Mundane Magic
A/N: The first time I stepped into the cave on Sundermount, I was delighted by the glowworm grotto. If you've never been to Waitomo Caves in New Zealand, you must find your way there. Grab that plane ticket and make that multi-hour flight. Trust me: it's totally worth it, and it is true magic for a mundane world. This is fluff that was intended as a one-shot, but my muse is a tricky wench, so now it's going to be longer than anticipated. It shows that even those born without power can still create magic. It's also my first attempt at writing a fic, so please, be gentle until we know each other better, m'kay? Oh, by the way - there's language. Salty language. But probably nothing you haven't already heard Isabela say.
Massive, heartfelt gushing kudos to Snarkoleptic for agreeing to be my beta. I think I've found my long lost sister who was stolen away by Rivainis when we were born. But I'm not sure yet which of us is the more evil twin!
All hail to Bioware for creating such a wonderful world in which I can play "what if?".
Chapter 1
"Hawke - so my runner found you?" Varric's rumbling voice cut across the raucous murmur of the Hanged Man's common room. Hawke paused just inside the door, scanning until she saw the storyteller standing on the stairs and beckoning her up to his suite. "Oh, and bring that pitcher of swill Corff just tapped, would you?" He turned, pinned coattails flaring dramatically - she just knew he practiced that move daily - and disappeared upstairs.
Corff shoved the pitcher - topped with foam and brimming with something that actually smelled mildly drinkable - across the bar at her. He muttered something resigned about "the tab" as she snagged it before any liquid could slop over the lip. The diminutive brunette began to weave a practiced path through the drunken patrons, almost dancing; knowing just where to pause to avoid a bum-squeezing grope, and just when to speed up before a gagging laborer lurched to his feet and staggered toward the spew bucket placed so conveniently by the door. A final sideways quickstep between two tables that always ended up almost pushed into each other during bar fights, and she was bounding up the stairs, pitcher as steady as bedrock in her grip.
This uncanny ability of sensing potential trouble and avoiding it had earned her the short-lived nickname "Little Miss Know-it-All," uttered exactly twice by Varric before she'd convinced him to drop it. To do so, she'd used language that had made even the hard-bitten dwarf recoil. Or maybe it had been the very small, very sharp blade that had shimmered briefly before his eyes and then reappeared instants later poised in the center of the biggest ring of his necklace, just barely pricking the skin and making it itch. Either way, he had hastily agreed with her that "Hawke" would do just fine.
He had two ceramic mugs ready on the table, and her usual chair was pulled out. She poured for each of them, and without waiting drained half her ale in one steady pull, covering an unladylike belch with one hand and then fanning it away before she even sat down. "Echhh, I still don't see how you can drink this stuff all the time," she complained, watching Varric quietly sipping at his mug. "The only way I can manage is to get most of it down before I get a chance to actually taste it."
"Probably something to do with the fact that most dwarven brews use moss, mushrooms or mold for flavoring," he replied with a wicked grin. "Human spirits are just pitifully bland by comparison." She clinked her mug against his in rueful agreement, drew a quick breath, and downed the rest of her drink, grimacing ferociously once she was done.
"All right, Varric. What's up? One of your Undercity urchins nearly gave my mother a fit - 'stinking up the foyer and eying what could be stolen.'" She gave her voice a snooty pitch and then snorted in derision. "Maker's pendulous balls, we haven't even been in the place a week and she's already converted to 'Hightown Matron.' Twenty-five years of honest love and plain living, forgotten, just so she can be Lady Amell again. You know, I ... I almost wish we were still at Gamlen's. At least then, we'd all still ... be together." Her voice trailed off and she passed a quick hand across her eyes, sniffing hard once. "Anyway...the runner didn't say much more than 'Messere Varric wants ta see yer' before he bolted."
Having grown used to her mercurial mood swings over the past several months of working to fund the Deep Roads expedition, and its horrible repercussions, Varric wisely ignored her tears, merely refilling her mug and setting it back in front of her. Dutifully, she picked it up and took another huge swig.
"I got a message from that Dalish Keeper today that said, 'Tell Hawke it is done, and to act quickly, for it will not last,'" the dwarf sing-songed in a terrible attempt at the Dalish brogue. "So, mind telling your dear friend Varric what that means? Is it another job? You really don't need to take any more jobs right now, you know. There's more returns on the treasure coming in all the time. Not that a little extra jingle isn't a good thing." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Hawke drained her mug again and smiled impishly at the dwarf, sadness pushed aside for the time being. "No, it's not a job. It's... a surprise - a thank-you gift."
"For me? Gee, Hawke, you shouldn't have," he said teasingly. But he felt a twinge of misgiving, which grew stronger as she abruptly colored and became absorbed in turning her mug around in her hands, thumbs running along the rim and refusing to meet his eyes.
"Well, no, Varric. I've already promised that you'll get your present when we find Bartrand. This one, well, it's for..."
"Blondie, of course," he finished for her, and sighed. "Honestly Hawke, you really should learn to take 'No, I'm a possessed mage who's too old for you' as the rather impolite - but sincere - refusal it's meant to be, instead of a challenge."
She slapped the mug down hard enough to crack the fired glaze. "He's not that much older than me! I can't help that I have this ridiculous baby-voice or that I'm shorter than most elves. Nor does it help that Isabela keeps prancing around in that singlet of hers, showing off acres of tits. None of it changes the fact that I'm a grown woman, and I'm entitled to be acknowledged as such. It's bullshit that none of you consider me a child when I'm slicing the throats of Raiders or 'spawn, or keeping them from doing the same to you in a dust-up, but once we're back in Kirkwall, the game of 'who wants to babysit Hawke' starts up again. Do you really think I enjoy acting so crudely and talking like a bloody dock worker all the time?"
Varric had to throw up his hands in surrender and acknowledgment. Because even though her face was flushed and he could tell that she was deadly serious and very, very angry indeed, her voice was still, incongruously, the same breathy coo she was railing about.
Hawke snorted again, and shook her head. "Maybe I should just get my throat cut like Martin's was. Maybe then people might start taking me seriously, with such a lovely rasp to back me up."
She shoved her chair back from the table, stood up and leaned forward, fists planted on the wooden planking, glaring at the storyteller in frustration. "So, yes, now I'm going to head down to Darktown, all by my widdle self, and probably get my heart stepped on again, but it's my damned choice. Hopefully, one day my friends will learn to accept the gifts I give them as just that - a way to thank them for keeping me alive, for helping me out, or just for being my friends, and not as overtures for sex, bribes for favors or for pity.
"You know as well as I, Varric, we all could have - no, probably would have - died in the Deep Roads if it wasn't for Anders being there to heal us and sense darkspawn and keep us going every damned step of the way, no matter how much he hated being there. I know Fenris would rather bite his tongue out than use it to thank a mage, and I'd be willing to bet a fistful of sovereigns that you haven't managed to say anything more heartfelt than 'thanks for putting the blood back in, Blondie.' So, it falls to me, as the one who insisted on dragging him back into a stinking nightmare he'd hoped to escape, to express simple gratitude. As for anything beyond that - well, I'd say that's none of your damned business; and furthermore..." here Hawke stopped, shaking her head. She drew a slow, deep breath, then released it. "And furthermore, I'm sorry I cracked your mug. I'll get you a new one."
With that, she turned and left his rooms, still with light, dancing steps, but radiating a fierce energy that practically begged for somebody to do or say something stupid. Still finishing his first mug, Varric gave her a few seconds, then moved to the top of the stairs to signal one of his people for shadow duty.
Without even looking back, Hawke paused at the door. Her aura of potential violence had left a trail of wary looks and paused conversations in her wake. Very clearly, he heard her purr, "Var-ric ...?" That was all she said before she pushed on through the door, but he waved his man off. Wouldn't be right to get him killed.