A/N: This was written for a prompt on tumblr for the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle. It is part of a greater series I am working on called Not By Fate's Design that fleshes out Varric and Bianca's history and backstory. The full fic listing can be found in my profile.
This story takes place in 9:44 Dragon. Varric and Bianca are both 44 years old.
Thanks for reading!
The Paths that Never Cross
Work Text:
The night air was cool and fresh, ringing with the sound of festivities. Nobles and their guests from all corners of southern Thedas were hard at work to preserve a consistent state of drunkenness. Though the Exalted Council had not yet opened session, those who had gathered here for this serious and momentous occasion would always find an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion. It helped to wash away the bitterness of the unavoidable political mess that was about to come.
Varric did not drink tonight.
It was true that he could usually be found in the tavern, indulging in a good game of cards while Bran Cavin babbled away at his shoulder about how he wasn't allowed to bet any of Kirkwall's public buildings. But tonight was not the night. Even the Inquisitor had looked at him, surprised and crestfallen, when he had declined the invitation to play Wicked Grace. He felt sorry for that, but there were other matters to attend to.
"So I hear you're the Viscount of Kirkwall now."
Bianca's familiar voice, rich and smooth, spoke behind him.
"That's right," Varric said. "Little old me."
"Little old you, moving up in the world." Bianca stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed, hood pulled up, as was her custom, to hide her face. Her clothes were utilitarian, chosen to blend in with the servants of Guild representatives who had graced the proceedings at the Winter Palace. He was vaguely amused that the most infamous smith and the source of much dwarven political strife was running around, unchecked, under the Guild's very nose. She must have travelled from her workshop in Val Royeaux specifically to find her way to him.
Ten, twenty years ago, that would have been touching. Now it was…
Sad? Tragic?
Pathetic?
There wasn't a right word for it. What did you call two people who had been together for decades without truly being together?
Sometimes he thought neither of them could ever truly comprehend the downright absurd circumstances they had landed themselves in years ago. Circumstances whose consequences they would face for the rest of their lives.
Varric leaned heavily against the marble bannister that overlooked the Winter Palace gardens. Beyond the palace walls, the Orlesian countryside was quiet and content. "What are you doing here, Bianca?" he asked.
"Oh, I have an interest in the greater movements of nations," she replied. "Whatever decision the Council finds, it will shake the foundations of Thedas." She chuckled. "First the Champion of Kirkwall, now the Inquisition—your rub shoulders with giants. I must admit, I am a little jealous."
"Maybe you should take your jealousy elsewhere," Varric said. "There's how many—ten?—Guild representatives here. I don't like the feeling of standing on a mine that's about to go off."
"Maybe the mine should go off," Bianca pointed out, her voice dark.
Varric chuckled hollowly. "And risk the Council's proceedings? Josephine will have my head if dwarves start assassinating each other in Orlesian hallways. We're supposed to keep that shit away from everyone else's prying eyes." He glanced at her. "Why are you here?"
"Varric—"
"Cut the shit, Bianca. Why are you here?"
Bianca stood still, eyes downcast. "He's dead, Varric," she said quietly. "He's dead."
Varric paused. He couldn't look at her. "I see. How did it happen?"
"Natural causes, the healer said." Bianca shrugged. "I ordered his food tested. Poison. Idiot should have known better. I got the feeling he wanted it to end. The last time I saw him, he was… slipping."
"And your son? Will he inherit?"
"His son," Bianca corrected forcefully. "And no. Damon is… unfit. The House is in chaos looking for another leader."
"They haven't come to you?"
Bianca hesitated. "House Vasca needs a true patriarch," she snapped. "Not a surface kalna woman who has barely stepped foot in Orzammar in the last ten years."
"You are under consideration for Paragon," Varric reminded her.
"As if that matters when the votes have been deadlocked for two years," Bianca replied shortly. She paused, tapping her calloused fingers along the bannister. She was chewing over something. After a moment, she let out a weary sigh and continued. "The House has… sent a letter," she admitted. "They are unclear as to what they want me for, other than to be present at the funeral. But I have the feeling there are… ulterior motives. And it… It's not an invitation."
"So you are headed to Orzammar," Varric said. "This is what this is about. You've come to say goodbye."
"No, Varric, I—" Bianca turned sharply, fingers twisting together, a hint of desperation in her voice. "You know me. I wouldn't willingly step into that nest of vipers again if I didn't have a choice."
Her nostrils flared, her words sharp and bitter.
"They're pompous, egotistical and so blindly devoted to tradition they can't see what's right in front of them," she continued, crossing her arms. "They're so choked by etiquette, I'm surprised no one has suffocated. Not to mention I'll have my entire collection of Swords and Shields confiscated to appease their tiny, paranoid minds because some Assembly spymaster is going to think you're sending me messages hidden in smutty literature." Bianca huffed and eyed him sideways. "Not that I wouldn't put that past you. That's exactly the kind of thing you would do."
"Thanks for the shining endorsement," Varric said sourly. "That's really—wait, you've read the romance serial?!"
Bianca shrugged and nodded. "I read everything you publish. I have to get it smuggled through the workshop, but thankfully Val Royeaux is so in love with you, it practically grows copies on trees."
"I'm flattered, really—but the romance serial?!"
"Varric," Bianca said wearily, "if you don't want me reading that kind of thing, then by the Stone and the Ancestors, don't publish it. Or use a blasted pseudonym. Are you really so surprised I've read it?" She sounded a little hurt by his incredulity.
"Well, no. But it is complete garbage. I thought you had more tact."
"I wanted to see if you could still make me blush," Bianca said, raising her chin. "And you did. Several times. Brought back some wonderful memories, too. Are you sure you don't draw from personal experience when—"
"All right, all right," Varric said. "Andraste's ass, I get your point. Just promise me you won't ever mention this to Cassandra. I don't need her questioning my personal life any more than she does."
Bianca's jaw dropped. "The Divine reads Swords and Shields?"
"Her Holiness, Exalted Servant of the Maker, loves Swords and Shields."
"Ancestors have mercy!" Bianca howled with laughter.
For the briefest moment, it seemed as though they were not two people forbidden to each other, not two people under constant watch, not two people who could devastate the entire dwarven economy and ignite a war for simply being in close proximity to each other. It was a breath of normalcy they both strongly desired.
And it was over far too quickly.
Bianca placed a hand absently on his shoulder. "I've taken up too much of your time," she said. "I should let you get back to your friends."
"They can wait," Varric said gruffly. He gripped her arm, pulling her further into the shadows, away from the torchlight. As he reached up to push back her hood, she caught his hand.
"No," she said. "The Guild—"
"Let me see your face," he said. "I haven't seen you in two years. Just… let me see you, Bianca. Before you go."
She sighed and pushed back her hood. There were a few silver hairs in her thick chestnut locks, which she had coiled into a braided knot at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes were lined with wrinkles and her pale complexion was more weathered than he remembered it. But the familiar vibrancy and passion still burned in her and he thought she had never looked more beautiful.
"Don't faint on me now," she said. "I'm not a fair maiden any more."
"Do yourself more credit," he shot back. "You're fine the way you are." A single lock of hair had come loose and fell over her ear. He gently brushed it away. "You know you can ask for help, if you want to."
"Varric—"
"I am a viscount," he said. "If you want me to use my station to protect you, just say it. But things in Kirkwall will become very messy with the Guild."
Bianca drew away. "That sounds far too familiar for comfort," she said. "You and I both know that kind of protection is not worth the price it costs. I can't ask for that, no matter how much I'd like to."
"Then we're on the same page," Varric said. "Good to know."
A clock chimed in the distance.
"I have to go," Bianca said.
"I know."
She caught his hand. "Someday."
"Someday." He chuckled sadly. "We've been saying that for decades."
"That's the funny thing about 'someday,'" Bianca said. "You never know when it's going to arrive."
She kissed him and—as it always did—it bore the feeling and thought of finality. It occurred to him, as it had many times over, that this may be the last time that he saw her. Bianca broke away, patted his cheek softly, and pulled up her hood and walked away.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the palace.
"Goodnight, fair maiden," Varric murmured, looking out at the moonlit countryside. He really wanted a drink now. "I wish you well."