[[I’m making a concentrated effort to be more active, so here’s a thing I wrote as I try and at least show you guys that I still write. Trespasser spoilers ahoy!]]
Even now, years later, Kirkwall stank of iron and death.
“You know, kid, all this could be yours, if you ever get tired of that saving the world stuff.” Inside Varric’s Hightown mansion, the air smelled like honey and the polish he used to keep Bianca gleaming.
It would be so easy to be angry at yet another who didn’t support her, but Maiwe fought a grin. Could Varric really see her sitting on a mound of cushions all day, writing her memoirs?
“And let it all end? Let Solas achieve whatever it is he wants?”
“The world’s had a good run, and there are always more heroes. It doesn’t have to be you.” There was hurt in his eyes, a stiffness to his posture even as he tried to lean back in his chair. His hand gripped the tankard too tightly, so that the edges of his fingers turned white.
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t save Hawke.”
“She went out like she wanted, saving our asses one last time.” Varric raised his cup in a toast, and Maiwe followed suit. The beer slid heavy down her throat, sat uneasily in her stomach.
She couldn’t meet his eyes; there was too much there, too much mingled sadness and hope that she would not travel down that same path. “I have to do this. If I just stopped, what would I have to live for?”
“You could settle down, do all that elf-y shit in the forest. It wouldn’t be a bad life.”
“Can you see me settling?” Maiwe raised a single eyebrow, and Varric laughed in concession taking another drink. The light from the hearth cast long shadows across both their faces.
“How are you feeling?” The mood changed, any rapport they had established in those moments of shared misery broken. Maiwe felt her spine straighten, her lungs grow tight at the question. She was so tired of answering it, so tired of the looks of pity she still received even now, even after she proved that she could defeat Corypheus and keep her own failing body in check. Or maybe it was the lack of a lower arm, an empty space that everyone stared at until they could no longer, disgust and sympathy reflected in a curl of the lip, in a widening of the eyes.
“Fine. Same as always.” Her words were clipped, precise.
“Don’t act like that. How long have we known each other, Sailor? You think I would ask if I didn’t care?” The use of her nickname softened Maiwe just enough.
“It hurts. It all hurts. I feel the fingers that aren’t there. I feel every exhalation, and I worry that I don’t have many left, that I won’t stop Solas before my own body fails me.” It came out in a rush, words she could not or would not say to others.
Varric stood, pushing his chair back, and Maiwe stood in kind. When he opened his arms, she leaned into the hug gratefully, their postures collectively mirroring that day so long ago now when Varric had lost his closest friend. Both closed their eyes, and Maiwe felt the fire at her back. For a single moment, she was warm.
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