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Hawke doesn’t get drunk often.
It’s a good thing, because he isn’t a consistent drunk – it all depends on the day he’s had, and the people he’s with.
Varric most likes the good times, of course, though they can be a little too stressful. He becomes very proud of his magic, and insists on showing everyone magic tricks he apparently learnt as a child – things he used to do for Bethany and Carver, like make it snow indoors and set the fire to dancing. Varric tries to stay sober for those times, to keep him from showing the templars how nice mages can be by giving them flower crowns summoned from nothing.
But there are other times that are worse than that. Times when he simmers with dark anger and self-loathing. When he just sits quietly, avoiding conversation because he can’t stop himself from hating everything. Those times worry Varric. Make him want to find some excuse to walk Hawke back to Hightown and stay at the estate, just… just to be sure.
And then… then there are times like this. When Hawke isn’t quite drunk yet – he’s mostly just tired and frustrated and has been spending just a little too much time listening to Anders lecture Merrill.
He’s… philosophising.
“But I mean, I mean…” He gestures grandly to show what he means, “it’s evil, yes, we know this. But why? What makes it so evil?”
“Mind-control,” Aveline says, as if it’s obvious. It’s rare for her to get drunk with them, but apparently Seneschal Bann has been driving her a little insane this week. “Mind-control is evil.”
“But I don’t need to do blood magic to control your mind,” he argues. “There’s a spell. In the spirit school, there’s a spell. Mind-control through emotional anchoring. And you don’t even need magic to control minds. You just have to be charismatic enough, right?”
“This is true,” she agrees, saluting him with her ale. “But blood magic is still evil. It can tear you apart from the inside.”
“And how,” he demands evenly, “is that any worse than infecting them with a spell to blow you up? Or – or – turn them to ice and whack them really hard with a sword?”
“Or fillet them with a dagger?” Varric interjects, and Hawke waves at him in point.
“Because you need to make a deal with a demon to have blood magic,” Aveline says reasonably. “And we all agree demons are evil, yes?”
“Yes, but you don’t,” he argues. “Blood is powerful. It makes a person. It’s not that hard to notice that, and from there, it isn’t much of a jump to think ‘hey – why not use this in spells?’. No demons need to be involved.”
She squints at him. “Why are you defending this? We run into insane blood mages all the time. Is this about Merrill?”
“No,” he says, then, “yes. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s about all of them. Us. Everyone.”
They look at him, watching quietly. Despite everything, Hawke rarely offers his opinion on the whole situation with mages, templars, and blood. Between the jokes and his irrepressible urge to keep all his friends happy, it’s nearly impossible to know what he really thinks. But this feels like an honest moment.
“This doesn’t get repeated, Varric,” he says firmly. Varric has already decided tonight won’t make it to any story he ever tells, but he doesn’t respond. He’s too caught up in Hawke’s clenched jaw. “When I was young… too young… first thing I remember after Bethany and Carver being born… I cut myself on my father’s sword. Across the palm, here,” he says, showing them his hand as if they could see the scar that would have long since faded. “It hurt, I remember that, but… but I couldn’t cry, because the twins were asleep, and so was Mother, and they all needed to rest. So I just… stared at it. I didn’t want it to hurt, and I knew I had to do something about it, but I was too young to know what, so I just stared at it, like that would show me how to fix it.”
How little things change, Varric thinks, staring at Hawke and all the pain he’s never once spoken about.
“And… then suddenly my hand was alight. Electricity covered my whole hand. And then it jumped to Father’s sword, and nearly set the whole house ablaze,” he adds with a weak laugh. “I wasn’t used to that much power. I’m not sure I’d ever cast a spell before.”
“And it was blood that fuelled it,” Aveline notes quietly, and he nods.
“Father… he felt the power, I think, because he was beside me and calming things down before I could even realise what had happened,” he continues. “I told him about the cut, and… and he was… I thought it was anger, but… now I think maybe it was just worry. He told me never to do it again. That there was danger that way, that the Maker forbids it for good reason. ‘Good mages never need blood’.”
He stares into the middle distance. “Fenris says it’s always the same. We all turn to darkness in the end. It’s what we are.”
“Fenris also says you’re not like the magisters, Hawke,” Aveline says gently. “I’ve heard him. He says you’re stronger than that.”
“Am I?” he asks. “The first time I can remember using magic, it was with blood. If he knew –”
“I once broke a man’s arm just to prove I could,” she says, and both men look at her blankly. She ignores Varric in favour of keeping Hawke’s gaze. “I knew I was stronger than him. He called me ‘little girl knight’. I challenged him to an arm wrestle and broke his arm. Varric knows how to shoot through six men and graze a seventh’s sternum. Fenris can crush a heart inside its chest. We are all capable of horrible things, Hawke.”
Varric looks back at Hawke. Watches his eyes soften. Varric remembers saying something similar to Anders recently – about the girl he could have killed. They’re all murderers, if that’s how you see things. He knows Hawke heard the conversation.
He suspects it’s different coming from Aveline, though.
“You’re right,” she says. “If you look at it that way, there’s nothing intrinsically evil about blood magic. Just as there’s nothing implicitly wrong about knowing how to swing a sword, or fire an arrow, or even steal gold from a mother’s pocket. It’s about how you use that skill that makes it good or evil. I chose the guard. I kill to protect those who can’t protect themselves. You use your magic, in whatever form it comes, to help people who need helping. No matter how much you might pretend to just be here for the gold.”
That gets a smile, however tiny. “Well, there’s the fame, too.”
“Make your excuses,” she says, sitting back in her chair again. “You can’t fool me, Champion.”
Hawke is quiet for a few moments. They all are. They think about the conversation, and how it went. Varric thinks about mages and the Chantry.
“Aren’t phylacteries kind of like blood magic?” he asks finally. “Taking a vial of blood to hunt people down… kind of blood magic-ey, isn’t it?”
The other two blink, then exchange startled glances.
“Makes me wonder if maybe the whole thing is less about evil and more like when Bartrand didn’t want me to play with his knives,” he says, and puts his cheek on his fist, eyes on the ceiling. “What are you doing, Varric? Knives are dangerous! Go practice your arrows!”
Neither responds to that, the expression on their faces saying enough. They drink instead.
Eventually, Hawke pulls a battered pack of cards from his robe. “Anyone feel like playing Diamondback?”
“With the two of you?” Varric scoffs, even as he swipes the pack to shuffle. “You only ever play for nuts! There’s no challenge!”
“Of course there is,” Aveline says, sitting forward. “Pride is a bigger gamble than something as transient as money.”
“It’s all in how you look at it,” Hawke says quietly, and takes the hand he’s dealt.