Chapter Text
“Hawke…”
She wasn’t looking at him, standing with her back to him and everyone else gathered on the schooner. He wasn’t sure she was looking at anything, even the choppy murk-grey waves below them.
Varric rested a hand on her forearm, over a long scar she’d gotten from a slaver in Darktown.
Maker, she was so riddled with scars. He knew it, knew each one intimately, but right now… She looked it. Worn and beaten and scarred.
“Messere,” he pressed, voice soft but insistent.
Her muscles were coiled tight enough to snap, and fuck, was she trembling?
“Don’t,” she warned lowly, but he knew her ire wasn’t for him. “I’m afraid that if I speak or move or even breathe, I’ll fucking kill him. And I’m not losing anyone else today.”
Varric swallowed, glancing back at the abomination curling in on himself on the stairs to the helm. Daisy stood a step in front of him, hands poised to cast a barrier spell - or worse - in the event that anyone came for her charge. Above them, Rivaini had both blades ready at her sides. She was barking orders to the crew of the boat they’d commandeered, but her eyes never left Fenris.
Carver, bless him, stood in the center of it all, unsure whether to close ranks around his sister or his lover.
Varric was used to Kirkwall being a powder keg - though, he supposed that particular climax had finally found its release. But his friends, his family? They had their rough edges, their disagreements, sometimes even full-on, blow-out fights. But they’d never genuinely wanted to kill each other…
She’d never wanted to…
Aveline moved to rub a cramp from her sword hand, and Merrill’s fingers glowed a warning blue.
They all glanced at Fenris.
Sebastian had already left, and while Varric would be hard-pressed to say he’d miss him, he still had to admit the tragedy of his departure marking the first fraying thread coming free of the group.
Aveline was furious, and pragmatic, and would do what she thought was for the good of all.
Rivaini was likely the most sympathetic, having put them all in a starkly similar situation three years prior.
Daisy was Daisy. Sweet, delicate, but with an inner strength that caught one by surprise if they didn’t know any better. There was someone that needed protecting, and she didn’t look like she was in the mood to be challenged on it.
None of them moved toward or away from the blonde mage.
There’d been enough death today. Buckets and barrels and boatloads more than enough. Perhaps none of them wanted to tip that scale any further.
Or maybe they were all waiting on Hawke.
He was.
Would Merrill set Anders on fire if Hawke gave the word? Would Isabela slit his throat?
Aveline would, he could see it in her eyes. She’d feel bad, at least a little, but she’d do it.
“Why do you insist on protecting this worthless abomination?” Fenris shouted, gaze torn between the offending party and their beloved leader. Every muscle in Varric’s body went as taut as Hawke’s. “Countless are dead because you refused to see reason, to see what was always inevitable before it was too late. You have coddled a monster, and now you are upset that it has bitten you!”
Hawke’s knuckles went white over the railing of the ship. Her voice was even, measured, despite the slight tremor in it. “Killing him won’t undo anything that happened here. It will only be one more tragedy to add to the pile.”
“It would provide absolution!”
“For who?” she spat, whirling to face him.
Varric lifted a hand to his shoulder, fist wrapping around Bianca’s handle. Nearby, Carver did the same with his sword.
The elf said nothing, opening his mouth just once for words he couldn’t find, then resuming the burning glare he had leveled at the Champion.
“You spent six years sitting alone in your stuffy, molding mansion, brooding!” she screamed, hands curling into fists at her side. “Don’t pretend like you give a single shit about anyone suffering in those streets!”
She jabbed a finger toward the docks that were nearing closer and closer.
“Yes, let’s just ignore every quest I willingly participated in to help this city,” he growled, taking one leaning step forward.
Bianca was in Varric’s hand in less than a second. “Watch it, Broody.”
Andraste’s pyre, now he was pulling weapons on his friends.
Fenris glanced at the dwarf, but the fire in his eyes did not bank. “Shoot me if you wish. It will not change the fact that I am right.”
Well, shit.
Hawke took several steps too many, and Varric tried to balance the crossbow in one hand as he reached out to stop her. She was in the elf’s face now, visibly shaking with rage, tears spilling down her scowling face. “If you lop his head off with that greatsword, you are no better than he is. Justice, vengeance… Call it whatever you want. But it’s your soul you’re damning if you do.”
Varric’s wife wasn’t particularly religious. The most she’d ever called upon a deity’s name was to utter delightfully colorful curses, or to scream in bed in accompaniment with his own. This - the soul-damning - wasn’t a concern for his spiritual well-being in accordance with the Chant of Light. This was a personal condemnation. Hawke saved orphans and rescued kittens, protected blood mages and abominations. Hell, she’d even given that worthless piece-of-shit Gamlen a monthly stipend and kept tabs on him for his safety.
He’d seen her kill as easily as he’d seen her save. She wasn’t a delicate wallflower who only saw the best in people. No, his Hawke was a god of judgment. She saw the good, and the bad, and that filthy grey area in between, and she weighed the pieces on her own personal scale in order to make the best decision for everyone involved. People came to her with their problems - everyone did - and she used those immaculate instincts to find a way forward.
Varric hadn’t often seen her choose wrong - if at all, given enough time for the consequences to become apparent. She was a terrifyingly wise creature when responsibility was forcibly thrust into her hands.
And she was telling the Tevinter in no uncertain terms that if he added one more tally to the death count, he was as good as dead to her.
They all held their breath as she went on. “You chose to follow me, Fen. I didn’t fucking ask. I didn’t fucking ask for any of this. If you want his blood on your hands - the man you drank with, fought with, played cards with for six years - I can’t stop you. If you are asking, I am telling you no. But you are free to make up your own mind whenever you want.”
Varric shivered, and saw the rest of them do the same. It was there in the wind, in the salty seaspray. A chill. Hawke had kicked the door open and was pointing to it, waiting to see how badly Fenris wanted to be left out in the cold.
The ship was docking, the deckhands rushing about wordlessly and autonomously, their usurping captain too caught up in the scene playing out before them to give instructions.
They were back. In Kirkwall.
The city somehow felt less like home.
Hawke nearly spat in Fenris’ face as she added, “The second that gangway is in place, I have one priority. One. And that is getting to my son so we can leave this hellhole before the templars can kill us all.”
Varric’s heart caught in his throat.
They couldn’t go home, he realized with a spasm of frigid horror. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d already known it. In the heat of battle, it had been surprisingly easy to sink back into that familiar ‘now is all that matters’ mindset. But now, as the dust was settling, the glaring truth of it was impossible to ignore. They’d defied the Chantry, arguably the greatest power in the world, and now…
His entire family was in immediate and dire peril.
And his son was somewhere in the damned city hellbent on killing them.
His blood ran cold.
He’d put it out of his mind, that Marric was locked away in their mansion in Hightown. Chucked it in a box and tossed it into the Waking Sea the moment they’d received the summons to help at the Gallows, because they’d left instructions with the Feddics and Orana to take Marric and hide in the cellar. The chantry had exploded, raining stone and fire and magic down across the entire city, but because of its location, Hightown had been hit the hardest. But even if the estate was no longer standing, their family - what of them weren’t gathered on this boat - was tucked safely under the rubble with an escape route into Darktown.
Marric was safe. Had been safe when they’d raced to the Gallows.
He hadn’t had time to consider what after would look like. What defying Meredith might mean for them if they lived.
He hadn’t exactly expected them to live.
They had discussed a plan, when tensions had begun rising to a fever pitch. But with so few blood relatives left to either of them, the plan had basically amounted to 'whoever lives gets the kid.'
But all of them had somehow - miraculously - lived, and now they were racing against a clock that very much wanted to alter that outcome.
Varric heard the creaking of the lowering gangway as Hawke snarled at Fenris, “Do whatever you’re going to. But make sure it’s done by the time we are, because I’m not spending one minute more in this godsforsaken city than I fucking have to.”