Chapter Text
If someone tells you they’ve got a friend who picks locks instead of knocking, you should probably be concerned.
I wasn’t.
That’s on me.
—Varric Tethras
Eight minutes.
Eight damn minutes of incessant tapping against Varric’s window.
Not continuous—oh no, that would’ve been easier to ignore. No, the raven waited just long enough for him to find the sentence again before striking its beak against the glass.
Tap.
Varric stared at it with contempt. It was a large thing, black feathers shining blue where the afternoon light caught them. One dark eye remained fixed upon him with the kind of accusation usually reserved for unpaid creditors and men leaving The Blushing Rose before sunrise.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
The bird tapped again.
Varric lowered his quill. “I’m armed.”
Its head tilted.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He returned to the page. The heroine had just discovered that the handsome apostate she’d spent three chapters pursuing was secretly engaged to the Antivan assassin hired to kill her. Or the assassin’s sister. Varric hadn’t decided yet—both options required untangling several increasingly inconvenient lies, which usually meant the story was progressing nicely.
Something creaked overhead, and Varric’s quill stalled.
The mansion had plenty of opinions. Floorboards complained, pipes groaned, and the west-facing windows rattled whenever the wind came off the harbor. After two years living there, he’d learned which sounds meant old house and which meant someone’s about to steal the silver.
That had sounded like old house.
Tap.
“Your timing’s terrible,” he told the raven.
Another creak followed, this time closer. Varric set down the quill then, and the raven struck the window three times in quick succession.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A soft scrape came from the upper landing, tightening Varric’s jaw. That was definitely not an old-house sound. He reached beneath the desk and closed his hand around Bianca. The mechanism opened with a familiar series of clicks, all four limbs locking into place as he stood.
Whoever had entered knew enough to avoid the front rooms. They’d gone upstairs first, either searching for valuables or attempting to approach from behind. Admirably cautious. Unfortunately, they’d broken into the home of a dwarf who’d spent most of his adult life surviving Kirkwall.
Varric stepped into the hall and aimed Bianca toward the landing. A head slowly appeared around the corner. Dark-brown hair and green eyes; a face he hadn’t seen in two years, wearing the brightest smile in Thedas.
“Hello!”
Varric’s finger went rigid against Bianca’s trigger. “Bee?”
She stepped fully around the corner, older, though not by much. Her face had lost some of its softness, and two years of sun had scattered more freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was the same length, pulled into the same practical braid he remembered.
Her clothes were familiar, too. Dark-brown leathers covered her from shoulder to boot, and a red scarf around her neck. The amber jewel of the dagger he’d given her in the Deep Roads gleamed from her hip. A new addition was the toolkit on her other hip, holding hooked tools he recognized all too well.
Bee lifted both hands, palms open, which was new. The nineteen-year-old he remembered would’ve ran directly toward the armed crossbow like a dog pleading for affection. This Bee recognized a weapon trained upon her and made it immediately clear her hands were empty.
But her shit-eating grin didn’t vanish.
Varric lowered Bianca. “What are you doing here?”
Bee’s expression flickered. “Well, I—”
“Actually, hold that thought.” He disarmed Bianca. “How did you get in?”
“Through the door.”
“The locked door?”
“Well, it isn’t locked anymore.”
“Bee.”
“Varric.” She hesitated for a second. “I didn’t break anything.”
He squinted. “That’s not—”
“So you should be pleased. It means the mechanism still works.”
“It means I need a better mechanism.”
“You might.”
“Kid—”
Bee threw her arms around Varric, and whatever lecture he’d assembled died the instant she squished him against her chest. He rocked backward beneath the impact and caught himself against the wall. She held him tightly, smelling of leather, road dust, and cold air.
Then he hugged her back. He’d known she was alive. But knowing and seeing were different things.
“I missed you,” she said into his shoulder.
Something warm and inconvenient settled behind Varric’s ribs. “Yeah. Missed you too, kid.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bee pulled away, her eyes wide. “Corvus!”
Varric followed as she hurried into the study and opened the window. The raven swept inside with an offended rustle of wings and landed on her shoulder, tugging at her braid.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Bee told it. “I thought you’d follow me.”
Corvus clicked his beak near her ear.
Varric rested Bianca against the desk. “Your bird’s been trying to break into my house.”
“He knocked.”
“Unlike you.”
Bee rubbed one finger against the raven’s chest. Corvus permitted the affection while continuing to glare at Varric.
“This is Corvus,” she said.
Varric blinked once, slowly. “You named your raven… Raven?”
“I just told you his name is Corvus.”
“Which means…?”
Her mouth opened and closed; the pause lasted long enough. “…Raven.”
“Two years traveling the continent, and somehow your naming instincts have gotten worse.”
“Rich coming from the man who named his crossbow Bianca.”
Varric drew a breath to reply, but released it quickly. Fair enough.
Bee wandered farther into the study. She examined everything without touching: the shelves, the new furniture, the papers spread across his desk. Her gaze moved automatically toward both exits before returning to him.
Another change. The open curiosity hadn’t left her, but now she knew it could look back. Varric wasn’t sure whether to be proud or sorry.
“You’ve moved up in the world,” she said.
“Expedition paid off.”
“So I heard.”
He folded his arms. “Did you replace your armor?”
Bee looked down. “Why would I?”
“Most people do after it gets partially cooked onto their bodies.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Just needed some repairs.”
“It betrayed you.”
“The rock wraith burned me.” Her arms crossed. “The armor kept the rest attached.”
Varric’s brows raised in surprise. A rich girl like her could afford to replace anything, and yet she hadn’t. His gaze dropped to her belt as the thought hit. The coin purse wasn’t visible.
Much better.
“Been traveling alone?” he asked.
Bee gestured toward her shoulder. Corvus puffed his feathers.
“Right,” he said. “You’ve had heavily armed supervision.”
“He’s scary when he wants to be.”
“I’m so terrified right now.”
The raven snapped its beak.
Varric leaned away. “Point taken.”
Bee smiled and removed one glove. Faint marks crossed her fingers and palm, small scars acquired too gradually to merit stories of their own.
“I mostly travel alone,” she said. “Sometimes I join caravans if we’re heading in the same direction. I’ve hired escorts twice.”
“You hired them?”
“Yes.”
“And you checked whether they were legitimate first?”
Her expression flattened. “Of course.”
“Just checking.”
“I’m not nineteen anymore.”
“No, you’re twenty-one. Ancient.”
“I’ve learned.”
Bee always said almost anything with enough confidence to make someone reconsider reality. But Varric believed her hidden purse, the maintained armor, and the way she’d shown her hands when she saw Bianca.
“Your letters made that clear,” he said.
Bee grimaced. “I’m sorry there haven’t been more.”
“You’ve been busy. I get it.”
“I tried writing when I could.”
“I did get seven pages about the Grand Tourney.” Varric smirked. “You spent three of them describing a horse.”
“It really was magnificent.”
“And four lines describing the winner.”
“I don’t really spend a lot of time in Ostwick anymore.” She plucked a loose feather from Corvus’s breast and rolled it between her fingers, her voice oddly sincere. “That’s why I haven’t written or read as often as I’d like.”
Varric nodded. Of course he understood. But despite his cool composure and easy smile, he’d checked the mail more often than what should’ve been necessary.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “How long are you staying?”
“One day.”
The answer landed with surprising weight, but he covered it easily. “That’s it?”
“I have to leave tomorrow morning.”
“For where?”
“Val Royeaux.” Her accent changed with the name, sounding surprisingly Orlesian. “House Trevelyan has interests there that require attention.”
“Your father still has you playing courier?”
“Liaison. Seneschal Bran apparently informed Father that replacing me would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“Right, my apologies. Glorified courier.”
A smile touched her lips as Bee rolled her eyes. Varric leaned against his desk. Kirkwall was a reasonable stop between Ostwick and Val Royeaux. Ships crossed the Waking Sea on dozens of routes, and plenty used Kirkwall’s harbor before continuing west.
But a full day in the city didn’t happen by accident.
“You planned this stop?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“Hawke?”
“Of course not.”
Varric grimaced. “Please don’t tell me you missed The Hanged Man’s cooking.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what brings you to our charming pit?”
Bee frowned as though the answer was obvious. “You.”
Well.
Shit.
“I haven’t seen you in almost two years, Varric,” she said. “Seemed stupid to not swing by.”
Varric glanced toward the pages on his desk because looking directly at her was difficult. “And by stupid, you mean…?”
“That not seeing you would’ve not made sense.”
So damn simple and direct and entirely without embarrassment. Bee had always possessed a dangerous willingness to say things other people hid behind implication. Two years on the road hadn’t cured her of that yet—thank the Maker.
Varric rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, in that case, we’d better make the day count.”
Bee’s grin returned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“You eaten?”
“Not recently.”
“Had anything to drink?”
“Always. But I’ve learned.”
His eyes narrowed. “Doubtful.”
He closed the ink bottle and set his unfinished pages beneath a paperweight. The heroine and her treacherous apostate could wait. Unlike fictional disasters, Bee would be gone tomorrow whether or not he finished the chapter.
Varric reached for his coat. “The Hanged Man?”
Bee stared at him. “You live in a mansion now and still eat at The Hanged Man?”
“Keeps me humble.”
“It ripped me off.”
“And then you paid fifty sovereigns to follow me underground.” He smirked. “Clearly it inspires excellent judgment.”
“That was the ale.”
“Even better.”
She passed through the doorway beside him, beaming like the sun and carrying a raven named Raven. For the first time in months, Varric left a story unfinished without minding at all.