Title: One For My Baby
Rating: T
Summary: Hawke entrusted Varric with an important secret before she died. FemHawke/Fenris.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.
One For My Baby
Cassandra may have let him go safe and sound, but she had delayed him quite a bit. Only once he was sure that the chantry thugs were gone did he dust off his sleeves and get to his feet. Sadly, Hawke's estate had fallen into disrepair. Cobwebs were wound into every crevice. A place once so full of jovial glee was dead, much like Kirkwall itself. The fog from outside seemed to seep through the walls. Everything was damp, the air musky. He didn't like it; he would be glad when they finally made it to Seheron.
Gathering Bianca from the floor—didn't that damned woman understand the value of beautiful weaponry?—Varric stretched and slid the crossbow into the holster along his back. The weight was reassuring pressed against his spine. His mind drifted to Hawke's smile. She loved to run her hands over Bianca. Being an archer herself, she adored the intricate patterns carved into the wood, the polished handle, and the firing speed. She was nearly fascinated with the crossbow, and Varric had drawn her along, always keeping the weapon out of her reach. It was a game they used to play. The thought made him sad, and he exited the mansion with a frown on his face.
Isabela was probably hiding in the fog near the port. At least, he hoped she still was. He didn't know what he'd do if she'd abandoned him. He supposed he could send word to a few of his contacts, but getting out of Kirkwall would be impossible without a large bribe. The Divine's wrath had made the land cursed. Only a few pathetic refuges wandered the city, beaten and lifeless. They sobbed in corners in their ratty clothing. Almost feral. He ignored them as he made his way toward the port, leaving Hawke's mansion behind. He really didn't want anything that reminded him of her.
The only problem was, after nearly ten years together, everything reminded him of her.
When he drank ale, he remembered drinking it with her over and over again in his room at the Hanged Man. When he fought, he looked for her on the battlefield. If he squinted hard enough, maybe he could find her bloodied silhouette still fighting in the afterlife. The cool taste of briny sea air reminded him of her hair blowing in the wind. Every woman that smiled had the shape of Hawke's lips, her curious eyes that lit up with amusement. They'd been partners for a long time. It was hard to believe she was gone.
Lying to the Seeker had been difficult, a strange thing because lying had never been difficult for him. Was it wrong to give someone false hope? No one but her select few friends knew of her fate. Only their small group knew she'd perished near Amaranthine at the hands of a nameless Templar. Not even Fenris knew until just a few months ago. The two had been fighting something vicious since the war began. They hadn't seen each other in little over a year and a half when she died. The news must have shaken Fenris rather hard. Varric hadn't been able to track him down. He only knew that the messengers he'd sent to tell the elf had done their job. Where he wasn't sure.
The fog thickened as he approached the port, descending the stairs rather sluggishly. He didn't relish another few weeks on Isabela's ship, searching tirelessly for Broody in a world too big for its own good. Just last week he'd received an invitation from King Alistair of Ferelden to join the war once he'd completed his mission. He'd been giving it serious thought. What else did he have to do? The Guild was dispersed. His brother was dead. Hawke was gone. Continuing the fight seemed like the proper way to honor her memory.
They'd all been lost without her, rather like the people around Kirkwall. They ate, slept, and kept moving. They hid like rats when Templars came within range. Varric grew a new appreciation for Anders and what he went through for so long. Without her they had no direction. None of them knew what to do. Anders was dead, killed by Hawke's own hand just after he destroyed the chantry. Sebastian worked tirelessly with Merrill and Aveline and Donnic to unite Starkhaven and raise her armies to defend the mages. For Hawke, they both said. Just Isabela, Carver, and Varric continued to wander. Perhaps Fenris, too. That was what they were trying so hard to find out.
When they did locate the elf, Varric would probably join the fight. To honor his friend if nothing else. He'd never been much for honor, but Hawke deserved it. She deserved the freedom she never really. Bethany, too, though he'd never met the girl. Varric wasn't so sure in the beginning, but time had taught him. Children shouldn't grow up being afraid their parents will be dragged off forever. Later they shouldn't fear being dragged off themselves. It was right, what the Templars did. Maybe in some cases, but not in Hawke's. When had that gentle mage ever hurt anyone who wasn't out to harm her first?
Varric took a detour, tapping his fingers lightly against his thigh. When the Seeker's thugs had caught him sneaking around Kirkwall, he'd ran and stashed something near one of the warehouses. He'd hoped to find Broody prowling somewhere in the shadows, maybe in Hawke's mansion. It was a stupid thought. If running from the pain was his solution, why would he come back to a place where the memories were so potent? They'd been desperate, though.
Kicking over a crate, he reached down and grabbed Leandra's locket from the hiding place. The Seeker didn't search him, just plucked Bianca from him and tossed her to the ground. Still he was glad he hid it. Hawke had always loved the necklace, and she'd left it behind by accident. He'd wanted to retrieve it. As he left the mansion and almost made it to the rendezvous point with Isabela, he'd been caught.
Shoving the locket into his coat, Varric put his head down and headed toward the docks.
Isabela looked nervous, which was new. When they were running around with Hawke, nothing could ruffle her. She was the easy-going pirate everyone loved. Everyone. She didn't flirt as much as she used to or smile. Her clothes were more conservative, trading in the white sash she used to wear for shadowy black. The grand ship Hawke hunted down Castillon for loomed ominously in the fog, all the lanterns doused. Isabela was at the end of the dock, tapping her foot with her hands on her hips.
He waved as he approached.
"Varric," she relaxed. "We were so close to leaving without you."
"Ran into some trouble back there," he confessed, mounting the boarding plank. "Cassandra wanted to have an in-depth chat with me about the Champion."
"Shit, she didn't hurt you, did she?"
"No, not really. She just wanted to hear the story."
She hesitated, appearing hopeful. "You didn't find…?"
"He's not here, Rivaini," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was sore from sitting in the chair for so long. It'd felt like days, but it had probably been only a few hours. "For all we know, he could be dead by now."
"Oh, don't say that," Isabela groaned as she kicked the boarding plank away from the deck. She flicked her hand at her first mate, a signal to move, and the ship lurched forward. "We'd have to leave her with Carver."
"The more I think about it, the more I wonder," she said as they made their way toward the captain's quarters. "Is it such a good idea to leave her with him in the first place? He can't even take of himself."
Isabela stopped with her hand on the door, casting a glance at him. Inside, Varric could hear the faint echoes of Carver's voice. He was speaking to her, low and kindly. The pirate's face was twisted with concern, and she was biting her lip. Varric sighed. "He's her father, Rivaini. Even if we…even if he won't take her, we have to try at least."
"Yeah," she said, resigned.
Without another word, she opened the door, and a rush of heat from the lanterns wafted over him. The room was cozy enough with a large bed draped in Orlesian silk, courtesy of Hawke, and a table to play Wicked Grace. A comfortable carpet square stretched over the cold, wooden floor. Decorative lanterns hung off golden hooks. Everything was made of mahogany, the room drenched in a rich red that reminded Varric too much of blood. The curtains over the windows blocked out light. Varric could hear Isabela's first mate walking upstairs.
Carver was sitting at the table with the baby in his arms, dressed in his grey warden armor. When he'd heard about his sister's condition, he'd abandoned the wardens. There was no Blight; they didn't need him. Hawke did, though, and he'd raced to the port near Ferelden to meet her. The look of wonder on that boy's face as he watched her belly grow was one Varric would never forget. Who would have thought Carver could show such compassion and tenderness? A man so driven by his own suffering and depression?
The baby cooed in his arms as he rocked her, but he stopped when he saw the two of them enter.
"Maker, dwarf," Carver frowned, but Varric could see that he'd been worried, "took your bloody time."
"Oh, I missed you, too," Varric smiled, all resentment and discontent wiped away as he looked at the bundle of warmth in Carver's arms. Chubby fingers reached for him, and he felt the strength of a young child crushing one of his fingers. Already she looked like her mother, a regular princess that should be spoiled in a Hightown mansion. Tufts of blonde hair were sprouting up all over her bald head. Her mouth was wide, her nose small even for her tiny face. Relationships between elves and humans always resulted in human offspring, but the elf blood was there.
For instance, her eyes were large, almost owlish and stunning in their intensity. The color was a strange mixture of blue and green. She was petite for a human child with not as much baby fat as she should have had. The tips of her ears weren't pointed, but they were larger than average. Fenris's blood proved to be potent enough to fight off some of the human aspects. Her skin was an exotic olive blend between Broody's bronze skin and Hawke's pale Ferelden complexion.
"Hey, Beautiful," Varric whispered, taking the child in his arms. He fished for Leandra's locket and set it on top of her belly. All in all, she was a gorgeous baby. Any father would have been proud to have her. They just had to find the father.
Varric suffered no delusions about what sort of meetingthatwould be. Fenris might not even believe him, but he'd made a promise. Hawke knew her life was dangerous. It was only four months after the baby was born that she was murdered in cold blood by some stranger. She'd taken Varric aside one day while Carver was playing with the baby and begged him to make a promise.
"If I die," she had said, blonde hair blowing in the sea breeze, "make sure that he knows. I don't care if he's suicidal or incapable of taking care of her. You and Carver will see to her safety, just make sure that he knows I loved him and that she does, as well. Make sure that he knows he has a reason to keep on living."
Why she hadn't sent a letter to tell Broody, Varric didn't know. She'd been hesitant enough to tell the rest of them when the symptoms began. Of course, she hadn't been eager to speak to anyone after Fenris took off when they docked in Starkhaven. He'd just disappeared, and she'd locked herself in her room. Isabela had been the first to suspect, what with all the vomiting. Varric probably should have caught on faster. He was a storyteller. Tragic family drama was something he told at every inn they stayed at. Suddenly, though, the tragedy became real.
So Hawke had confessed that she was a pregnant and sent a letter to Carver in the grey wardens. He'd raced to meet her without hesitation. Carver was the one who helped her through her pregnancy. Whenever she needed something, he was the one to fetch it. He was the scapegoat when her hormones made her snap at everyone. He held her when she cried. If anyone was a father to that baby, it was him in a strictly non-incestual sort of way.
But Varric was nothing if not loyal to his friends, and he intended to keep the promise no matter how the baby might benefit simply growing up with Carver as her doting uncle. Who knew what condition Broody was in? Who knew how he would react to the news? Who knew if he was even alive?
The baby reached up and touched his stubble, garbling. Varric bounced her a few times in his arms. "I missed you, too," he said, kissing her forehead.
She was born in the spring, on a cold day. They were in Starkhaven visiting Sebastian when Hawke suddenly collapsed in crippling pain, a gush of water staining her skirt. Varric and Carver and Sebastian paced outside while the women worked. The high-pitched sound of a baby crying was the most relieving noise he'd ever heard in that moment. She'd been sitting there with the child in her arms, pale and glistening with sweat.
"Come meet your niece, Brother," she'd rasped, that persevering smile plastered onto her haggard but beautiful face.
Isabela broke his reverie. "So, where next? Seheron?"
"Maybe it's time we called off the search," Carver said seriously. "If he's not here, he obviously doesn't give a damn. If he really wants to find us, he can."
"Where do you suggest we go?" the pirate demanded.
"Ferelden, where we're actually wanted," he sneered. "The Hero of Ferelden has been asking for our aid since we started this bloody quest. I say we abandon it and finally join the war my sister died trying to win."
"It's not that easy, Carver," Varric chided gently, staring into the child's liquid eyes. "Fenris doesn't even know. I made Hawke a promise."
"He left my sister," the grey warden said evenly. "He doesn't deserve to be a father."
"Varric," Isabela bit her bottom lip, "maybe he's right."
"Thank you," Carver breathed.
Didn't it make sense? Broody wasn't stupid. If he wanted to find them, he could. Besides, the second they joined Ferelden and Starkhaven in the fight, everyone would know their location. Fenris would have to be blind not to realize they were in one of those two places. But joining the cause meant something else: it meant admitting to the world that the Champion was dead. For when they stood at the King and the Hero's side without her, people would understand what sacrifice had taken place.
Varric studied the baby in his arms. He knew what it meant to grow up with an estranged father. Even if Fenris knew that he had created a new life with Hawke, would he even want to take responsibility? Could he? He was socially damaged by years of slavery. He hated mages with a single-minded fury that Varric had never seen matched. The baby might have inherited her mother's magic. He was unstable, unsafe. In comparison, Carver was the perfect parental substitute. And what if Fenris took the baby away to raise her? What if Varric never saw her again?
He'd be the first to admit he had fallen hard for the little girl. Everyone adored her. How could they not? To never see her again felt like the ghostly pain Hawke had left behind. It would be like losing her twice. The fragile thing he held in his arms was the only piece of Hawke that carried on, an entire potential person that he wanted to help shape. He wanted to hold her at night and tell her stories of her mother. He wanted to read to her and comfort her when she had nightmares.
Before he knew it, he'd invested more into the child than he'd ever thought he would. She felt like his daughter.
He'd never broken a promise before—not one he'd made to Hawke, anyway.
It was with a heavy heart that he conceded the point. "Yes," he said, staring at her pretty face as she stuck a thumb in her mouth, eyes fluttering closed. "All right. Let's go to Ferelden."
Depositing the baby into Isabela's arms, he left the room to go lie down in the bunks below, completely ignoring the greetings thrown his way. He moped for a few hours before finally getting to his feet, grabbing a flask of ale from his backpack, and heading upstairs to entertain the sailors for a few hours with stories. For within stories, he could forget about the smell of her hair and the gleam in her eyes. He could focus on anything, make up anything in the world so he didn't have to face reality. Fantasy was his salvation from the bitter truth, and Varric had never cared much for truths.
They arrived in Ferelden three weeks later, delayed due to a vicious storm that nearly sunk them all. Varric spent most of the time with the baby as he had before Cassandra's untimely capture. He related the story to Carver with far more embellishment than he probably should have, but the look of utter awe in the younger Hawke's eyes was definitely worth the extra boost of confidence it gave him. Carver was easily fooled in comparison to Hawke. She would have slugged him on the arm and called for more ale, demanding that he tell the truth.
Alistair greeted them upon arrival with the Hero standing diligently by his side. He was a handsome man with a scar stretching down the length of his neck that probably extended across his wide chest. Well-built, he had a stoic expression on his face as he reached out and shook hands with all three of them. Carver frowned. Isabela shot him a wink that made the king's ears turn pink. Varric held tight to the warm bundle in his arms and extended a hand. Strong grip. Cold eyes.
The war started with formal meetings with Starkhaven—Sebastian played his part well in court, but in private he was a mess of nerves—and leaders from the groups of mages. Varric was starting to think that Anders's 'gift' of freedom was doing far more damage than he could've imagined. All five of the leaders were worn, haggard, and drained. They were too thin and jumped at the slightest of noises. Sad thing, really. Hawke would have brought smiles to their faces. She would have been able to coax personalities out of the husks.
Time passed, and it was such an easy thing to teach the baby her first word. 'War' appropriately. Then 'Isabela' and 'Uncle' and 'Varric' or even 'dwarf'. Varric purchased tiny dresses for her and tucked her into bed when Carver couldn't. She slept in Carver's room while he was at the castle and not riding off into battle. Isabela stole her from the crib constantly, a thief in the night. In the morning, the pirate would have the baby snuggled with her in bed, and Carver would nearly collapse with relief. The game went on for nearly a year before Isabela slipped into the younger Hawke's bed and simply never left.
Varric taught her how to walk. She was eating one day, and he set her on the floor to fetch a book. She walked right over to him and pointed at the one she wanted before falling on her behind. He'd never felt such a thrill of pride. All afternoon he set her on the opposite sides of rooms and beckoned to her. She walked as though it were a task she had been capable of doing all along. Isabela clapped with joy and planted a kiss on the girl's cheek. Carver swung her in the air until she laughed herself silly.
Varric had to admit that the three of them looked the proper family when he thought about it. Isabela with her dark skin was the perfect mother for the bronzed child. She had long since traded in her pirate clothing for more practical men's clothing. The cotton trousers and tunics hugged her curves nicely but not lewdly like before. Carver had grown a beard. No time to shave. He was looking older as days passed by. The grey warden curse wouldn't simply go away because he wasn't fighting Darkspawn.
In fact, if it wasn't for the baby's shock of bright blonde hair, the illusion would have been absolutely perfect.
War raged. The Free Marches were taken over by the Templars. Orlais was ruled by the Divine and all mage-haters. Kirkwall became a cursed ground. Starkhaven, almost as if in contrast to Orlais, became the headquarters for mages. Ferelden was a promised land. The Circle remained intact only because of Alistair's flawless leadership and the Hero's uncompromising demeanor. Tevinter finally took a side in the war. They supported the mages and offered safety to those that wanted it. Alistair encouraged mages not to go, but that didn't stop many of them.
Five years passed in a cold war, guerilla tactics abound in unguarded passes and roads. Sebastian was assassinated while giving a speech on the anniversary of Hawke's death—they had long ago revealed the nature of the Champion's demise. A memorial was built in his honor in the square in Starkhaven and then again in Kirkwall. Enough gold convinced people to visit the Empty City, as it was called. Another statue of Hawke was built only two years later. Slowly, reluctantly, people began settling Kirkwall again.
The child fleshed out, and Varric watched the growth with an acute fascination. She was eight years old, a lithe and thin creature. Her cheekbones were high, lips delicate and pink at her young age. The brilliant color of her eyes shimmered with a definite intelligence. The bronze of her skin turned dark like Fenris's was all those years ago as she spent more and more time outside. Blond hair tumbled down her back. Carver still read to her every night. Varric told her wonderful stories. Isabela taught her how to pick locks.
It didn't escape the child's attention that she wasn't Carver and Isabela's child. Varric told her the unfortunate tale of her mother's death when she was quite young so there would be no confusion. She knew her 'real' father was out there still. Yet she called Carver not 'Uncle' but 'Father'. Every day that passed, she grew more and more like Hawke. The way she folded her arms, wrinkled her nose in skepticism, and came alive when an adventure was mentioned: it was the mirror image.
Finally the day came when Fenris wandered back into their lives.
Rain fell in torrents outside. Varric was writing at his desk, penning a letter to Aveline and Donnic, Starkhaven's new ruling pair when the sleek assassin Zevran appeared at his side. Hawke's daughter was angrily chopping off the hair of her doll with a dagger in the sleeping Isabela's arms. After finishing the line he was on, Varric glanced up to see a unique expression on the Antivan's face. He appeared worried, brow furrowed in distress.
Cousland sat forward, aware of his lover's discomfort. "Zev?" he asked softly.
The Antivan didn't spare him a glance. "There is an elf," he articulated with his accent which had only grown thicker over the years. "He is asking for you, Varric. He does not wish to see Isabela or Carver. Only you."
Varric glanced sharply at the girl, but she wasn't watching. Very slowly, he got to his feet. He was moving with less dexterity every year. Zevran slinked like a lazy lion over to where Cousland was purchased and stood at his side, hand on his shoulder.
"It's him, isn't it?" Cousland asked in his brusque manner, not bothering to hide his curiosity. "The child's father?"
Hawke's daughter shot to attention, eyes glittering with wonder. "Uncle Varric?" she asked. "My real daddy's here?" Isabela snored with her head against the wall, and the girl disengaged herself from the entrapping arms of her pseudo mother, leaving the doll on the floor. She grasped Varric's hand. The human was almost as tall as he was, though considerably smaller.
Varric's heart thrummed painfully in his chest to think that after eight years of keeping her warm, safe, and undeniably loved that she would refer to Fenris as her 'real father'. The elf who didn't know of her existence. The man who donated his DNA and nothing else. The man who abandoned Hawke because of a few harsh fights and who chose to mourn alone, away from their group like the loner he always believed he was. Carver was the one that held her in the night when she was afraid. Varric bought her things and spoiled her and taught her how to wield a blade—no progress yet, but she showed potential. They were her fathers, not Fenris.
There was no way to make up so much lost time.
But it was a child's longing that spurred her to meet her father. No matter how evil or weak or insane the mother and father were, children sought after that special, parental bond. He couldn't begrudge her curiosity; he had raised her to be that way. Like her mother, she saw through the fantasies and timeless tales, always seeking the truth. She'd seen through their mirage of a loving family, and she wanted to expose the ugly, harsh reality of a broken family that Varric and Carver and Isabela had tried so hard to mask.
So with a heavy heart, Varric squeezed her fingers and forced a smile. "Let's go meet him."
Fenris stood in the rain and appeared all the more morose for it. He was thinner than Varric would have thought possible, and blood stained his gauntlets. The dwarf considered sending the girl up to her room, but why not show her? It was what Fenris was, the way her father was. Exhaustion ringed his eyes. His skin was pale, no longer the Tevinter bronze it once was. When he glanced up, his hair hung wetly in his face. He let his crossed arms fall and stepped out of the rain under the portcullis.
"Varric, I—" his eyes snapped to the girl, relief vanishing in an instant. She squeezed Varric's hand tightly.
"He looks so strange," she whispered, eyes wide. "Is he really my father?"
Fenris stepped back in horror. Varric knew what he was seeing: the familiar blonde hair, impossibly blue and green eyes, flushed cheeks, and the strange tint to her skin, a blend of pale Ferelden and dark Tevinter. His eyes roved over her, and Varric cleared his throat, pushing her by her shoulders in front of himself.
"Fenris," he said, waiting until the elf looked at him, "meet your daughter, Hawke."
Shamelessly stole the title from Boone's personal quest in Fallout: New Vegas, and because I love the song. And it applies. Obligatory baby fic! Yay! Thanks for reading. Review please.