"You know, if you have time, I could give you a few archery pointers."
The polishing handkerchief - because mere rag swould never touch Bianca - dropped from Varric's nerveless fingers, resting so lightly on the table in front of him, one might think it were actually straining to be away from it. (As this was the Hanged Man, Varric wouldn't entirely rule the possibility out.) It was a testimony to his total shock at Choir Boy's presumption and arrogance that the only reply he managed was, "Excuse me?"
Sebastian seemed to have no idea how far wrong he was going, leaning forward conversationally. "Sometimes your shots veer a little left. I thought maybe your cocking ring was off." The Starkhaven prince pointed at the device. "I could take a look if you like."
Varric felt his mouth go totally dry, even as blood rushed to his face. He sat forward, planting both hands on the tabletop, and growled, "You want to touch Bianca's cocking ring?"
Sebastian looked up from ogling Bianca, and smug superiority quickly gave way to surprise. "It was... just a thought," he said, pushing his chair back and rising. Varric noted with some satisfaction that he backed away from the table.
"Hmph." Interloper run off, he gazed down at Bianca and smiled. She loved it when he got all jealously overprotective.
But later that night, Varric tossed and turned in the large, plush bed in his suite. Images of Bianca's cocking ring - it wasn't really off, was it? - spun around extreme close-ups of Choir Boy's nimble fingers. Varric knew he had a delicate touch - for a dwarf. There was only so much thick fingers could do for his lady's more intimate mechanisms. Rivaini's were finer but not so strong; Choir Boy, though...
Stupid long and strong male human fingers.
So what if he... he let Choir Boy... Varric could hardly bear to think of it. It's like going to a healer, he told himself firmly. They touch all your naughty bits and everyone pretends they don't like it. But if she needs attention, for her health... I suppose... It would be selfish of me not to see that she's in the best condition she can be.
But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.
...oo00O00oo...
No, not happy at all. Try fucking traumatized.
He couldn't decide which was worse: having Choir Boy do his fondling out in the Hanged Man, where any passing pervert could see Bianca being handled like a common weapon, or sullying the sanctity of his private suite. He'd eventually opted for the second as being marginally less loathsome.
So he'd sat in one of the big stone chairs, face getting redder and redder as Choir Boy delicately twiddled his girl. When the cocking ring was adjusted to his satisfaction, he reached to pick Bianca up, and Varric actually growled.
"Such an attachment to worldly possessions will only lead to pain," Choir Boy admonished him.
"For you, maybe," Varric bristled before calming himself. Sebastian was here at his invitation, after all, and for Bianca's benefit. "Anyway, thanks."
"Don't mention it," the archer said, bemused. "Come up to the Chantry sometime; there's a range where the templar archers practice. We'll see if the bias is fixed on your long range shots."
Varric grunted noncommittally, and Sebastian departed.
Varric hurried around the corner of the table to sweep Bianca into his arms. "I'm so sorry, baby," he said, tickling her cocking ring gently, as if his touch could erase the memory of another man's hands there.
...it did look more centered. Just a little, maybe. He turned to take aim at the bed; the gentlest caress of her trigger made Bianca spasm, and a bolt spiked clear through a pillow. It was hard to tell at such short range, but...
No, no, no, no, she was not responding for another man. It was just a routine check-up, that was all, nothing personal. Nothing at all alluring about the taller, younger, exotically-accented human with a noble lineage that was actually current, deft fingers and stupid-accurate marksmanship...
Okay, shit was going to have to get done.
...oo00O00oo...
Three days had passed since Sebastian had lent Varric a hand with his crossbow, and he still hadn't seen the dwarf up at the Chantry's range. He did want to make sure that the repairs were good, and not in the middle of combat, either. So he left his cell to make his way back to Lowtown and the Hanged Man, to see if he could persuade Varric into a friendly shooting match before Hawke stumbled upon some other plot of dark evil that needed thwarting.
Corff caught his eye as he came in the door. Before Sebastian could greet him in the Maker's name, the bartender jerked his head toward a corner. "Please, do something," he said wearily. "I think he's starting to scare the customers."
Sebastian looked and saw Varric, one elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand as he gazed adoringly at the crossbow. This was not so unusual, nor was the fact that the crossbow was on the table. The sheepskin throw on the table was, however. The crystal goblet of white wine - or was it oil? - was also new. Bianca was always immaculate, but Sebastian would have sworn that she was gleaming, and he did not swear oaths in vain.
And, as he got nearer, it became apparent that Varric was speaking to her. This was not unusual - or say, rather, that it was not an infrequent occurrence, for he still considered the practice odd - but this time, it sounded as if the dwarf was reciting poetry.
"Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen,
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men."
"That's... quite a remarkable verse, Varric," Sebastian said. He carefully did not say that it seemed rather ridiculous when directed toward a crossbow.
Varric turned slowly in his seat, eyes narrowed. "Choir Boy," he grunted, and Sebastian had to resist the urge to remind him, again that he did not in point of fact sing in the Chantry's choir. "You're interrupting."
This remarkable possessiveness was really unhealthy, but Sebastian had no desire to press the point. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace and said, "Then I will be on my way. I merely stopped to ask if you would join me for some rounds this afternoon... or tomorrow, if you are otherwise engaged," he added diplomatically. "Just to see how her bolts fly before it's demons or slavers we're shooting them at."
The dwarf grimaced, the expression he used when someone was correct and he didn't like it. "That's... a good idea," he said slowly. "I'll be up after breakfast."
Sebastian smiled winningly. "I'll see you then."
...oo00O00oo...
Sebastian drummed his fingers impatiently against his lacquered armor as the sun rose higher, and higher, and higher. Varric finally ambled onto the Chantry's grounds a bit after the sun had passed its zenith. "Varric!" he said, unable to keep a note of displeasure out of his voice. "You said we'd meet after breakfast!"
"This is after breakfast for me, Choir Boy," Varric grinned, unperturbed. "I had a long night."
Sebastian blanched, praying to the Maker that those words did not mean what he supposed they implied. He could, he decided, die without ever knowing the truth of the matter and would consider himself blessed. "Well, glad you're here," he said briskly. "Shall we begin?"
"Sure," Varric laughed, unshouldering the monster crossbow. "But I thought you said you wanted to test Bianca at long range. This is what, a hundred yards? That's peanuts."
"It'll be far enough to see how she's shooting," Sebastian replied, nettled. One hundred yards was not peanuts. He had no doubt Bianca could throw a bolt twice that, but it wouldn't tear tissue paper at the end of the arc.
"I suppose," Varric said, and suddenly put six bolts into the straw target downrange. "Yeah. Yeah, that looks good."
Sebastian squinted critically. "The grouping could be a little tighter."
He suddenly had a thick, leather-clad finger poking him in his shiny white breastplate. "Bianca's grouping is plenty tight!" Varric said hotly.
Shooting. Shooting would keep him from dwelling on... whatever personal meaning that had for Varric. Yes.
Sebastian brushed the angry dwarf aside, pulled and arrow from his quiver and nocked it. "Don't tell me about her grouping," Varric continued to growl. "Especially you, shooting those stupid skinny little arrows." He flipped one of his shorter, but rather thicker, bolts between his fingers. "Honestly, how do you kill anything?"
"Beg pardon?" Sebastian asked distantly. The secret to archery was consistency. For a given range, stand the same, breath the same, draw the same. He had to be calm when he shot, focused on his form and the distant target.
Thwack! The goose-fletched shaft landed exactly in the middle of Varric's grouping. "By attention to detail, precision, and a close connection to my weapon." Varric snorted, but Sebastian continued. "It's my fingers on the string, my arm that pulls the draw. That means I can adjust to small differences in the environment by feel. Bianca is an amazing weapon, Varric, but her real advantage is mechanization: a repeatable draw, with the same tension, the same release every time. But it does put you a few steps more removed from the arrow." He shrugged, only vaguely noting Varric's horrified expression. "Shooting the longbow takes more skill, and tis true I can make more errors - but I think my sensitivity is the greater."
"You... you're sayin'... you're sayin' Bianca's release is always the same, but your technique..."
"By necessity," Sebastian said, frowning at Varric's sudden pallor. "Are you well?"
"We gotta go," Varric mumbled, suddenly shouldering Bianca.
...oo00O00oo...
"Is it true, baby? Is it always the same for you?" Varric asked Bianca sadly, back at the Hanged Man. "You know I try to change it up a little... you know, the rhyming triplets and those little grace notes I try to sneak in... Is that... enough for you, darlin'? You want me to try something new?"
The door swung open. "Varric!" Hawke called. "We got some kind of trouble up at the Bone Pit. Let's go!"
...oo00O00oo...
Maker protect me, Maker defend me. Maker protect me, Maker defend me.
The fight was not going well. If it had been only the largest dragon Sebastian had ever seen, that would have been intimidating but not overwhelming. Hawke had defeated pride demons, after all; what was a beast of flesh and blood, even if it did breath fire?
But its attendant spawn were overwhelming, literally. One dragonling was no threat, but when a clutch of them charged at him, he found himself rolling on the ground, fending off small, snapping snouts. There was more than one half-drunken gutter brawl hidden in the Starkhaven prince's sordid past, though, and he dropped the Starkhaven bow in favor of a small pair of daggers. A flurry of vicious stabs and sharp slashes later, he was fighting his way to his feet.
Stalwart Aveline had the attention of the high dragon; he didn't see Hawke at all, which was ominous. Varric was there, firing bolts at an oncoming young dragon -
- when the high dragon unexpectedly lashed out with both wings. Aveline, her target, saw it coming and ducked; Varric, focused on an entirely different foe, was blindsided. The dwarf went flying, landing in a heap much closer to the angry dragon he'd just been shooting.
Bianca, on the other hand, was mere feet from where he'd dropped her in surprise when the wing hit him. And his close-quarters bayonet was on the crossbow, Sebastian knew.
He cast about for the Starkhaven bow and - didn't find it. Perhaps it was under a dead dragonling or it got kicked away in the scuffle or... it really didn't matter. There wasn't time to look for it. He raced forward, snatched Bianca from the ground, and settled her stock into his shoulder as he kept moving, trying to get an angle to the dragon that didn't include Varric.
Tat! Tat! Tat! The impossibility of the weapon only vaguely registered. She appeared to have some sort of feed for her bolts, although he could see no place where the scores that Varric shot in a typical battle would be stored. She even seemed to reset herself, the kickback from each shot somehow drawing her bowstring back to a cocked position. Sweet Maker, all you had to do was pull the trigger.
Tat! Tat! Tat! Her rate of fire was practically obscene, her aim true even as he shot on the run. Shooting longbow was meditative, calming; shooting Bianca was exhilarating. He was in the fight instead of watching it from a remove; all the measured thought that had to go into his marksmanship could go into noticing other things.
Like the dragon abandoning Varric in favor of charging at the man shooting at her.
The serpentine head snaked down low; Sebastian rolled (rolled!) in time to avoid the gout of flame. Coming up, he turned, bolts spraying wildly and it didn't matter because there were always more. He painted the creature with quarrels from flank to neck; none hit the weak spots he'd be precisely targeting if he had his own bow, but did it matter?
It might; although wounded and bleeding, the dragon was still coming for him. Adrenaline pumping, he pulled the trigger harder than good form called for; he expected the shot to go wide.
TAT TAT TAT! Bianca bucked hard in his hands, recoiling so hard into his shoulder he was sure it would leave a mark. Three quarrels launched themselves almost one on top of the other, catching the beast in the throat. Without meaning to, he let loose a wild yell, caught in the power of Bianca's enchanted spell of destruction.
Not that he supposed anyone heard it over the death-roar of the high dragon; Aveline was somehow sitting on its head and driving her blade into its skull.
Ears ringing, they scoured the battlefield for Hawke. It turned out the mage had been knocked unconscious by a stray swipe of a claw, and a few healing potions were all that was necessary to set things to rights.
Aveline requested one herself; as the Guard Captain and Hawke were both waiting for the effects to kick in, Varric grunted. "Choir Boy."
Sebastian turned, expecting reluctant thanks for saving the dwarf's life. "Yes, Varric."
"Thanks for saving my life," he said. Sebastian smiled and nodded - and then Varric slugged him in the stomach. Suckerpunched, the Starkhaven prince folded over, the wind knocked out of him. "And don't touch my crossbow. Ever. Again."
...oo00O00oo...
"I forgive you."
Varric stared flatly at Choir Boy. "Whoop de do."
"And there's something I want to tell you," Sebastian continued as if he hadn't said anything. The archer settled himself gingerly onto one of the Hanged Man's filthy benches. "She was fighting for you."
"Come again? Who was fighting for me?"
"Bianca." Sebastian paused. "At the Bone Pit."
Varric smirked. "And here I thought I was the sun-touched deviant who was too invested in his crossbow."
"I can't really explain it... although... she's got lyrium in her, doesn't she? And enchantments?"
Varric raised an eyebrow. "Among other things."
"Maker save me, but over the past few days I've become quite sure: I wasn't fighting with Bianca, Varric. She was fighting with me. She couldn't save you on her own; she needed hands and feet. I was just... there."
Varric leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "That's a pretty story, there, Choir Boy."
Sebastian met his gaze evenly. "So ask her."
"Are you serious?"
"I don't know," Sebastian answered with the honesty that lost him hand after hand of Wicked Grace. "It sounds absurd to say it. But having been... acquainted with the lady..." His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "The Maker's world is full of miracles. Perhaps Bianca is one of them."
"You can leave the Maker out of it," Varric grumbled, "but I'll ask her."
"Good," Sebastian said, rising to go. He paused, eyes carefully averted. "I... I don't suppose..."
"No," Varric said in his very best Arishok impersonation. "Rivaini's already jealous you got to work with her once. Count your blessings, priest."
"I shall," Sebastian said, before disappearing out into the streets of Lowtown.
...oo00O00oo...
Author's Notes:
Originally submitted to the k!meme as a six-part fill, each part titled with a line from the refrain of the Bon Jovi song.
It made a nice contrast with Varric's poem. It's Shakespeare's Sonnet 81, a fitting verse for a storyteller, I think.