Chapter Text
Varric stands next to the forge, watching Harrit do the final temper of the parts for the new stock for Bianca. Gidget is all right, he thinks to himself. He hadn’t expected her to be his best friend; Varric wasn’t one to falsely expect something there. Hawke still holds all of his loyalties all these years later, even if she did almost let his whole damn city blow up. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t cause some shit there, too. Once again it seems he has secured himself a place at the center of the world, otherwise known as a premier seat for a colossal shit storm.
So when Dorothea had taken Blackwall, the Seeker, and Solas with her into the field this last time, completely overlooking Varric’s . . . skills, well . . . Varric could read a brush off as easily as the next person. But, the fortunate thing about being at the center of the world was that, brush off or no, there were deals to be realized, coin to be traded, and influence to be built. So he made good use of the time, and wrote a little, too; all in all, a productive few weeks.
Varric edges slightly closer to the forge fires. His new boots arrived with last week’s shipment from Highever and now that he could feel his toes again, he had every intention of making sure they stayed on his feet and the right color. He rubs his chin as he thinks of the poor bastards who lost limbs after the explosion: soldiers mired in the endless days of fighting with nothing better at the off duty shifts then a damp tent in a snow-filled field of demons. At least if he had to get dragged all this way by the Seeker, she’d kept him close to her in the four walls of the Chantry as they assessed the magnitude of the disaster. Chantries were notably not snow-filled, even if occasionally they were demon-filled.
“Looks like we’re somewhere between arse-deep in demons and balls-deep in heresy.”
“Excuse me?” a deep voice comes from behind his shoulder. Varric startles; he hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud or that the Warden had walked toward the forge fire.
“Just working out something for a book,” Varric blusters, embarrassed to have been caught unawares and observed. Blight, he didn’t even heard the man approach . . . but it is loud in the forge. “How are you settling in, Hero?”
The Warden looks at Varric with a grimace and stokes his beard with his hand. “Ah, I’ve read you have a liking for nicknames.”
“Read? Me? I’m flattered to come to the attention of a Warden. Well,” Varric flashes a brilliant smile and hooks his thumb behind his belt, “at least a Warden that isn’t trying to blow up my city, that is.”
“Ah, yes, Anders; bad business, that.”
“Yeah,” Varric drawls, feeling slightly non-plussed at the Warden’s statement. Varric baits the Warden: “Of course, we have nothing on blowing up a sacred site or taking out the Divine—and most of the Chantry hierarchy—but we figure even a Qunari invasion can’t compete with the Fifth Blight, so we’ll just try to keep our hand in in our own, modest way.”
There has been a startling lack of Wardens since the Inquisition began to settle into Haven. Varric knows that the Throne of Ferelden has been startlingly silent, as have Amaranthine and Weisshaupt. That could mean there isn’t an Archdemon in sight . . . or there is one they just have yet to see. Blackwall is unhelpfully mute on the whereabouts of any Wardens. After Anders (and the fucking way the Maker-damned King of Ferelden just shows up in the Free Marches one day), Varric is less than impressed with the Warden’s communication network. Andraste knows they could use some tips from the Charta.
“Right,” the Warden replies, watching the apprentice in front of him sew plate to a quilted shirt.
Varric sighs, tries again. “But how are you settling into Haven? I was surprised you took lodging all the way out here.” Varric gestures to the small houses by the forge which serve as barracks for the armorers, fletchers, and forgers out of whom Harrit is trying to coax armaments to outfit an army.
“I’m used to living rough. A bedroll not on the ground is enough for me. I understand the Ambassador is filling up every bed she can use; I am happy to stay out of the way in favor of,” the man hesitates, “more influential guests.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think Dorothea might always find room for you, Hero.”
The Warden coughs, eyes wide, and returns, “Maker’s Balls, what the hell are you on about?”
Varric laughs. “You mean you haven’t noticed the way she keeps wandering this way? I assure you, before you showed up, she had not shown much interest in the forge or Harrit’s offer to make armor. Now you can’t get her out of here.” The Warden blushes above the rug on his face that passes for a beard and makes a dismissive growl in his throat. It reminds Varric of the Seeker and he grins harder.
The Warden stands with his arms crossed in front of his chest, shifting from foot to foot. “Why are you down here?” he asks Varric. “What are you looking for?”
“Bianca,” Varric says, pointing to where Harrit is studying a schematic and looking at the pieces of the crossbow laid out on a table. “We were in Val Royeaux a few weeks back and I got my hands on a new crossbow design schematic. Harrit is seeing if he can adapt it to Bianca. I’m a bit touchy about her so, where she goes, I go.”
The Warden eyes him skeptically, “Do you think Harrit works better being watched?” he asks.
“No, not exactly,” Varric crosses his arms and rests back on his heels, “but there’s more than one acquaintance of mine in the Charta that would take her off my hands if they had the chance. I prefer to keep her within my sights.”
“Is it that valuable?” the Warden asks.
“She’s one of a kind, Hero, much like you, it seems.”
“Ah, yes,” Blackwall shifts uncomfortably and Varric rolls his eyes slightly out of the man’s gaze. If the Nightingale can’t get more about the man’s past, the Warden will just have to remain a man of mystery a bit longer.
Still, Varric is curious . . .
Varric slides slightly closer to the Warden and leans in slightly, his eyes on Harrit’s tinkering as he asks in a low tone: “So, Templars or Mages?”
“Excuse me?” the man retorts.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to discuss your favorite demon or darkspawn; speculate on if there is an Archdemon at the end of the rainbow; or we could just talk about the bloody big hole in the sky, or maybe the one in our leader’s hand?” Blackwall stares at him aghast and seemingly unable to articulate a response. “But it seems like an easier conversation starter may be the question of the hour that is on everyone’s tongue: go after the soldier boys and girls or sparkly boys and girls. Who gets to save Thedas this time? Since we seem to be fresh out of Wardens this time around.”
“Ah, right, or Champions,” Blackwall cuts, “Well, I try to stay out of such things, but” Blackwall rushes on as Varric opens his mouth to keep talking, “it will be the mages, won’t it? The Herald will go to what she knows, what she trusts.”
Varric grunts in acknowledgement. He is surprised that the Warden isn’t more amenable to the largest fighting force in Thedas: “You surprise me, Hero.”
Blackwall returns, his voice matter of fact. “The Chantry’s made plenty of mistakes and it got us here, so maybe it’s time to try something else.”
“I’d be careful how loud you say that, the Seeker might take your head off.” The Warden shifts awkwardly again from one foot to another, itching to bolt and run as if he expects to see the Seeker pop around the corner at any moment. “I just assumed you’d be more interested in a well-trained, disciplined fighting force.”
“I think I’m interested, Master Tethras, in whatever the Lady Herald says we should do,” Blackwall returns curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, I wanted to talk to Master Dennet about Redcliffe.” And without a further word, the Warden walks off.
Varric sighs quietly to himself. He probably shouldn’t have antagonized the man, but he wanted some sense of if the Warden would stand behind Dorothea if she goes to the mages.
If he’s scoping out information on Redcliffe, he’s probably in.
Dorothea is only a kid and she has a hard enough time without everyone second guessing her calls. Varric can’t help but think of Hawke. It had been difficult for Heilige, having to assert herself every step of the way; it had never helped that her uncle was a first-class asshole who bartered the family into servitude. Varric chuckles to himself. Of course, Hawke had survived all that and still saved the City—and him—twice. It’s a small thing to stay with the Inquisition to keep Heilige and Fenris away from the Chantry.
It had only made sense initially to make sure Dorothea could close the Breach before he left, otherwise the Seeker might get distracted and look for Hawke all over again.
Just a few more months, Varric thinks, and he can go home, stop watching the world blow up, fix his city, write a shit ton of books off of this, and let Hawke know it was safe to come home.