It didnât look like Anders might be something. It might even be true of the moment he glanced up from the crate or the moment he turned and the bright lights faded, one by each. But itâs misleading, and not the way Varric generally likes to be misleading.Â
He casts back to all the Anders heâs written and all the Anders heâs known, to the shy and eager, to the hesitant and hard, to the sulk of his bottom lip or the sulk of his chin. He thinks back to the brow when it furrowed and the brow when it smoothed out, to the blush on his cheeks or the pale cast to his eyesâto the way, sometimes, the sun set in the background and everybody knew he was somewhere else, somewhere beyond his shadows. They might not care or understand what to do with it, but they knew itâjust like they knew him.
But knowing and writing so rarely meet up.Â
The better Varric knows a guy, the harder it is to see him. He keeps Hawke vague for a reason, a last name and never a first.Â
They just have to start somewhereâsomewhere beyond a compromise. Varric pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if heâll ever get the picture down, if itâs ever going to be something more than a self-portrait. What I saw and what I wanted to see and never what was.
Readers are too smart for that nug-shit these days.Â
Varric twirls the quill, rubbing his chest with his blunt fingers. His instincts are off. Heâs gotta find another way.
And maybe his angleâs been wrong all along. Maybe the truth wonât show up until the lie, same as always. Varric licks the tip of his quill, then makes a face at the bitter taste of the ink.Â
Anders looked like Anders again, he begins. Which led us all to ask ourselvesâwhen had he stopped?
Then, Varric continues, Anders looked at Hawke.Â
And thatâs how he starts to end it. Â Â
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