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It was… a fine tavern, as taverns went. Too small to hold the bustling number of patrons, what with the swell of tourists from the Conclave. This lot certainly didn’t qualify as pilgrims - anyone devoutly snobbish enough to have come for honest-to-Maker religious or political reasons were up on the mountaintop, not here. No, here was for the muscle. The hired escorts, the secretaries, the laundresses and nursemaids and whoever else the traveling elite saw fit to drag along by their purse strings. And, of course, the scourge hoping to profit from the influx of colorful visitors.
Not that Varric had anything against the lower class tagalongs crowding the cramped bar. He did, after all, consider himself one of them. And it wasn’t as if Kirkwall had had much of a tourist problem to sour him on the general concept of them.
Well, almost one of them.
He very much doubted that anyone else here was a pseudo-prisoner of the Chantry.
*"You’re free to leave your cell, rogue. But do not go far. You have yet to speak to Most Holy, and I will see to it that you do what you came here to do."*
Came here to do. More like bound, gagged, and dragged here by his toes. It wasn’t as if the Seeker had given him much choice in his impromptu travel plans.
He still didn’t see what he had to offer the Divine of the Chantry. For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t as if the Seeker had even believed half of what he’d said. What made her think his story would miraculously change when she threw him in front of the most important religious figure in Thedas?
Well… he probably would change the story. Add an extra dragon or two. Maybe a threesome for Hawke. Rivaini and the elf, maybe. No, no, the elf and the abomination. Now that would be a fun tale.
Hawke.
Well, she probably wasn’t getting much action these days. Probably. The fictional version of her should get to have a little bit of fun, he reasoned.
Varric’s fingers twitched, nearly snapping the quill in his hand. Maker’s shaved balls, he missed his wife. Missed the softness of her skin, contradicted by the lithe muscle underneath and the sporadic bursts of scar tissue and calluses. Missed the scent of lilac and lyrium, the smoking tang of magic like lightning rolling in on the horizon. Missed the matching spark in her blue eyes, and the wicked curve of her lips. Missed…
Well, a whole host of other things, but if his thoughts kept along that path, he’d be here all night. Or at least until the other customers got very uncomfortable by the reaction he’d undoubtedly have remembering everything he missed about Marian Hawke, inevitably resulting in him getting banned from the only drink-slinging place in this holy hell.
For the dozenth time, his eyes scanned the letter in front of him, trying to gauge just how much more he could get away with in his ramblings without that tricky spymaster realizing his game.
*Greetings, Messere Dunwald,
I write to inform you that I am well - or as well as I can be under the circumstances - and that I hope to return to the Kirkwall restoration effort soon. I do so desperately crave a bit of your bright wit and conversation, as the company here is quite lacking. Incidentally, I also crave one of the fine vintages you keep in your estate. There isn’t shit to drink here, if you’ll pardon the bluntness of my expression, and the plight of it is enough to drive a man to… Well.
I pray this letter finds you and yours in good health. Your last letter gave me cause for concern when you mentioned one of your mabari puppies contracting the common cold - who knew war dogs could even catch such a personable affliction? I do hope you remembered my mother’s remedy of cave moss tea. And be advised that the pup will refuse all cuddling attempts unless you tell her at least two tales about the daring escapades of Rivaini pirates on the high seas. Give her and her brother a good scratch behind the ears for me, and tell them I’ll be back soon with some of that horrible Fereldan cheese you all love so damned much.
Please be safe. The world is fairly literally on fire, and I know how you love to play with it. If you get yourself burned, I’m sicking the redhead on you, and Bianca will never speak to you again. She’s grown rather fond of you and the pups.
P.S. - If you’ve gotten it into your head that the Temple of Sacred Ashes would make an appealing vacation destination - don’t. There’s nothing here but fat-ego’d templars, brittle-tempered mages, and Andrastian zealots. And the pounds of muscle strutting around the poor excuse for a village outside. You’d have to sleep in the stables with the horses, which would put me out very much, as I’ve become quite good pals with my bunkmate, Chestnut. Stay your course and I’ll see you when I see you.
Yours,
Master Tethras*
Well, if Nightingale got suspicious, it was Hawke’s own damned fault for trying to pass the kids off as fucking mabari and then mentioning that the younger one had a cold.
Andraste’s tits, it was like she was outright refusing to make his job easy.
He couldn’t fight the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was here, doing this for their family, throwing himself in the line of fire to keep them off her scent - hers, the Champion of Kirkwall, pariah of the Chantry, supporter of rebellious mages, and flagrant rule-breaker. And she was scouring his every letter, he knew, for any sign that they’d done him harm, fists already flaming and blades in hand, no doubt.
Well, he would just continue leaving out the part where they had roughed him up a bit. It wouldn’t do to put in all this work to keep her safe just for her to descend on the place like an angel of vengeance and get them all killed.
No. No, she’d get them out. But she’d likely bring the full force of every army in Thedas down on their heads to do it. She was Hawke, after all. What was one dead Divine in the face of a dead Varric Tethras?
He didn’t love lying to his wife. Everyone else, maybe, but not Marian. In no small part because she scared the fucking piss out of him. But when the stakes were this high…?
Just a little longer.
There would be the Conclave, and his chance to spin his tale of 'Hawke was totally innocent and also I’ve definitely never seen her naked,' and then the Seeker had promised he’d be free to go. He wasn’t sure how much he trusted that promise, but he prided himself on being able to read people. And Seeker Pentaghast seemed, at least, like the type to walk naked through Darktown before betraying her sense of honor.
So, Varric just had to wait. And then he’d be back in Hawke’s arms, taking care of the nugs and nursing the broken remains of a self-destructing city back to life.
And in the meantime, he reasoned, the Conclave was sure to be a font of good fireside stories. Sure, most of the people here were boring, tired, stuffed pigs, but there was easily enough tension and power here to spark something interesting. All Varric had to do was live through it and he’d have a best-seller on his hands, probably.
So, with that qualm settled, he folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his duster, only narrowly saving it from getting sloshed with ale by a passing drunkard who’d bumped into Varric’s elbow.
He sighed.
The night seemed far from winding down for the motley group of patrons, and he was rather certain he could find someone to charm into a half-decent conversation, drink under the table, or thrash in a game of cards. Possibly even coax a juicy bit of gossip out of someone, or make a new business contact. He should probably stay and make the most of the evening, work his magic.
But damn it, he missed Hawke so much there was a physical ache in his chest, and all he wanted to do was find a quiet corner and be miserable about it.
Maker, when had he turned into such a sap?
He grew only more confident in his decision when he found himself standing between a perfectly discouraging barmaid and an incorrigible human whose face looked like it had been hit one too many times with a meat tenderizer.
“She’s not interested. But Bianca here is a sucker for drunk, dumb, and ugly.”
If he was being honest, he was perhaps a little too proud of that one - and that, at least, helped to balm his sour mood.
Though, not quite enough to keep the growl from his voice as he fired off a second shot, knocking the blade from the asshole’s hand, and said, “Take a hint, human.”
Varric was already moving to set up a third shot for the hint the human absolutely was not planning to take when the world rocked beneath his feet.
Shit. He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he?
Maybe he’d finally gained that mysterious Stone Sense the preening nobs in Orzammar loved to drone on about. He very much doubted it, given that he’d never heard of any caste-bound sods stumbling around the Diamond Quarter or Dustown like the earth itself was giving out beneath them. Seemed like something someone would notice.
Which left…
He’d barely stepped out of the blown-open door when a mother and child scrambled past, searching for cover.
Running and screaming, everything basked in an otherworldly sort of green, and what Varric could only describe as a fuck-off hole in the sky.
Yep. All the hallmarks of another world-altering crisis.
Well, shit.
Hawke definitely wasn’t going to like this post-script.
But because Varric was the charming rogue with the heart of gold - and one of the best damned shots in Thedas, thanks to his trusty Bianca - he sighed, cocked his crossbow, and muttered, “Not again.”