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“Thank whatever Maker is in heaven that you’re here, amatus,” Sparkler said, looking over at Twitch. “But if I have to spend another hour in these woods, I’m filing for separation.” He draped himself over the elf, as melodramatic as he was noble. Which was to say, of course, very.
Varric knew that he, himself, wasn’t exactly the outdoorsy type. However, he, at least, had several years of Hawke’s wilderness survival boot camp to prepare him for the harsh, damp reality of camping. Seven years’ worth of day-hikes turned to week-hikes once the little clear out the bandits operations became ah, shit-tits, there’s a whole slaver enclave in this cove. Again. Good times. Good ole Sparkler, on the other hand, was still stuck in his princely Minrathous ways. He had all but draped himself—all six feet of his just-for-show muscle—over his willowy elven lover, who was in the process of squirming out from underneath him. The Inquisitor was a full head shorter than the Vint, but what he lacked in stature he more than made up for in ferocity.
“For the love’a the Creators, Dorian!” Twitch shoved Sparkler off of him. “I’m doin’ the best I can, quit your fuckin’ bellyachin’.” His brows furrowed at the wrinkled map in his hands. “You’re not makin’ my life easier, ya know.” Twitch had an accent like Choir-Boy’s—if Choir-Boy had spoken to nobody but his reflection and Daisy for a decade. And had adopted some of Rivaini’s more colourful vocabulary.
“The man needs to concentrate, Sparkler,” Varric chuckled. “Meditate, or something.”
Sparkler gave Twitch a sideways glance, the Vint’s olive-green eyes containing both affection and slight exasperation. The elf was tugging at his ear with one hand, gripping the map with the other, and steadfastly walking in circles as he tried to orient himself. It didn’t take a master of perception to know that the elf was perfectly, wonderfully lost.
Oh, you Dalish, Varric thought, smiling to himself. Never change. He doubted Twitch would be as receptive as Daisy was to the idea of a ball of string to keep himself from getting hopelessly turned around. Twitch saw him smiling and glared, his thick, black tattoos warping with the wrinkles on his forehead and the slight puff of his cheeks. “Don’t mind me, Twitch,” he said, giving the elf a thumbs-up. The elf’s freckled nose wrinkled at the nickname, and the ear that wasn’t in a death grip twitched like an irritated mabari’s. “I’m sure we’ll be outta here in no time.”
“Blackwall! Will you shut them up?” He went back to pacing and studying the map.
“You heard the man,” Hero said, making a shooing motion with his hands.
Sparkler huffed and sat down on a flat rock, his long coat swooshing slightly with the motion, draping as elegantly as an Orlesian lady’s ball gown. “Let it be known that I am only listening to you because you’ve decided to operate as Lavellan’s personal enforcer,” he said, clearly putting on a purposefully haughty voice. It didn’t take much effort. A thousand years of Tevinter breeding made such an affect come as naturally as breathing and blood magic.
“Only when certain magisters won’t do as they’re told the first time.”
“Oh, please, you hairy-”
“I’m tryin’a focus!”
Both Hero and Sparkler mumbled out a little yes, Lavellan and fell silent. The elf had the two of them wrapped around his little freckled finger, even if he didn’t seem to realize it half the time. Varric loved it when the bag of loose screws that was the Inquisitor would drag him out on his little world-saving errands. Watching an honor-obsessed Grey Warden and a Tevinter Magister bicker and argue over the little Dalish elf never ceased to get old. Sparkler was the charming, doting, free-spirited boyfriend, and Hero was the steadfast, worrying, often permissive father. It was certainly a first for Varric, that was for sure. There wasn’t a soul in the world that could’ve mothered Hawke half to death like Hero did with Twitch. He would’ve put them in a headlock faster than Blondie lit up at the scent of lyrium-soaked armor. And if anyone had tried to put Hawke’s beau of the week through the wringer before the morning after… There would’ve been blood. Lots of it.
Twitch was muttering to himself as he often did, occasionally stopping to breathe mechanically and put a few sticks into a line from longest to shortest. The strange little rituals seemed to calm him down—if he didn’t organize those things, according to his mutterings, they’d never get out of the forest. They’d die in the woods and their bodies would be picked apart by wolves and the Breach would never close and the world would die a grisly death. Or… something like that. To be honest, the man didn’t make much sense, even if he thought that he was the only sensible being in the whole world. A bit like Blondie, in a way.
Varric put his chin in his hand as he watched Twitch. He does act a bit like Blondie, he thought. If Blondie’s manifesto was about organization and… making traps instead of Circles. And I doubt Twitch has a demon in his head driving him crazy. He chuckled a little to himself. Yeah, that’s all natural.
“Blackwall!”
Hero stood, instantly, at Twitch’s command, moving right to his side. “You need something, lad?”
The elf muttered something, pointing at the map. Hero muttered right back. The two of them both eyed Sparkler slightly, making the man bristle.
“And what is it you’re whispering about, hmm?” He asked, folding his arms. “As someone also stranded in this arguably beautiful yet desolate wasteland of foliage, I feel entitled to join in on whatever conspiring you’re doing.”
Hero raised an eyebrow. “Did someone whack you over the head with a dictionary this morning, Dorian?”
Twitch coughed, clearly trying to hide a laugh. Varric didn’t attempt to hide his own laughter. The Warden could be surprisingly witty at times, betraying a rougher and lower-class past than he tried to let on.
Sparkler huffed, indignant. “You would know a thing or two about blows to the head, wouldn’t you?” He stood up and stalked over to the other two.
“Gives one a keen eye in recognizing the signs in a comrade, yes,” Hero chuckled.
Twitch put the corner of the map between his slightly crooked teeth and shoved his hands over Sparkler and Hero’s mouths. “Hush it, will ya?” His words were garbled from the piece of paper clenched between his teeth. After a moment, he shivered and pulled his hands away from the two, rubbing his palms off on his light brown, oil-grass-and-who-knows-what-stained trousers. “Why are you shems so fuckin’ hairy?”
“Hey, hey, it’s not just the shems,” Varric smiled. “C’mon, what’s stumping you, Twitch?” He walked over to the elf. Finally getting a good look at the map, Varric cringed. “Well, there isn’t a soul in Thedas that can say the man doesn’t take notes,” he said, chuckling a little.
The map was utterly covered in notes in Twitch’s shaky, blocky, all-capitals handwriting. Landmarks and warnings and field notes covered the parchment from north to south to east to west. Varric knew that his own first drafts weren’t exactly the pinnacle of grammatical correctness, but the misspellings littering the map made his authorial soul ache. DEN OF BAERS. LOSE ROCKS. RIFT KEEP OPENIN. KEEP AWAI FROM PATH.
“I don’t-! I’m not-!” The paper crinkled in Twitch’s hands.
Varric shrugged. “You’re not a navigator, huh?” He kept his voice light and casual. He knew that the wrong words would set the elf off like a barrel of gaatlok in a bonfire. “I’m not exactly a cartographer, myself. But I’m sure, if we all put our heads together, we’ll be just fine.”
Hero and Sparkler looked over at Twitch and furrowed their eyebrows. Hero spoke first. “Varric’s right,” he said, holding his gloved hand out for the map. “Here, lad. I’ve spent more than enough time out in the woods.” He gave the Inquisitor a soft little smile. “Let the ol’ woodsman have a go, eh?” When he spoke to Twitch, his voice gained a warm, gentle tone—like he was trying to wrap the constantly quivering elf in a warm blanket. It was undeniably different from the way he spoke to Buttercup, another young elf the Warden seemed to have adopted. Hero treated her like an easily excitable pre-teen, cheerfully encouraging her to say all the new swear words she learned and roughhousing with her like a bear playing with its cub—easily capable of overpowering the tiny thing in a single swipe, but always allowing it to get a few hits in to build its developing ego.
Twitch looked up at the man, swallowed, bit his lip, and tugged at his ear. “Fine,” he spat, clearly more frustrated at himself than anything else. “Go. Take it.” He shoved the map into Hero’s chest. The Warden took it with ease, not flinching at all at the rough little gesture. He knew the elf well enough to not take any offense at the huffy little action. “I need… I gotta…” He looked around, still tugging on his ear. “We- we came from the north, right?”
“Right,” Hero nodded, studying the map. “So we should head south. Retrace our steps.”
“Right.” Twitch looked up at the canopy. “And… that’s south, right?” He pointed in the wrong direction.
Hero looked up and studied the direction the elf was pointing in for a moment. “Move your hand just a bit to the left, lad.” Twitch started slowly, uncertainly, moving his hand to the right. Varric could see the Warden rapidly calculating a response in his mind. “Other way, lad. Sorry, must’ve been mumbling,” Hero chuckled. His voice had been perfectly clear both times. Twitch’s ears flushed red and twitched rapidly as he corrected his pointing. “Perfect. Right there.”
Twitch looked back and nodded. He quickly went over to the sticks that he’d been arranging and moved them, one at a time, to face south. As he worked, he asked Hero—probably a half dozen times—if the Warden was certain that he was facing south. To someone who didn’t know what the Dalish were like, Varric figured that they’d think this was some sort of strange, elven ritual. In reality, it was just… Twitch being Twitch. That man and his strange little compulsions drove Varric up a wall at times. Some days, he was fine. Relatively. Other days he couldn’t go five minutes without needing to pick something up and set something down, lest Skyhold be consumed by flames. Or something. Varric couldn’t make heads or tails of it. At least Hero and Sparkler—and even Tiny—seemed to understand at least a little of what the man was talking about. Varric wasn’t exactly tagging along to understand the man. He was following him mainly because he was fascinated by him. He was a true character, strange and wild, compelling enough in his softer moments and beautifully mad the rest of the time. Varric was sure that, when all was said and done, the retelling of the events of the Inquisition would be a bestseller amongst Thedas’ mentally unwell. And, based on the current trajectory of the world, it’d be the biggest market to date.
After a while, Hero managed to properly orient their little party and started leading them out of the forest. Sparkler was clearly relieved, but Twitch was still a bundle of anxiety. No change there, then. He was pinching at his ear again. It was a wonder the appendage hadn’t been worn away yet.
The group was relatively quiet for a few minutes. It was obvious that Twitch wanted to say something. His non-pinched ear was twitching, he was biting on his lip, and his posture was slumped a little.
Varric decided to give him that final push. “You alright there, Twitch?”
The elf jumped. He looked over at Varric, eyes wide for a moment before he looked away. And then looked back at Varric. He really struggled to not look at people when talking to them. “I- I’m sorry I ain’t no navigator,” he mumbled. “I- I know I’m an elf, but…”
Sparkler waved his hand. “Frankly, Lavellan, I should have assumed as much,” he smiled.
“Just because the lad’s Dalish doesn’t mean he’s some sage forest guide,” Hero mumbled, focusing on spotting one of the thousand landmarks Twitch had taken note of.
“Oh, please, as if you weren’t thinking the same thing.” The Vint rolled his eyes. “I am well at peace knowing that I have some gaps in my knowledge due to my upbringing. You, however-”
Hero cut Sparkler off with a bark of laughter. “You’re at peace with the fact that you’re ignorant?”
“I’ve a right to light that unwashed beard of yours on fire.”
“Is that what happened to yours? I always thought that mustache looked a little singed around the edges.”
“I’ll have you know-!”
“Gods! I’m barely even Dalish!” Twitch’s loud, frustrated yell stopped the back-and-forth instantly, splitting the two apart like Lethendralis through a slaver.
Barely even Dalish…? Varric furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at Twitch, baffled. He took a quick glimpse at the two humans, and saw his expression mirrored on their faces. What in the Maker’s name does that even mean? He was tempted to open his mouth and ask, but, in typical Twitch fashion, the elf started to anxiously over-explain himself.
“I mean, I- I know I have my vallaslin, but I- I only got that when I was twenty, so I’m, like, barely a fuckin’ adult in their eyes,” he said. “An’ twenty’s late. I- I think it is. I dunno. They said it was.” There was an uncertainty to his voice that told Varric, loud and clear, that they said was almost certainly I think their tone implied that they thought. His one hand was still on his ear. His other was now tangled up in his hair, which was a choppily-cut mess of bright orange fluff, interspersed with streaks of pure white. “And I spent- I spent most’a my fuckin’ time fixin’ shit, I mean, I was hardly ever able’a listen to any fuckin’ shit our hahren said.” He’d started wearing a circular groove in the forest floor again. “Gods! And who wants to listen to that shit, anyway? Endless fuckin’ supply’a stories about the fuckin’ elves gettin’ half’a the way to reclaimin’ some fuckin’ glory before we’re all just fuckin’ killed again! It’s halla-shit! It’s all fuckin’ halla-shit!”
Varric remembered how lovingly Daisy would speak about Hahren Paivel and his stories. He wished he could’ve spent more time with the man before Daisy left her Clan behind for good. Reeba, he thought idly, now that was a brilliant storyteller. He made a mental note to stop by the Alienage with a few drinks when he eventually made it back to Kirkwall.
“So I barely know any fuckin’ stories, and I can’t make my way around a forest for fuckin’ shit, and I don’t-!” He was fully gripping his hair.
Hero, in all his fur-faced motherliness, winced in sympathy. “You’re gonna pull your hair out, lad,” he said, voice low and calming. Before Twitch could say anything, Hero pulled a little wooden block out of the leather pouch on his hip. He didn’t say a word, but the little gesture spoke volumes. Here was this Grey Warden, a man supposedly dedicated to nothing but an ancient duty to die taking down as many monsters as possible, carrying around a little wooden toy in a pouch that, were it on the hip of any other man, would have contained nothing but healing salves and field rations and whetstones.
The elf took the strange object with shockingly little fuss. Within moments, both hands were on it, rearranging the series of interlocking wooden blocks with almost frightening speed. Varric remembered, now, overhearing something about how the Inquisitor always liked to carry these little inventions of his around to reorganize when he got… twitchy. Some little metal or wooden cube made up of more cubes that he could sit and fix until the hallas came home. Or whatever it was the Dalish said. Or maybe the not-so-Dalish, in Twitch’s case.
“I’m more of a fuckin’ flat-ear than any other tattooed halla-fucker I’ve ever met,” he muttered. “I’m barely even Dalish by my stupid fuckin’ blood.”
“Oh?” Sparkler seemed intrigued, those pale green eyes lighting up with his trademark curiosity. Like the elf had laid his backstory out on the slab like a cadaver that the necromancer couldn’t wait to anatomize. “And what do you mean by that, Lavellan?” It seemed that not even the Inquisitor’s boyfriend was privy to the details of his personal life.
It hadn’t escaped Varric’s notice that Sparkler only ever called the man Lavellan or amatus. It was like the elf’s first name was some unspeakable thing. An ancient curse, or something. Twitch wasn’t like Hawke. Hawke liked being called Hawke. He took pride in his name, wore it like a badge of honor, just like he wore that stupid swipe of red paint across his face. Maker, he loved that man. Twitch, on the other hand, hated being called his first name. Varric didn’t even remember what it was. Twitch was called Lavellan or lad or Inquisitor or amatus because they were tolerable alternatives to whatever blighted thing he’d actually been named.
“My father was a city elf,” Twitch muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. Now that he had the little fidget in his hands, the group was advancing at a far steadier pace—no longer did they have to deal with the Inquisitor slowing every few paces as he saw something or another in the forest that compelled him to either sort it out or tear his hair out worrying over. “Tried to run off to join the Dalish or whatever, but fuckin’ ran back to Halamshiral as soon as… y’know.”
Sparkler’s voice was quiet and gentle. “Have you ever…?”
“No.” Twitch’s voice was harsh and final.
The Vint gave him a sympathetic look and spoke in a gentle tone. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”
“I know, Dorian,” Twitch sighed.
Hero glanced over his shoulder, a sad look on his face. He quickly replaced it with a soft smile, even before he noticed Varric looking at him. “I think we’re almost out of here,” he said, pulling Twitch’s attention away from whatever negative thoughts were threatening to make him start hyperventilating again. “We just passed that collection of rocks you wrote down.” He pointed to a half-illegible scrawling on the parchment. “And I, for one, trust your note-taking.”
“If you’re trying to imply I have little faith in Lavellan, I-!”
“I could sneeze and you’d think I was insulting you, Dorian.”
“I swear, I can hardly get a word out without your oh so clever commentary.”
Varric rolled his eyes, chuckling a little at the bickering. He glanced over at Twitch. Even if his hands were still rapidly moving on the little cube, he was looking up at the two humans, a soft smile on his lips. It was rare to see, and Varric took note of how his tattoos shifted slightly alongside his freckles, how the crease between his brows finally disappeared. He looked his age, for once. He was young. Too young to be trying to save the world, that was for sure. Oh well, Varric thought. He’s doing it anyway. He knew that, no matter how well this whole Inquisition business ended, it wouldn’t be with sunshine and roses. At least, he told himself, I’ll get a damn good story out of it.