Chapter Text
The war between the mages and templars was never going to be fixed overnight.
It certainly wasn’t going to be fixed by Hawke becoming Inquisitor.
Varric’s job was supposed to be simple. Lie through his teeth to Cassandra about not knowing where Hawke was, repeat those same lies in front of the Divine at the Conclave, and then go back to Kirkwall to continue ignoring his mail from the Merchants’ Guild.
Nobody said anything about rampaging demons pouring out of a giant hole in the sky.
Thousands dead. The Divine among them. As Chantry forces escorted Varric and Cassandra through the charred remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he wondered what might have happened if they hadn’t been delayed. If he hadn’t stalled so much during the interrogation. If they’d taken a faster route to the Conclave…
Varric’s spiral of what-ifs came to an abrupt end, as he looked up to find the only thing that could make their situation worse.
“That’s red lyrium…” he said aloud, transfixed by the familiar red crystals embedded in the debris.
“I see it, Varric.” Cassandra replied, all but rolling her eyes at his recognition of the obvious.
“But, what’s it doing here?” he asked.
Before he could get his answer, a soldier shouted for them, claiming they might have found a survivor in the rubble.
Of all the weird shit to fall out of a rift at the temple, a white-haired Dalish elf was the last thing anyone expected. He’d barely managed two steps on solid ground before collapsing into the dirt. The only sign of life was his hand. A glowing green mark, pulsating with energy, as if The Fade itself splintered his skin.
“Take him into custody.” Cassandra ordered. “If he’s alive, I want to question him myself.”
The guards gave a quick nod, before moving to apprehend the elf.
…
In the days following the explosion, Varric decided it was probably a smart idea to stay close to the Inquisition. With the rifts already spreading so quickly across Thedas, they were likely already in Kirkwall. There was no point in going home only to fight the same demons with less backup. Staying was his best bet.
After Cassandra introduced him to Solas– an elven apostate who seemed to know a concerning amount of information about The Fade– Varric got the chance to introduce himself to the survivor. Or rather, ‘the prisoner’, as Cassandra insisted on calling him. Varric understood her apprehension, but the pale, lanky elf certainly didn’t act like a criminal mastermind plotting to kill the Divine. He seemed just as confused as everyone else about what could have caused the explosion, or how he managed to survive it. Granted, he could have also been an excellent liar, but Varric just couldn’t find malice in the same eyes that lit up with childlike wonder when Varric mentioned he named his crossbow ‘Bianca’.
Much to Cassandra’s reluctance, she eventually unbound the survivor’s hands, and gave him a bow to let him help with fighting the demons. After mentioning he was a hunter for his clan, they discovered he was a decent shot, but his real power turned out to be the mark. Solas had theorized that the fade-colored mark on his hand could be the key to closing the rifts. A theory that Varric refused to question once he saw it in action for the first time. The survivor was no mage, but he certainly had power no one else in the Inquisition could match. Whether Cassandra liked it or not, they needed him.
Their hopes of closing the Breach, however, were dashed as soon as the elf collapsed again. He tried his best, of course. He even managed to stop the rift from spreading any further, but his mark just wasn’t powerful enough to seal it for good.
With the Breach contained for the moment, they were forced back to Haven to regroup, leaving the massive rift anchored to the sky, and the elf unconscious.
…
Haven was a nice enough place to stick around. The locals were a bit prickly to the Inquisition taking over their town, but there were no rifts in the immediate area. Varric could certainly think of worse places to lay low for a while. The Guild wouldn’t care enough to send anyone all the way into the Frostback mountains just to find one dwarf.
In one of the old houses granted to the Inquisition, the survivor laid unconscious under the watchful eye of Solas. Varric only visited once, until Solas grumbled something in elven and made him leave, so he could concentrate on keeping the other elf alive. By the time he’d finally woken up, the townspeople were bowing before him, calling him ‘The Herald of Andraste’ as they escorted him to the Chantry.
When he emerged, later that morning, Varric was warming his hands over a campfire, attempting to stave off the freezing mountain air. It was the first time he’d seen the elf without Cassandra breathing down his neck. Whatever they discussed inside, she must have changed her mind on letting him explore Haven on his own.
“Varric, right? And Bianca, of course.” the elf said, gesturing to Varric’s beloved crossbow leaning up against a nearby wall.
“That’s us.” he smiled. “Speaking of names, I’ve been meaning to ask about yours. You do have one, don’t you? Or do you prefer ‘my Lord Herald’?”
The Herald winced appropriately at the title. “Absolutely not that. But thank you for asking… You’re the first one who has.” he added.
“Seriously?” Varric asked. With the amount of followers he’d gained in the last 24 hours alone, Varric found it hard to believe that no one had asked for the Herald’s name.
“It’s true. As soon as Leliana found out which clan I came from, everyone has either been calling me ‘Herald’, or ‘Master Lavellan’.” the elf shrugged.
“That doesn’t sound so bad. I’m sure there are worse things they could call you.”
“What? Like knife-ear?” he challenged, watching Varric’s face for a reaction.
“Not what I meant.” Varric replied, hoping to carefully extract the foot from his mouth. “No one here has called you that, have they?”
The Herald gave a thoughtful tilt of his head. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been asked that question more times than it’s actually been said.”
“Sorry, fair enough. Didn’t mean to offend. So, what should I be calling you, then?”
“I prefer Aramil.”
Easy enough. “Great. Aramil it is. Though, don’t be surprised if people start calling you ‘My Lord’.”
Aramil rolled his eyes, playfully.
“So… Aramil.” Varric began. “Now that the Seeker is out of earshot, how are you holding up?”
Varric had written enough stories to know what happened to people like Aramil. Ordinary folks, with monumental tasks before them. That would weigh heavily on anyone.
“I still don’t know if I believe any of this is really happening.” Aramil replied. “One moment, I was a hunter observing the conclave. Now, suddenly, I’m the ambassador for Andraste and every Dalish elf in Thedas, and I can’t even remember how it happened. It’s… a little unnerving.”
“Yeah, most people spread that out over more than one day.” Varric teased.
“If that’s the case, I don’t even want to know what I’m going to do tomorrow.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
None of Inquisition’s followers had actually witnessed what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but they all heard about how Aramil stopped the Breach from spreading. They claimed it was because Andraste (or maybe it was The Maker. The accounts weren’t exactly clear.) had sent them a hero to close the Breach and save all of Thedas. As far-fetched as it looked for Andraste to send a lone elf through The Fade to save the whole world, it was the only explanation that made a lick of sense to Varric. What were the odds that the one person to survive the explosion happened to be the exact person the Inquisition needed, right when they needed him?
With the entire world going to shit in the span of a few days, Varric was content to believe in a miracle.