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Storyteller, they call him. Bard. Poet. Entertainer of the masses. Written word extraordinaire.
Cole called him a Speaker. With a capital ‘S’. Someone who speaks for others when they don't have words of their own. He didn't have the heart to tell the boy that the words are all his. The feelings are all his.
Every regret and loss and moment of fury. Trapped and tangled in a torrent of thinly veiled allegory.
Shit. He's talking like him now. Too much alliteration for a usable serial.
“Loss, losing, lost, lamenting latent love, Lavellan.” The spirit boy had whispered, staring wide eyed at Dorian all the while. Subtle as a sinking ship. Or maybe a battering ram.
He'd taken the kid to the oasis pool then, let him dip his hands in the freezing water of the desert. He'd been surprised at how it hurt after a while. He asked how the water was so cold when the sand was so hot during the day.
“The water lives underground, kid. This pool is probably fed by a river so deep it touches Titans. The water will heat up out here, but down there? It's so dark and insulated, nothing is going to warm it up. So the animals here have a place to drink. Us included.”
The boy sits on the bank and studies the dark water, seeing the subtle shift in the current. The reflection of stars above shiver as if they feel the cold of the water.
“Do you think the water knows it is everything to what it touches?”
“Probably not. But everything it touches does. And maybe that's enough. Probably needs someone to say it though.”
Varric Tethras is a liar. A liar so practiced that he convinced Cassandra he couldn't find Hawke. He convinced his brother he would have been a terrible husband for some merchant dwarf. Varric lied to Dorian and promised he wouldn't tell Fenris where to find him even if he broke Mahanon's heart.
But he never lies to Cole.
The kid would believe him too easily. The water doesn't know it is everything, and it never will.
If the water doesn't know it is everything, does the water feel used?
Varric can't look at Lavellan and feel that the answer is no. The elf has four new stress lines on his face in the short three months he's been Inquisitor of a religious sect he doesn't share belief in. The man ordered Dalish heraldry for every window, couch cushion and wax seal. The man has abandoned appearances of playing along with the Orlesian Chantry.
Mahanon Lavellan has forbidden Mother Gizelle from the library; citing numerous complaints that her ‘discussions’ with Dorian disturbing everyone in a half mile. Lavellan is surrounded by hostile soldiers that think they are on his side.
The water, impossible as it may seem, is drowning.
He should have gotten him out when the sky was stable. He should have smuggled the poor kid back home when the Templars kicked up in Val Royeaux. There are so many things that he should have done before now.
Varric Tethras writes to Lavellan's clan leader and doesn't let Leliana see the words. She wouldn't approve of what he wants to do. She believes too much in The Chantry. Mahanon Lavellan needs someone from home to tell him he's doing the right thing. Solas and Sera are for once, allies in not allowing Mahanon to believe in his gods without derision. It's been pissing the dwarf off for too long.
Mahanon's cousin Avesh’aranna, the Keeper's First, rides into Skyhold on a speckled Halla. The visibly Dalish Mage is greeted by sentries that try to send her away, pikes and polearms ready like she's going to attack eight armed guards. Iron Bull at least had the sense to tell them to settle down. He greets the elf with a warm, if slightly threatening introduction.
“Welcome to Skyhold, hope you have a damn good reason for being so far up the mountains. And how you got past the front guard.”
The mage is about to respond when a cry of utter joy is heard from the direction of the stables.
Mahanon Lavellan sprints towards their cousin and tackles them off their Halla, much to the beast's displeasure. Even without a saddle, it probably didn't appreciate the weight of two elves sliding over and off its back.
“Lethalin! Mae haran eli'nan!” The Inquisition’s leader cheers from the tight embrace of their cousin, sweaty, dusty, and now muddy on the ground.
Cassandra and Cullen are mad that an unknown elf was told where Skyhold was and how to get there, as well as given an ambassador pass without anyone knowing. Naturally, they blame him.
“If you're looking for an apology, you're not getting one. You've kept him surrounded by Chantry Mothers since Haven and it's only gotten more crowded. None of you even thought about bringing his family to see him. All you've sent is a letter and supplies that nearly killed their scout.”
Varric doesn't get angry all that often. He likes to have a good time and be amiable. He only really gets mad when he sees other people failing to care about others. He's been having a hard time not telling Cassandra and Curly to go fuck themselves on behalf of the man who is trying to save the world despite constant religious harassment.
Josephine and Leliana have the decency to look ashamed. Cassandra, natural as ever, does not care about other people's beliefs. Cullen just looks tired as he talks about security.
“Mahanon is leading the armies of the faithful despite hating every second of it. The least you could do is let him talk to his fucking family.”
He should have convinced Mahanon to keep his cousin in Skyhold. He should have told the elf he deserves someone on his side.
They are riding back to Skyhold, laughing and joking about how sunburned they all are, Solas especially. They ride the horses to the stables and Josephine, Cullen, and Leiliana find them before Varric can tell Mahanon and Dorian to stop kissing.
The two men break apart and would blush if not for their sunburned cheeks, but none of the Inquisition’s leaders seem to care about the amorous exchange. They are ashen faced and unable to look the elf in the eye.
Clan Lavellan is dead.
Every last family member was killed in Wycome. A Venatori plot had seen the city flooded with a poison that the clan had tried to quell with aid from the Inquisition’s forces. The city of humans had turned on the elves and inquisition soldiers. Every last elf was killed, and the inquisition’s soldiers were forced to retreat.
Mahanon Lavellan climbs back onto his horse and rides away without a word. He ignores every shout from Cullen and Leiliana, and urges his steed to sprint as the Skyhold portcullis is lowered. The Inquisition’s leader rides alone down the mountain, chased by a dozen people who desperately need him back.
Varric Tethras sits down and writes a letter to Hawke. It's possible it's the worst thing he's ever written.
He lost everyone. Please tell me you can help.
Varric
Mahanon Lavellan returns to Skyhold under armed guard like he is a fugitive and not the victim of a story told by a sadist. He is escorted to his chambers and there are only echoes of furious condemnation from the tower. Cole sits by the fire and rocks back and forth, staring into the fire. He doesn't say anything, and Varric can only think that's a bad sign.
After three days of not seeing the elf, Varric lies his way into the tower, getting about halfway up the damn stairs when he hears the Inquisitor's voice shouting at Cullen.
“You were supposed to protect them! You led them into a fucking death trap and you have the nerve! The fucking nerve, to say I am being unfair!? My clan is dead! Do you understand that, shemlen? My entire fucking family is dead because you failed to recognize that a city was under the control of the Venatori and they were targeting my family. If I had the opportunity to throw you from this fucking tower, I would. Your incompetence got everyone I have ever known, killed. Leiliana warned you. Josephine warned you. I, warned you. If it would not tear the Inquisition’s forces to pieces, I would have you exiled at best. When this is over, you are dismissed from the Inquisition’s ranks. Go take your fucking lyrium if you think it will make you less of a liability. Get out of my chambers. Ideally, from the balcony.”
Hawke once called him a soft hearted fool. His voice slurred and muffled against his shoulder in The Hanged Man's reserved room. Fenris grumbled his agreement, his head on Hawke's belly. The three of them comfortably sprawled on pillows and blankets like they're children again. Like they haven't seen the best and worst of each other over the last six years.
Hawke is right, of course. He's almost always right about people, irritating as it is. The Champion of Kirkwall was a lot of things, but no one could argue that he did not understand people. How else could a mage convince a former Tevinter slave that he would never let a slaver near him? How else could he convince that same elf that the mages of Kirkwall deserve freedom?
Freedom for people, Fenris. You don't have to trust them. If they hurt you, fight back, but they're just people. Let them go home.
Hawke understands people, and unfortunately, Hawke knows Varric. The human knows him because Varric decided to get him involved in a business venture that should have made them all rich.
Varric and Fenris watched Hawke kill Carver with empty eyes. The mage's hands stained with his brother's blood, just like Leandra had blamed him for Bethany's death.
Fenris carefully wiped Hawke's hands clean. No one dared ask if it was a kindness or assurance that the mage would not use it. Varric knew what it was. He saw it in the elf's almost unnoticeably shaking hands.
Varric lies by omission in letting Hawke believe the elf was offering kindness. It's easy, letting people believe what they want.
Leandra blames Hawke for everything, and Hawke takes it. Shoulders the burden a twenty four year old should not bear. The death of their siblings. The chaos of their adopted city. The qunari waiting for someone to find the relic they need.
Hawke wants Isabella to be better than she is. He wants the pirate to fix the situation she could only have guessed would happen. Varric lies to his best friend and says he thinks she'll do it.
She does, and Varric won't stop reminding her she did. Mostly because he was wrong and he likes being wrong like that.
Varric lies to himself for years when Kirkwall gets somehow worse. When Tevinter Magister's come to reclaim lost slaves and that slave nearly kills his sister. When Merrill fixes the mirror and Maethari gets possessed. When Zevran shows up and Hawke almost dies. When Meredith goes crazy. When Orsino gets desperate.
Varric lies to himself and tries not to blame the city itself. A city is just buildings, after all. A city is just people.
People who are afraid of anyone with different faces and backgrounds and abilities. Varric Tethras can't lie about it anymore. Anders wasn't the only person who hated the Chantry for what it does to people it thinks are dangerous. He just had a spirit in him that could not be satisfied with mediation when people were being hurt.
Maybe more people needed to be like Anders.
Maybe if people got mad enough that they couldn't be ignored, fewer people would die. Maybe it would be better if people got angrier over the chantry's overreach before someone planted bombs in the chantry.
Varric Tethras wishes Hawke were with him as he hunts Solas, Harding and Rook in tow. He lies and tells himself it's better that he's not. It's better that Hawke is with Fenris. They balance each other out, much as Varric is surprised by it.
Still. He misses them.
Rook is a lot like Hawke, and that's honestly the scariest thing. Hawke's story is not fun, nor does it end well. The Tale of the Champion is a tragedy, and it keeps Varric up at night.
There was so much he never told Cassandra or wrote in the book. Again, lies of omission. Let people assume that they have the whole story.
Don't mention the free mages that died getting Templar deserters out. Don't mention the elf children whose screams were cut short by qunari and mercenary blades. And don't talk about how close Hawke came to getting locked up in The Gallows when he was drugged and gang raped at a Patriar's party. And certainly do not talk about how that house was burned down with five young men inside and every door and window nailed shut from the outside.
Rook jokes like they have the weight of the world on their shoulders. Their eyes are hollow when they laugh. They talk to Harding about letting her be honest with herself, and they don't hear a word out of their own mouth.
Just like Hawke.
Varric Tethras can't lie to himself anymore. He's seen tragedies play out too many times to ignore the one unfolding in front of him.
Rook is going to save the world or die trying. He can feel it. He mourns it. He wants to tell the kid to run.
But he'd be lying to himself again if he thought they'd listen. They want to stop Solas from drowning the world in demons. They believe in stopping an ancient elven god from breaking an already fragile world.
Varric can't lie to himself anymore.
He turns the page and reads.