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Varric is rather disappointed with Carver. Not one of the templars the youngest Hawke had brought to the Hanged Man are willing to admit they'd ever had feelings for one of the mages. Not even the Knight-Commander who, if rumor (and Hawke) are to be believed, had been madly in love with the Hero of Ferelden herself. Sure, they're happy to talk about the circle and their training, but what was a love story without love?
Varric is just about to swallow the forty bits he'd spent buying rounds, trying to loosen tongues, and hope that his imagination is able to fill in the gaps when she walks into his tavern.
She's covered from head to toe in a dark grey travel cloak but despite the way the heavily sodden wool clings to her chest it's her stave that catches his attention first. Elaborately carved from ironwood and blue-white crystal, banded with silverite, it almost looks like she's carried a small tree in from a winter snow storm. Varric estimates he could easily sell it to the right buyer for three-hundred gold or more and he doesn't need to look around to know that some of the seedier patrons are thinking the same thing.
For a split second Varric gives silent thanks to Carver and the templars because out of armor doesn't mean unarmed and most of the two-legged rats in this place know that. Some of the four-legged ones probably know it too. Right on the heels of that realization comes another; a mage outside the circle is likely an apostate and apostates and Templars do not mix. Especially not in Kirkwall these days.
"Well, shit." Varric curses under his breath hoping she'll turn and flee before any of the templars notice her but she doesn't move. Then Carver is standing, hand on his sword, and it gets very quiet. Varric sees one of three things happening next; 1. She decides to fight and trashes his tavern, 2. She runs and the templars trash it in their haste to be after her, or 3. She surrenders.
Varric gives option 3 one-hundred to one odds.
"The order dictates." Carver says flatly bringing the templars' attention to the doorway. Surprisingly, the woman doesn't so much as flinch and Varric finds himself wishing her hood was down so he could see the look on her face.
She doesn't take her hand off her staff but she does raise her free hand palm out choosing, to Varric's astonishment, option 4; shrugging one side of the cloak over her shoulder to reveal the sapphire blue livery and silver griffon crest of the Grey Wardens. For a few long tense seconds nobody moves. Cullen breaks the stalemate first by sitting back down and taking a long drink from his mug. The other tempars follow suit though they don't return to their jovial conversations, too aware of the mage to really relax again.
Once they're all settled the woman makes for the bar. Varric excuses himself and takes a stool where he can watch her.
"A bottle of whiskey and a room for the night." he hears her say to Corff, "The good stuff, if you please." she amends when the bartender reaches under the counter. Corff looks at her then at the gold she's quietly sliding across the bar towards him.
"Up the stairs, last room on the left." Corff mumbles, reaching over his head for 'the good stuff', "Only one not occupied."
"Give her the best stuff," Varric supplies, "and put everything on my tab."
Corff glances between the two before heading toward the opposite side of the bar and reaching below but Varric barely notices because he's got the woman's full attention though she makes no move to take her gold back.
"I make a terrible bed-mate, ser dwarf. Nightmares of a sort." Varric can't see the frown on her face beneath the hood but he can hear it in her voice, "I'm as like to kill you in my sleep thinking you're a genlock as not."
"You wound me, madam. I am a gentleman." He puts on his most charmingly roguish smile. When she laughs he knows he's got her.
"If you are a gentleman then I am the Queen of Antiva." She pockets her coin and accepts the bottle from Corff, "I promise nothing but I'll hear you out. What is this generosity going to cost me?"
"First, your name." Varric gets the feeling that she is considering him very carefully as he slides onto the stool next to her.
"Amy. You?" she extends her hand and he takes it, turning it so he can kiss her knuckles.
"Varric Tethras, dashingly handsome rogue and writer at your service." This close he can see the smile tugging at her lips.
"You will find I am not so easy to charm, Messere Tethras," the smile grows just a little, "but, alas, I suspect you already know you've succeeded. What else do you require of me?"
"Information, specifically about the Circle of Magi. I'm writing a story and this lot," he gestures to the templars sitting in the corner, "are frustrating the piss out of me."
"May I ask what kind of story is it you're writing?" she pours a couple of fingers of whiskey into the glasses Corff has provided.
"A romantic tragedy and since I'm a neither a mage or a templar I'm at a loss." Varric tosses back his liquor.
"A romantic tragedy? Between a mage and a templar, I assume?" he nods, watching her roll her glass between her palms, "Well, your first mistake was going to them for insight. Falling for a mage is something of a badge of shame for a templar. It'd be easier to get a Qunari to admit he has doubts about his role within the Qun than to get a templar to admit he has any sort of squishy feelings for a mage.
"Why now? With the way things are shaping up, why write this story now?" her smile is gone and her tone is somewhat sad. Varric is a liar and often a bit dramatic but he knows when it's time to be serious and tell the truth.
"Can you think of a better time to humanize two groups of people than when they're at each others' throats? Honestly, I don't give nug shit about mages and templars but I don't like what I see brewing on the horizon and if I can, in some small way, make them seem like actual people instead of just 'The Enemy' I'm going to take it." Varric watches her hood bob as she nods beneath it, apparently satisfied with his answer.
"Well, in that case, it would be my honor to help you." she drinks her whiskey and glances at the Templars, "But privately."
"As the lady wishes," Varric grabs the bottle and glasses before hopping off his stool, "My suite awaits."
"You have a suite? Here?" she asks as he leads her across the commons, past the templars and towards the stairs, incredulity laced into every word. It isn't the first time someone has been surprised that The Hanged Man even had a suite let alone that he'd want to rent it.
"Ratty, rundown taverns are the best place for stories." he responds with a grin.
"So, you were in love with a templar?" Varric asks when they're safely ensconced in his rooms.
"What would you say if I told you that I was? Twice."
"I'd say you have a very dangerous fetish." he chuckles, sitting down the booze and Bianca, taking a seat.
"I have a friend who said almost the same thing to me once." She laughs, "May I?" she gestures to the hooks on the wall near his door.
"Feel free."
As she peels off the wet wool of her cloak Varric takes the time to get a good look at his guest. She's attractive for a human, curved in all the right places, though not to the extent of Isabella. He can only imagine the musculature hidden under her uniform, developed, if the silver streaking through her short ruddy-brown hair is any indication, over many long hard years of fighting darkspawn.
"How old are you?" he asks, templing his fingers beneath his chin. She turns her head to look at him fully giving him his first clear view of her face. She regards him for a moment, one delicately curved eyebrow arched over eyes the color of rich mud, already thin lips pressed even thinner.
"Twenty-five. Why do you ask?"
"Just trying to figure you out." he responds with a shrug.
"I'm hardly that complex of a puzzle." she grins wryly, turning back to lean her staff against the wall before shrugging off the pack she'd carried beneath her cloak.
"Oh, I doubt that." Varric smiles, watching her kneel before her pack. She pulls a small bundle of sandy fur from it which huffs sleepily, revealing itself to be a puppy,
"Ferelden?" he asks as she cradles the dog in her arms. She pauses warily, probably well aware of the anti-Ferelden leanings of many Kirkwallers.
"Hey, some of my best friends are Ferelden." he throws up his hands. Mollified, she takes the seat across from him.
"My mother was a Marcher but my father was Ferelden. I was raised there until the circle took me when I was eleven." She says as she takes the seat across from him.
"May I?" Varric reaches a hand out toward the Mabari pup. Reluctantly she places the dog on the table. It looks from Amy to Varric and at its master's nod trots over to the dwarf.
"What's his name?" he asks as the dog sniffs at his outstretched hand before allowing him to scratch behind its ear.
"Barkspawn." She laughs when Varric quarks his eyebrow and she pours them each another glass of whiskey, "One of my friends named him. Apparently Lester was just all sorts of wrong." Varric shakes his head slightly and shoos the puppy back to his master.
"Well, this is Bianca," he caresses the stock of his crossbow, "and now that we have introductions out-of-the-way I'm going to take an educated guess and say you were at Kinloch Hold?"
"I was." Amy replies, resting a hand on Barkspawn's back as the dog curls up on the table in front of her.
"So you knew the Hero of Ferelden?"
"Not really," she says, the smile slipping from her face, "I never really talked to her before she became my commander. She's personable enough, I suppose, but she has a very tight inner circle.
"Would you rather hear about the Hero?"
"Nah," Varric waves her off, "That stories already been told a hundred ways to the void and back. Tell me about these Templars of yours."
"They were both... sweet. Awkward. Terribly endearing traits, I'll admit." she huffs out a laugh, "But with the subject of your story I think you'll be more interested in the first one. I didn't meet the second until after I'd joined the Wardens."
"A lot of templars join the Wardens? I've only heard of the one." Varric narrows his eyes at her as he grabs a stack of parchment and a quill to take notes.
"More than you'd think, especially now, but less than we'd like. Emissaries are a nasty bunch but the Chantry doesn't take too kindly to us recruiting from their ranks. On the rare occasion that we do, we tend to focus on those who've yet to take their vows and haven't been given lyrium yet. It's a nasty addiction to beat and dementia isn't exactly a... desirable trait in a warden.
"What else would you like to know?"
"Anything you want to share. Start at the beginning. How did you meet your this first templar of yours?" Varric dips his quill and prepares to take notes.
For almost two hours she talks, pausing to answer the occasional question he poses. Varric almost stops her when she gets to Uldred's betrayal, her story of hiding in a cupboard ringing false in his ears. Her recount of the aftermath, the destruction of her home and her love's dramatic change, is told with such heartbreaking poignancy though that he's not sure he wants to question her lies. Her story ends with her recruitment into the Grey Wardens and Varric finds himself asking about the innocuous little things that will fill out his story and make it more real.
She's in the middle of an explanation of what taking lyrium for the first time feels like for a mage when there's a commotion downstairs. Someone is screaming his name and coming closer to his rooms. Varric and Amy both jump up to look out the door. The scene that greets them is bloody and desperate.
Fenris and Aveline have Garrett's arms draped across their shoulders while Merrill follows behind, hands wring together frantically. Hawke's limp feet drag along the floor painting a line of blood across the common.
"Shit!" Varric hisses turning to Amy, "You wouldn't happen to be a healer, would you?" she nods sharply and rushes to clear the table.
"Bring him up here!" Varric yells down and turns to collect his notes while Amy pulls the alcohol and her dog into a chair.
The blood that pools underneath Hawke when they get him laid out on the table is sickening.
"He's bleeding out! I need this armor off! Now!" Amy yells. The tattooed elf jumps in and starts helping her tear off the man's gauntlets.
"What the fuck happened!?" comes a voice from the doorway. Amy looks up to see a templar standing, panic in his eyes, just outside the room.
"Carver," the redheaded guard starts. Amy doesn't let her finish.
"You!" she points a finger at the templar, "Go tell your fellows that I'm going to be healing a man up here. I do not want to be rush and smitten until I'm done. Got it!" She stares at him until his lips tighten and he nods. She doesn't wait to see if he goes, turning her attention back to the unconscious man's pauldrons and bevor. When his armor is gone Amy can see that the blood is coming from his back.
"What's your name?" she asks the elf across from her.
"Fenris." he growls. She takes a deep breath and looks the elf in the eyes.
"Okay, Fenris, the wound is on his back but I can't reach it. I need you to help me roll him over. When that's done I'm going to need you to hold him down. Tightly. If he wakes I can't have him moving, got it." he nods, "Alright, on three; one, two, three."
He starts screaming as soon as they roll him, legs spasming with the pain. Fenris is too occupied with Garrett's wild attempts to push him off to help but soon the young templar is back and laying across them to hold the man still. Amy pauses.
"Do what you're going to do, Warden." the templar bites out, face ashen. She nods and quickly scans the room.
"Are you his woman?" she yells above the screaming at the young elven girl cowering in the corner, worrying her lip bloody.
"I- yes." she nods.
"I need you to come here and stand where he can see you. Talk to him. Get his attention. Get him to focus on you, not the pain, okay?" she nods and Amy returns her work, sending a small tendril of magic into the wound to assess it's extent.
"Okay," Amy tells the room at large as she staunches the blood, "good news is that I can heal this, bad news is whoever stabbed him in the back got his liver and nicked his Hepatic Artery. They knew what they were doing. I'm guessing Antivan Crows?" The guard woman's nod is brisk, "Okay, I'm not detecting any poisons. They were probably flushed from the wound as he bled, but you should all be careful. The Crows don't give up easily." With that Amy closes her eyes and starts knitting flesh together.
She's not sure how much time has passed when she comes back to, dismissing the spirit of fortitude she'd summoned to aid her, but it was long enough for someone to wedge a chair behind her. Gratefully she sinks down into it, her back protesting the position she'd been holding herself in.
"Well, you sure know how to show a woman a good time, don't you Ser Tethras?" she shoots the dwarf a weary grin and the quietly whispered conversations around her stop.
"If this is your idea of a good time, my lady, there's a free clinic in Darktown in need of a healer." Varric hands the puppy he's been holding back to her, his answering grin strained.
"She our new Anders?" Garrett slurs, drunk from blood loss, "She's prettier 'n he was."
"I'm a Ferelden, not an Anders." she smiles kindly at him, "And I'm actually not going to be in Kirkwall for long. Just passing through on my way to Antiva, hoping to talk with the new Viscount."
The guard woman coughs, "You're talking to him now." she says nodding toward the table.
"I... am?" Amy turns toward Garrett, "You're Viscount Hawke? So, Anders..."
"Mmmm," he hums in affirmation, "Varric, manners. Introduce us to your friend."
"Ah, my apologies. Everyone, the Grey Warden Amy and Barkspawn," Hawke snorts in laughter, "Amy, Barkspawn, meet everyone." Varric smiles, clearly amused.
Surprisingly, it's the templar who reaches across the table to offer her his hand first, "Second Knight-Lieutenant Carver Hawke. Thanks for saving my worthless brother's life." he says rolling his eyes.
"Can't you just feel the love?" Garrett smirks to no one in particular.
"Aveline Vallen, Captain of the Guard" the red-headed woman says, shaking her hand next, "You already know Fenris, Hawke and Varric. This is Merrill." The elven girl smiles wanly.
"I-it's a pleasure to meet you all. I, uh, I suppose I'll be here longer than I thought." She turns to Hawke who's smiling goofily at Merrill, "I would like to call on you, Viscount Hawke, perhaps in a few days? After you've recovered, of course."
"Drinks and Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man it is." he grins, head lolling in her direction.
"I would not recommend any alcohol for at least a fortnight. Your liver was almost cut in two." Amy frowns.
Garrett pouts, "Party pooper."
Amy turns her attention back to the dwarf, "Varrick, perhaps you would like to show me that clinic tomorrow? Maybe I can do a little good while I'm here."
"On one condition." Amy looks at him, the question on her face obvious, "You let me keep picking your brain."
"If you like, but I have a condition of my own." she smiles, getting up, "Give your story a happy ending."
"For you? Sure." Varric shrugs.
Amy nods and turns to the others, "Now, if you will excuse me, I should take Barkspawn out before retiring for the night. It really was a pleasure to meet you all."
"Thank you." Merrill squeezes Garrett's hand.
"You are more than welcome." she replies, shouldering her pack and grabbing her cloak and stave. Varric watches as she heads towards her room from his door.
"Well, wasn't that lucky." Aveline says eventually.
"Serendipity usually is." Varric muses aloud, watching as Amy returns from her room and helps her dog down the stairs.
She's halfway across the common room, Barkspawn capering around her feet, when she glances in the direction of the templars. Most of them have left for the night but there's a face among the ones left that she recognizes. She nearly falls, her feet frozen but her body continuing in its forward motion.
"Cullen." she barely breathes his name. There's no way he should be able to hear her but he raises his eyes and they find her's. Whatever drunkenness was once there is washed away and she watches the shape of her own name on his lips and tongue and teeth.
"Solona."
The knight next to him is jostled, ale spilling down his robes, as Cullen stands causing the bench beneath them to shift suddenly.
She might not be able to move but Cullen seems not to have that problem because he's standing before her before she's even realized he's moved. A long moment passes where they do nothing but stand chest to chest categorizing how the other has changed in the eight years since they last saw one another.
Cullen drags his knuckles across the streak of grey at her temple and she can no longer resist the temptation to smooth a thumb across the crows' feet at the edge of his eye. That's all the invitation he needs, it seems. His lips are slanted against hers and she's seventeen again, all want and need and cloying desire forever denied. His arms are wrapped around her waist and ribs holding her so close to the planes of his chest she can barely breathe. Her fingers thread through his hair, more harvest wheat than the bloodied gold it'd been in their youth, and she never wants to breathe fresh air again if it means parting from this, from him.
Varric knew she was lying, but he never suspected that it extended to her identity. He probably should have.
"Uh, Junior," he directs at Carver, "You might want to know that your cousin is snogging your superior officer."
"Charade is still in Cumberland. Isn't she?" Garrett slurs.
"Wrong cousin." Varric chuckles. Then Isabella is strutting toward his suite.
"Very nice." she laughs appreciatively at the couple as she passes, heading toward Varric's rooms, "Anyone want to tell me why the Hero of Ferelden is making out with the Knight-Commander in the middle of the bar?" she asks once inside his rooms.
"Lost time?" Varric says as Carver rushes out of the room to find out exactly what's going on.
Author's Note - I published this once before but found I was unhappy with it so I took it down and started polishing it up. I had to have read it a few dozen times, tweeking things here and there. I can say that I'm at least content with it now.