A big Thank You goes to my beta, OhMercyMe. :)
Telling stories can be tricky, and there are only few people who can do it right, who can really capture an audience, have them hanging on their words, make them believe that they know the characters just as well as their closest friends, even make them think that a story is not about fictional characters at all, but about them. As soon as your listeners believe that they're a part of it all, you have achieved your goal.
And sometimes people surprise you. You think that you know everything about them, but then suddenly they turn out to be incredible storytellers. It's often hidden, that talent, and one has to wait for the right moment where that talent comes to the surface. Sometimes it's a happy one, but most of the time it's a moment of fear, of sadness, of deep emptiness that can only be filled with big, dramatic words. Then those people can shine, can open their heart and break through the silence with easy, perfect grace.
But storytelling is not the only talent that's not always apparent the moment you meet someone. There are a lot of things lying dormant in people and just waiting to be awakened by someone or something, a friend or a foe, or an accident, an emergency where hands are shaking and hearts are racing and minds go completely numb.
Hawke and his companions realise this one day at the Wounded Coast, when they are ambushed by bandits and don't have the time to fall into their ususal formation before arrows rain down on them and daggers are drawn, glimmering in the sunlight and wielded with deadly precision.
They are upon Anders within seconds, and while he manages to fend some of them off with a wave of repulsive magic, one of them gets close enough to sink his dagger deep into his thigh. The amount of blood, thick and red and dark, pouring out of the wound and onto the ground is sickening, and it takes a few minutes for the others to kill every single one of the bandits and rush to his side. By then, he's incredibly pale, half sitting, half lying on the ground, breath coming in laboured, wheezing gasps while he tries desperately to call forth some magic. But it just won't come.
This is when they realise that, as indestructible as Anders may seem, sometimes even a healer needs healing. And Varric is the one coming to the rescue, taking off his jacket before he rips his shirt in half and uses it to tie Anders' leg and reduce the bleeding, with a naturalness that surprises everyone, maybe even the dwarf himself.
„Don't worry, Blondie, I've got this."
The funny thing is that he really does. His words aren't empty, not meant to reassure and calm down a patient, something Anders often does whenever he realises that there is nothing he can do, that someone is too broken to be put together again.
And although the storyteller can't really heal the healer, he can bring him back to Kirkwall alive. No one will ever tell this particular story, it's not really heroic or important enough for the audience to care, but there are at least two people who will never forget it, and sometimes that is enough.
Because that's the thing. The really important things often happen when no one is looking. They go unnoticed by everyone except the people who are a part of them.
Varric knows this better than anyone, and is once again reminded after an evening of Wicked Grace in his room at the Hanged Man.
Anders has lost every single round, and is still complaining about how he hasn't got any money left to buy supplies for his Clinic long after Hawke, Fenris and Aveline are gone.
„Maybe you should stop playing, Blondie", Varric says, but there's no severity in his voice, and it doesn't take long until he rummages in his jacket and lets two sovereigns drop into Anders' hand and refuses to take them when the mage wants to shove them right back. When Anders opens his mouth Varric hurries to continue. „Spare me, please. And by the ancestors, keep the damn money." He tries to sound lighthearted but isn't quite able to pull it off with the same elegance and effortlessness as usual.
It's been two days since they found Bartrand in his mansion, stark raving mad and incurable. Varric hasn't really talked about it and keeps telling the others how great it is that Hawke has gotten some closure to the whole thing now, and how Hawke can sleep peacefully now, knowing that their betrayer is taken care of, because Hawke is not the one who has to worry about things like guilt and regret, lying awake at night and wondering what could have been, if…
Anders doesn't buy it, and Varric knows that. That's why he gently asks the mage whether he doesn't have to get back to the Clinic.
„It's been a quiet day, so I'm optimistic that it will be a quiet night as well. Seriously, Varric, is this how you treat your friends? I'm hurt."
It's unusual for the dwarf to not counter with a witty remark or a dry joke, but his head is too full with images of his brother at the mansion, just as vulnerable as his mother had been before her early death, and Varric being the one who always tried to offer Bartrand some comfort and failed, after every time that he had cleaned away a puddle of vomit and wiped their mother's face with a wet cloth, trying to get her to sleep. It's hard to talk when everything you could talk about hurts, especially when you're the kind of person who only talks about painful things in the lives of other people but never your own. Luckily, he doesn't have to.
„Have I ever told you about my adventures at Kal'Hirol? Back when I was with the Wardens?" Anders puts his hands on the table to get more comfortable when Varric shakes his head.
„I think you missed that one." Varric leans back in his chair, beer mug in hand and eyes half closed, letting the mage take over his usual role, and it doesn't feel as strange as he thought it would.
„Perfect. Prepare yourself, because it wasn't pretty."
They will never mention this night to anyone. But that doesn't mean it won't stay with them for the rest of their lives.
Because sometimes, a storyteller needs to hear a story just as much as a healer needs healing.
Anders gives Varric a crooked smile, clears his throat, and begins.