckles as just another problem to overcome. But now, with the Dread Wolf striding about and doing magic shit, it became real. He’d have to stop another friend by any means necessary.
Varric patted Bianca, doing his best to not think about an arrow cracking open a skull. “What would you do? In my place?”
“For a start, I’d have to get new trousers.” Hawke laughed at that, then he had to go and ruin the joke. “Cause your legs are so much shorter and I’d be tripping on ‘em as I ran into battle.” He took a small breath and gazed into his glass. “This isn’t like Anders.”
“No? Someone you trusted, a friend, a mage, goes absolutely bonkers and thinks ‘you know what this world could use? A kick in the ass, or a chantry explosion, or just tearing the veil to pieces and unleashing demons on everyone.’ It’s becoming cliché at this point.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” Hawke leaned back on his stool. “I can’t tell you what you want to hear.”
“I don’t even know what I want to hear. I’m tired of making pyres for my friends.”
Hawke damn near leaped off his chair in order to wrap a comforting arm around Varric. “You know what you need? A game of mage stick keep away.” He pursed his lips to whistle for his dog. “Come on, boy. Anders loves this game.”
Anders hated it. But he loved Hawke. As did everyone who knew him.
Except for Meredith. And most of the templars. Oh, and the carta.
“We’ve made a lot of enemies over the years,” Varric said.
“And friends.”
“Friends who turn into enemies.”
“Ah…” Hawke’s mouth hung open before he shrugged. “Fair point.” His game forgotten, Hawke hunched over his drink. “Are you ready for this?”
Slipping his eyes closed, Varric tried to escape. He never cared much for the dreaming thing humans and elves did, but lately, it’d be nice to have a night or two in a world unlike this one where everything made sense. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You’re blaming yourself for…what do you call him? Chuckles? How come I never got a nickname?”
A pained nail stuck through Varric’s heart, but still, he smiled. “Because, you’re…Hawke.”
“I suppose it’s better than Stinky. Or Waddles.”
Staring down the reflection in his glass, Varric saw far more snow in his red hair than ever. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Don’t be silly. You don’t look a day over… How old are you again?”
“Old enough to be looking for a little place by the sea. Have a young nurse fretting about my humors and going to war over the length of the grass in my neighbor’s yard. Making my grandchildren fight over who will get their inheritance.”
“You don’t have any grandkids.”
Varric smiled. “I knew I forgot to do something.”
“Well…” Hawke lifted his glass. “One more time, then we get that little place by the sea.”
Closing his eyes, Varric raised his drink. “One more time,” he said. The clink of glass rang everywhere but inside the bar.
“Here you are.”
Varric opened his eyes. A full glass sat beside him, untouched. Scout Harding scurried across the floor, paying attention to every cutthroat and ne’er do well before stopping at the empty stool right beside Varric. “We’re supposed to meet Mae. What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d stop by for a drink. Toast my…” He stares not at Harding but the full drink for a lost friend. “Just toast.”
“Come on.” Harding, ever the professional with death on the line jerked her head to the door.
Misty-eyed, Varric pushed the full drink toward her. “One more time,” he said, tipping his glass.
Harding stared at the drink like it was poison—there was a good chance it was—then she picked it up and clanged against his. “One more time,” she said, drank it all in one slug, and wiped off her mouth. “Let’s go save the world.”
With Bianca strung across his shoulder, Varric pulled on his hood and walked out behind her. But, stopping at the door, he stared back to an old friend leaning against the bar giving him one final wave goodbye.