Ten Years From Now
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Fandom: Dragon Age Relationship: Anders/Hawke Characters: Hawke, Merrill, Varric Tethras, Aveline Vallen Summary: Varric is thrilled to have Hawke officially back in Kirkwall after thirteen years, but Blondie? Not so much. As the eighth anniversary of Divine Victoria’s ascension and the dissolution of the Circles approaches, old friends reunite for the first time in over a decade, bringing along scars, grudges, kids, and, hopefully, some really expensive wine. Link(s): AO3, FF
Chapter 4
“Hello! No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you! Yes, it’s your Champion, returned at long last! No need for applause—I know I’m great, and I know you’re all absolutely beside yourselves with joy at my return. Thank you, thank you!”
Marian fought with every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep the manic grin plastered across her face intact as she strode down Hightown’s immaculately kept streets, hoping that the vicious baring of her teeth elicited within Kirkwall’s citizens a primal sort of terror, reminding them that she was as much predator as protector. It probably wasn’t the best tactic she’d ever employed, certainly not when she was supposed to be winning over the locals currently scurrying away from her demonic visage, and Aveline would definitely have a few choice words for her later, but Marian needed her message to be clear: The Champion and her family had returned, and they were not to be messed with.
Maker, I didn’t know it was possible for cheeks to burn like this. How does Merrill do it? All that smiling she does... or did. I hope she still smiles. She wouldn’t be Merrill if she wasn’t smiling. She’d be someone else. Dark Merrill, maybe. I wouldn’t blame her for becoming Dark Merrill, because Andraste’s tits, all this smiling is exhausting!
Sweat beaded along her brow beneath her unruly raven bangs, the midday sun blazing overhead and glinting off the razor-sharp points of her Champion garb. She rarely donned the heavy armor anymore, having only slipped it on the night they snuck back into their home because it was too damn expensive and far too recognizable to have smuggled into the city beforehand. Neither she nor Varric were naïve enough to believe any shipment, no matter how many sovereigns changed hands, was safe from prying eyes.
Adrenaline had coursed through her veins that night, keeping her steady, keeping her moving. Now…. well, years of travel, battle, and neglect had taken their toll on her as much as they had on the armor. Her knees ached when she rose in the morning, pale scars crisscrossed skin that had once healed cleanly, and fine lines lingered at the corners of eyes that had seen far too much. Even her reflection had changed, silver beginning to thread through night-dark hair she no longer bothered to tame. Her armor wore the years just as plainly: Deep scratches marred the once-flawless metal, and dents interrupted curves that had once been smooth. But neither of them had broken yet, and Marian would be damned if she let her body—or the armor—go without a fight.
As if in protest, a twinge shot through her leg from an old injury that had never quite healed right—which particular skirmish it belonged to, she couldn’t even begin to fathom—drawing a wince from her.
The armor was heavier than she remembered it being, the straps less comfortable, the steel less forgiving. Once, she could have worn the armor for days—weeks—without complaint. And now…now her shoulders sloped under the pressure, her feet protested every step. Time, it seemed, was finally catching up to her.
“I don’t blame Dad for dying young now,” the warrior wheezed through gritted teeth. “I think he was on to something there.”
Kirkwall, unlike Marian and her armor, seemed to have aged remarkably well. Had prospered, even. Marian had visited her adoptive home on and off over the years, yet somehow she’d never stopped long enough to truly look at all that Varric had accomplished, all that he had built. No, not just built—saved. As she moved from garden to fountain to plaza, Marian found herself greeted by freshly restored stonework, cleaner thoroughfares, and thriving storefronts. The city still possessed its harsh edges—nothing could completely erase the marks of Kirkwall’s past—but its old hurts no longer defined it.
At least some good managed to come from all that bad.
Warmth, not from the sun but from somewhere deeper, settled in her chest, displacing the angry thing that usually lived there. Her crazed mien softened into something real, something genuine, something…hopeful.
Varric had done it.
Against all reason, against all probability, he’d taken the most stubborn city in Thedas and dragged it kicking and screaming into something resembling prosperity.
And Marian….
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and blinked away a sudden sting of tears.
Marian was proud of him.
Truly, genuinely proud.
Her smile was real now, inspired by the generous heart her friend liked to pretend he didn't possess. She could never tell him any of this, of course. Varric’s heart was rivaled in size only by his ego, and that was already inflated to the highest peak of Sundermount.
Marian was still marveling at the infuriating miracle that was Varric Tethras when Viscount’s Way came into view between the stately homes and manicured estates of Kirkwall’s upper crust. Any charitable feelings she had harbored towards her friend and the city evaporated on the spot.
“Oh, Maker. Stairs.”
The path forward to the Viscount’s Keep did indeed have stairs. So, so many stairs.
“I forgot about the stairs.”
Pausing at the foot of the chiseled steps, Marian allowed herself a moment to breathe. Hands on her hips, she worked the stiffness from her back as best she could, leaning backward, then from side to side, before finally bending forward and wincing at the chorus of complaints from her bones.
“No sense in delaying, I suppose. Nugs don’t fly, and neither can I. At least, I think that’s how the saying goes. Psh! Who cares if it isn’t? Mr. Pedantic isn’t around to correct me…”
Gathering what dignity remained to her, the warrior heaved herself forward, every step somehow taller than the last. She cringed as her armor creaked and her knees popped, hoping that the men and women on either side of her were too far away to hear as her body fell apart joint by joint.
“How does Aveline do this every day?” she panted, a droplet of sweat sliding down her temple, followed by another, and another after that.
Reaching the top of the stairs, a triumphant burst of air escaped her lungs. She quickened her pace before anyone could witness her victory over architecture, slipping gratefully into the shade cast by the enormous metal bird perched atop the stone archway leading into the courtyard, shadows swaddling her in their cool embrace. Her relief was killed in its infancy, before it’d even had a chance to draw a second breath, for, beyond the arch she had found refuge in, on the path that led to her friend’s overly-grand residence, sat another flight of stairs—and a long one, at that.
For a moment, Marian simply stared.
Then, with all the solemn dignity worthy of the Champion of Kirkwall, defeater of Qunari, slayer of ancient evils, and survivor of countless catastrophes, Marian Hawke sighed and said: “Fuck me.”
——————————————-
“Hawke!”
Luckily for Merrill, for it was she who shouted, “Hawke!”, Marian recognized her voice a split second before the tiny elf crashed into her like an enthusiastic battering ram. Their armor clanged together with a sharp, unpleasant peal, and Marian briefly wondered if she’d survived all those years on the road only to be murdered by an exuberant mage exploding with affection.
“Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to knock you over. Well, I didn’t think I would knock you over. You’re much bigger than I am. Oh! That’s not important. I’m just so happy you're finally here!”
Blinking rapidly, eyes still adjusting to the darker interior of Viscount’s Keep, Marian reached out on instinct to gently take hold of the smaller woman’s biceps before she could completely pull away. She’d seen Merrill even less than she’d seen Aveline over the years; every time her path had led her to Kirkwall, the elven woman had been buried beneath one responsibility or another, some crisis at the alienage demanding her utmost attention.
Maker, it had been far too long since she’d last seen the Dalish mage.
“Merrill,” Marian greeted with utmost sincerity. “It’s good to see you. Or, it will be, once my eyes adjust.”
“Oh, yes, it’s quite different indoors, isn’t it?” Merrill agreed. “Even with all the windows, I much prefer the Elven Quarter. It’s brighter and airier. Not that there’s anything wrong with this place! Or Hightown. Or humans. I’m not saying humans live in caves. Though some probably do. Not because they’re human. Just because caves exist. Oh, dear….”
Marian smiled as Merrill rambled on, apologizing for an offense she hadn’t even committed. Relief loosened a knot in Marian’s chest that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying; Merrill was still Merrill, even if she looked….
The warrior blinked, her eyes finally allowing her to take in the mage before her.
Merrill was less the wandering apostate that Marian remembered and more a figure pulled from legend, carrying an air of nobility, quiet menace, and hard-earned resilience. Night-black hair now fell past her shoulders, kept neatly away from her face by a thin golden circlet resting across her brow. The familiar forest-green tunic was long gone, replaced by weathered steel and chainmail accented with deep crimson. A high collar rose behind her neck like folded raven wings, while scale-worked boots and dark cloak-panels gave her an almost regal bearing. She looked older. Stronger. More certain of herself. Dangerous, even. The overall effect was…striking.
There was only one thing ruining the illusion…
“Still barefoot I see,” Marian observed.
“But of course!” Merrill chirped, abandoning her apology without hesitation, still perfectly capable of following the erratic twists and turns of Marian’s thoughts better than anyone else. “How else would I listen to the earth’s memories?”
“There’s not really a lot of earth in here…” Marian remarked, releasing Merrill’s shoulders at long last. The mage fell into step beside her effortlessly—just like old times.
“That’s true,” Merrill conceded as the pair stepped into the light and began the third, albeit shorter, set of stairs Hawke had encountered that afternoon. “But the earth is underneath us wherever we go.”
“And here I thought we were walking on stairs.”
Merrill blinked. “We are.”
“Right. Just checking.”
“I just mean…the earth is still there, underneath everything. It is very patient, you know; it doesn’t mind waiting for people to remember it’s there.”
“I suppose you’ll just have to do enough remembering for the both of us then.”
Merrill’s smile brightened. “But you’re remembering it with me right now, Hawke!”
“Huh.” Marian found herself smiling, too. “I suppose I am.”
“You—”
“What the fuck do you mean I can’t tell Choir Boy to—Hawke! Daisy!”
Startled, both Marian and Merrill, just past the first flight of red-rugged stairs and already climbing the next set that split off to the left, paused mid-step as Varric stormed out of the Viscount’s office in a tempest of curses and parchment, Aveline hot on his heels. It had only been a few hours since they’d both visited Marian at her estate, yet somehow they looked like they’d crammed an entire week’s worth of stress into an afternoon.
Varric squinted at the midday sun. “Are you early, or did time happen again while I wasn’t looking?”
“You lost track of time,” Aveline informed him helpfully, folding her arms across her chest.
“Choir Boy…” Marian mused. “…are you referring to everyone’s favorite Chantry Boy-turned-Prince?”
“Is there any other?” Varric grumbled, rubbing his face as his thick shoulders drooped. “Actually, I don’t want to know if there is.” One eye peeked out from between the web of his thumb. “Come on inside, Hawke. You, too, Daisy. We’ve got some shit to talk about.”
——————————————-
“I don’t care if Sebastian wants to come to Kirkwall for the Eighth Celebration of the Dissolution of the Circle—Maker’s breath, who names these things? Anyway, I don’t care.” Marian blinked and tilted her head to the side, curiosity lifting her sweat-dried brow while confusion lit her eyes. “Why would I?”
Varric gaped at her, as if Corypheus himself had transferred his consciousness into her body and was currently erupting out of it. “You don’t—why would you—Marian! Choir Boy kidnapped you! When you were pregnant! With Leah! Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do. Childbirth isn’t something you forget. Unfortunately.”
“You almost died.”
“Did die, actually,” she corrected, lifting a single finger.
Varric threw up his hands. “That makes it worse!”
“Does it?”
“Yes!”
“He did,” Aveline interjected, “ensure Hawke and the child—Leah—received proper medical attention.”
“That’s true,” Merrill agreed with a quick bob of her head. “He made sure there were healers nearby, and that Hawke had a clean place to stay. I remember thinking that was very thoughtful. Well, as thoughtful as kidnapping someone can be, anyway.”
“See?” Marian grinned. “Though I disagree with ‘kidnapping’. One, I’m not a kid. Two, ‘kidnapping’ implies a complete lack of freedom. I had plenty of freedom—granted, it was all contained within Sebastian’s castle and the castle grounds, but still. He treated me quite nicely. We are friends, after all.”
“Friends don’t kidnap each other, Hawke,” Varric countered wryly.
“Clearly you’ve never had a friendship complicated by an arsonist partner and a man who voluntarily reads theology.”
Defeated, Varric let out a puff of air and sat down on his chair heavily, his crown rattling as his weight sank into the wood. “Fine, fine. I know when I’m beaten…” He narrowed his eyes at the three women standing tall—or, in Merrill’s case, as tall as an elf could be, which wasn’t very tall—before him. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“It would be bad politics to deny the Prince of Starkhaven this right,” Aveline said. “Especially given that he was there at the beginning of it all.”
“I’d say he helped start it!” Merrill offered cheerfully.
“I think Blondie did that all on his own...” Varric mumbled. Aveline cleared her throat loudly, Varric’s face immediately reddening. “One less thing for Bran to nag me about, at least.”
“Speaking of our favorite not-quite noble... where is Bran?” Hawke asked, looking around the office. While Varric had made the place more...Varric…transforming the Viscount’s chamber into a slightly more polished version of his opulent suite at the Hanged Man, the room was still quite open, with not many places to hide.
“I sent him away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“Aw.” Marian pouted. “I so wanted to say hello.”
“You mean drive him up a wall,” Aveline clarified.
Marian shrugged. “Same difference.”
“Which,” Varric said, leaning forward on his desk and threading his hands together, “is exactly why we sent him anywhere but here.”
“Oh?” The raven-haired warrior quirked a brow.
“He was quite, ah, adamant that we not announce your return to Kirkwall,” Varric admitted, the conversation finally steering toward the real reason he’d invited Marian to his office. He’d tried to explain it earlier that morning while fending off Bark Jr. and Her Highness, both of whom had been determined to devour his famous breakfast spread before it ever reached the table. Leah, at the same time, had been asking enough questions for three children, and between an overly inquisitive five-year-old and a mabari pup and cat conducting a coordinated campaign to liberate every slice of bacon in sight, serious political discussion had never really stood a chance. Not that Marian thought that Varric had minded much, putting off the unpleasant topic. And, knowing him like she did, she suspected that he’d wanted her to have a chance to see Merrill first, before politics and problems inevitably took over the day.
“He was quite adamant that you not return to Kirkwall at all,” Aveline amended brutally.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so, that puts us in a bit of a rough spot, as you can imagine…” Varric gave her a painful grin.
“But you’re going to tell everyone anyway?” Marian pressed.
“It’s best we rip the plaster off and force the healing salve down,” Aveline said. “There’s no use in hiding you; the morning gossips are already doing their work, from what I’m told.”
“They’re even talking about it down in the Elven Quarter!” Merrill chimed in. “I heard them whispering about it on my way up! They thought I couldn’t hear them, but I could!”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that—Elven Quarter.” Marian frowned. “You’re talking about the alienage, aren’t you?”
“Nobody’s called it that in years, but yes,” Varric confirmed. “Turns out people don’t like names that remind them they’re supposed to stay in one place. So…we changed it.”
“Oh! Don’t be modest!” Merrill protested, clapping her hands together. She turned to Marian. “Varric has done wonders for Kirkwall’s elven community! He was the one who changed the name. And that sounds like a small thing, but it wasn’t. Names are important.”
“‘Wonders’ is a stretch, Daisy,” Varric said. “I shoved some new stone into a couple of buildings, bullied a few officials into funding repairs, and made a handful of rich people very unhappy. ‘Elven Quarter’ isn’t much of a name, either…but, I’m glad you’re happy.”
“Oh, but Varric!” Merrill protested, shaking her head. “You always do this. You make it sound like it was all stone and paperwork, but it wasn't. People are happier now. The Quarter is happier. Well... not the buildings, obviously, because buildings can’t be happy. Usually. But the people who live there are, and that’s because of you!”
“Now who’s selling themselves short?” Varric chided with a grin. “The Quarter didn’t become what it is because of me. It did because someone stayed and fought for it. That’s you, Daisy.”
“Oh, Varric.” Merrill’s voice wobbled. “Do you really think so?”
“I’m many things, but not a liar.”
Aveline coughed.
“All right, so maybe I am a liar, but not about this,” Varric amended, shooting his Guard-Captain a glare.
“Well paint a green blot on my palm and call me the Inquisitor,” Marian said. “Between the two of you, you’ve somehow managed to improve Kirkwall—for everyone.”
Merrill ducked her head in embarrassment, red dusting her cheeks. “Oh! We only made things a little better. There’s still so much left to do.”
“Tell that to the ledger that’s been glaring at me all year,” Varric groused. “Making rich people miserable is expensive work. I’m pretty sure there’s more than a handful of them plotting my murder.”
“Sounds like just the sort of thing you need me here to prevent then!” Marian grinned. “Though before we get on with the dismembering, I’d like to at least see what I’m putting my neck on the line for.”
“The Elven Quarter? But of course!” Merrill bounced up onto her tiptoes before dropping back onto her heels. “Oh, you’ll love it! Well, I hope you’ll love it. I think you’ll love it.”
“You can visit the Elven Quarter after we’ve reintroduced you to Kirkwall,” Aveline reminded them, ever duty-minded.
“Oh, right. That.” Marian huffed. “Almost forgot.”
“You almost forgot about the entire reason we had this meeting?”
Marian shrugged. “What can I say? I get excited by architecture.”
“Be less excited about architecture and more excited about facing the citizens you were glaring at earlier.”
“Heard about that already, did you?”
“Move, Hawke.”
“I’m going, I’m going!” Marian threw up her hands in a placating gesture.
“One more thing, before we go out and face the mob,” Varric cut in as she started for the door. “You remember Curly, right?”
Marian paused half-turn. “That was…Cullen, right? The excessively blonde Templar-shaped obstacle I punched in the mouth?”
Varric nodded. “One and the same. Well, he’s coming, to the celebration, too. Him and his husband and their kid.”
“Mm-hm,” Marian replied absently. “Good for him.” Her thoughts had already moved on to the crowd that would be gathering outside, the inevitable questions, and whether she could somehow convince Varric to let her fake her own death.
She made it two steps toward the door before her brain finally caught up.
Marian stopped. Frowned.
She had to have misheard Varric, right? There was no way that whiny, self-righteous, takes-himself-too-seriously and unreasonably buff, mage-hunting, Chantry-loving idiot had actually gotten another human being to marry him and spawned an entirely new life….right?
“I’m sorry—I thought—did you say—his what and his what?”