well, shit. the sidquistion rewrite. reminder, this moves well, shit before adamant due to conditional aspects that do not affect the pacing or fight at adamant, rather it affects how much worse wicked eyes, wicked hearts is. thanks to lou, reminding me to be brave
It takes him days to get through his mail. Petitions from Kirkwall, loans to wade through, and even his editors demand something from him - a new chapter even in the middle of a war, of all things - for Swords and Shields of all things. It’s cast aside, another pile for another day. More bills, his own now, rent for an apartment he doesn’t even live in and a bar tab from a city he couldn’t even reach. Personal bills end up being paid, crammed into an envelope, and handed off to be whisked away across the seas. Mess is nearly tended to, the dim light almost causing a flare of pain behind his eyes; thumb and forefinger come to rub the pain from behind his eyes, and his free hand searches for glasses; instead, he finds a familiar lettering on his desk. His hand falls from his face, and his vision clears with more focus.
It’s familiar writing, neat and boxy; thumb comes and traces the top line of the envelope. It was not Bran’s elegant looping handwriting nor the clean lettering that lay locked in his desk drawer, but he was still far too familiar with that handwriting. It had been a few months, maybe more. The letter is turned over, once, twice and then a pause - why now, why not when the world began to end? He had written to her, but nothing in return. There is a thought that letters could have made it to Haven, maybe to Kirkwall, maybe not; everything had happened all at once. He doesn’t scramble, but a letter opener is sought out and runs quickly under the seam. Vellum is pried free; the envelope is fed to the fire behind him.
Words are not prickly, but they aren’t affectionate. They are clinical, with a mixed message about the red lyrium and the tremendous, ugly thing lingering, rather than asking questions or demanding reasons. There is a memo stating that she would be there before the end of the week. It’s not enough time - it’s never enough time. There are thoughts, desperate and churning over and over in the back of his mind - thoughts of the woman just steps away.
A heartbeat away.
Vellum nearly crumples in his hand; there is the younger, angrier thought that if the letter in his hand never reaches him, there is no burden of proof. However, he is not a younger, angrier man. There is no hiding from this, no apartment in Kirkwall, no tucked tail; there is only the long way forward. Rather than dawdling, two letters are penned with haste - one will arrive in moments, the other a few hours at least. Letters are passed off, and he finally wilts against his chair, under that long shadow of the hour and the flickering of the fireplace behind him. There is that bright panic in the pit of his stomach; somehow, he’s done all of this wildly out of order, and somehow, there is a layer of betrayal to all of this, that he has gone and broken some sort of unspoken vow. There was no vow; Sidri had asked for honesty - not to show every card tucked into his quiver. If she had asked, she wouldn’t; he knows this - he knows her.
He knows her.
It is the very thought he clings to as those hours spin into days, stretching wide and welcoming close to the end of what he knows is the end of the smith’s work week. There are words he remembers, things that were done, and it still churns his stomach - he laughs as if he’s the expendable one, a barbed comment about family.
Something still sits uneasily - even after Sidri appears, that churning does not settle. Bianca speaks - it’s plain, half of it feels like a lie, half of it something else. She asks them not to keep her waiting - that there are things that still need to be done ( there is a remark that dares to barb, but it is swallowed ). That unease barely settles, but they can do this now, rather than later, to have a leg up for a return to the Approach. The Hinterlands are less than a day away, less than half a day with the right party.
“You don’t have to do this now.” He knows they are Sidri’s words; he’s kept her eyes through most of it. A silent plea for forgiveness, something he’s not sure he needs or has earned - but this was never his intent, to expose his nebulous and almost settled past. Except it wasn't, it never had been - he had always spun it away until now—spinning a story, writing it all away rather than facing it head-on. He doesn’t tell Sidri she’s wrong; instead, he stands there for a moment or two, fighting his words ( foul words at himself and foul words at the situation ). Somehow, he lands on the fact that he has to, he wants to - it’s only said to Sidri over the fire.
For once, he finds himself itching to get to the opening of that thaig; it doesn’t take as long as he expects, but he’s quiet the whole trip - keeping mostly to his thoughts and unease. There is one comfort, when they stop in the midafternoon to break, Sidri’s hand finds his shoulder ( and for one brief moment, he finds her hand ). Again, he’s reminded he knows her.
Before the sun sets, they lay eyes on that dreaded thaig; there is still the dread that sets in, as this is something much too large, filled with secrets. Bianca barbs, too familiarly, and he nettles back, asking about whatshisname, and the sinking feeling lurches his stomach when he meets Sidri’s eyes. However, that does not last very long; that sinking feeling lurches into a deep anger. Sidri’s questions are poised, and she even allows grace with them, unravelling a tale he almost already knows, but Varric sees red, nearly as red as the lyrium humming behind the door. There had been a promise with that key - a promise that had been broken in more ways than one. There is half a claim, half a claim of ignorance.
“Shit, she couldn’t. I told her exactly how bad this was; I warned you to avoid it.” Anger burns through him, searing as he steps forward, with anger still bleeding from each word.
“I screwed up, but we fixed it! It’s as right as can be!”
“It isn’t a fucking machine, Bianca! You can’t just swap out a part and make everything right!” There are more words that dare to come, but Bianca cuts him off - a knife nearly poised for his jugular about wallowing over mistakes - stories that he never tells. For a moment, over it all, he catches Sidri’s eyes once more, another silent apology for everything he’s almost said and needed to say before now, all of the things he will say after this.
So he laughs, half sarcastic, half hurt, “As if I write about my own stories.”
“Varric.” It is clarity for the briefest moment, a rush of cold air over rampant flames - rolling them over, and it is simply the way Sidri says his name.
She knows him.
“Sorry, Si— sorry, Inquisitor,” A name nearly slips; instead, it is wrapped back up, almost too formal, but he shakes it off, shakes all of it off. “Bianca, you need to go, before someone misses you.” There are other things; things should bubble over in his anger, disappointment - the unease had been disappointment lodged somewhere deep in his chest.
“Varric.” That time, it is not Sidri; that time, it is Bianca. There is no flash of red, no pop of anger behind his eyes; instead, it’s more defeatism; rather than words, he shuffles half away from her, half away from the situation. He minds his steps and realises he’s put himself next to Sidri ( some of that anger unfurls, just a small amount ). “If you get him killed, I’ll feed you your eyes.”
“Bianca, watch it.” He doesn’t think; he simply speaks, forgetting who else is in the room, “You forget who you’re speaking to, and she deserves not just my respect but yours after all of this.”
Then his voice lowers, and finally, he turns. Dorian steps aside, and Cassandra does as well. “Besides, you’ve nearly killed me.” If there are other words that come, he doesn’t allow them near in; anger forces him out into that cave, down a beaten path looping around.
It’s a long, quiet hike up - a long way down to the lake camp. Once again, he is lost in a sea of his thoughts, and the others let him be long after they finally break free from the thaig. Other things are almost said, but Varric is thankful for Dorian and Cassandra, who ask Bianca to step aside. It gives him enough time to make it further down and away from the fuss and down towards the camp.
However, through the thicket and woods, he stops, pausing for a moment as his breath shakes. It makes his chest ache in a way that he craves a physical wound over this panic and ache. Gloved hands find the trunk of the tree as he counts and reminds himself he can hear the arguing up the hill. Those angry words should be his, not Dorian’s. Yet, there’s nothing left in him; Bianca needs no additional words, and he doesn’t have the words she wants. Those have all since dried and fallen like ashes from embers or leaves off a fall tree, and whatever had been left had been incinerated by anger less than moments ago. It was the same hot flame that licked at him in Kirkwall, Haven, and now here. Voices get closer, and the snap of a twig under a boot.
There is no pull of a knife; rather, he moves and looks, meeting sad eyes, sadder than they ever should be. She knows him. But those eyes shouldn’t hold pain that is hers. This was never supposed to be that of all things. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be; he could not verbally plead, and his words are all but gone for now, replaced by panic and anger.
She knows him.
He knows her.
She moves first, ducking low and curling against him. It is not a hug, nor is it a kiss, but she leans forward and presses her head to his, and the panic rushes out like the tide in the morning; his breath steadies, and he seeks out her - hand moving from the tree and coming to rest on hers. It’s not a kiss; it’s something more. Noses brush, and he can he can feel her breath against his skin. There is a shudder, and he half wonders if it’s still his anxiety, something more, and he exhales, and it is steady.
“I should…”
“I know.”
There are voices up that hill - voices getting closer, and he doesn’t want them to see him like this, to see her like this. She steps back, just a step, and it’s noticeably colder, yet her arm is still in his hand. There is no additional retreat from her; he has to let her go like she let go of him on the ride in. She slips through his fingers, like smoke from a fire, but he doesn’t break her gaze. He holds until he returns to the dark and looks down that hill, finding the camp among the darkness and the rare stars under a clouded sky. It comes closer and closer as the voices fade further and further away.
Flags come into view, and he sighs again. Thankful for the hour, grateful for how few people wanted to sign on for this; he pauses again - she likely kept it small for him.
She knows him.
There is no lotto, no shift to pull, and since they are so late, the tents are already set. Rather than claiming one, he settles in front of the fire, the dismal flickering thing; his pack is shoved down by his feet, and his crossbow is placed aside. Eyes fix on the flames, and he breathes; it takes a moment; however, he does settle, for the first time in days, half-warming himself in front of that fire. He can hear them all on the approach as they are not quiet - Cassandra and Dorian bicker over something ( he’s half sure the man has picked a fight to keep her away from him ) before they disappear into their respective tents.
There is a softer set of footsteps, footsteps that are more than familiar, and she settles right next to him, her pack next to his. “Are you alright?”
She knows him.
“No, but thank you. I knew - I had a feeling that when she showed up in Skyhold, it was bad - but, shit.”
He knows her.
The fire crackles in front of them, a flare of white and red shooting towards the sky, “You didn’t expect this bad; nobody expects this bad.”
More words spill out of him, overflowing when they dared not to hours ago; they pour over the rim and flood all over everything, “Sidri, I told you, I am bad at this - I’m not good at any of this if Cassandra hadn’t arrested me, I would-”
“Found your way here.” It’s a finite statement, the same voice she uses with war meetings when Cullen and Leliana speak for too long. “You’ve earned your place, just as much as the others, if not more…But, Varric, will you see her again?”
It’s a question that gives him pause. She’s seen this before—in his letters—but he doesn’t freeze. “I always have, not sure, not yet, no.” The fire snaps between them again, another reminder that their friendship, whatever it had become - whatever comes next, had started over one of these fires. His words are low, quiet next to her, “I should have told you, but it wasn’t something I was going to tell you in a letter.”
“Would you tell me? Or do you need more time?”
Another pause, and he breathes. Finally, a story is pulled out from behind his lungs, a story he had cradled for the longest time. Carefully, he undoes the wrapping and displays the story of a broken nose and buried knife. “When I was much younger, I rebelled my way through life, nearly killed me a few times, but she and I met during that time; it wasn’t good for either of us; she was a young genius and like magic, she could get anything to work, and I was impulsive and self-centred; I still am impulsive.” However, more of the story comes over that fire, “We ran as children do, and we got caught; I caught the ire of her family, hence the broken nose and a stab-wound — that nearly killed me.” Finger comes to tap the bridge of his nose once before he sighs. He can hear her sigh at the way he glazes over being stabbed; her concern ekes more softness into his words.
Voice lowers again, almost lost, “Then she got married, and we kept in touch, but this is the most I’ve seen of her without someone trying to kill me, a miserable cycle. This just ends it.” Then he moves, pulling his pack close and pulling Bianca’s few letters she’d sent into his hand. There is no hesitation as they fall into the fire; vellum and ink swirl into the flames, and they lick them into the abyss - a remainder of ash. They burn and swirl as she’s closer to him still - and that anger in the pit of his stomach finally unravels—a firm and silent ending for now.
“Thank you for telling me.” Her voice is soft, soft enough that he knows it’s meant just for him.
“Thank you for listening.” She shifts, and he moves, too, his hand finding her - lingering again for as long as she’d allow. “No more secrets.”
There is no hesitation in her words, “I would never ask that of you.”
“I know, it’s my choice.” It’s a boundary he’s trying to push past to break through that ineffable boundary; something else unfurls, something that allows him to believe that maybe he’s not trapped under his own choices. Had Hawke been the last one to bear all his stories and pain, he wants to try again, even if their narrative ends up doomed. “For something greater still if you’ll wait for me.”
There is something he can’t quite place in her gaze. She’s always pierced him with her gaze, but now it is nearly akin to burning a flame; instead, there is a burning of hope. “I will.” For a moment, her head finds his shoulder, for a moment — it doesn’t feel as daunting.
