Part Three: Varric

Varric kept her busy during her visit, showing her all over Kirkwall-from her personal estate in Hightown to the endless mayhem of Lowtown. He seemed fiercely determined that she should like Kirkwall, and she couldn't help but admire his love for his city.

"We'll take you out to the harbor tomorrow, let you try out the key," he said over lunch in his office. "I haven't given Bran a heart attack all week."

"I don't remember being this horrible to my advisors," said Clariel.

"He's not my advisor, he's my doorman," said Varric with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And I almost forgot. I'm supposed to give you this."

He handed her an unusually thick envelope. She opened it to find a letter, an updated schematic for Dagna's silverite hand, and a pair of flat rings made of light, silvery ceramic. They felt smooth and cool in her hands, no matter how long she held them. Like wind made solid, alive with thousands of tiny runes. She shook the letter open and read:

Lavellan,

Varric tells me you're not the Inquisitor any more, and that you don't have a left hand. I can't do anything about the former, but I pulled some strings for these. The half-wits trying to recreate Caridin's work never knew what they had. Install one around the rune in your palm, and the other on the back of the hand. They will insulate you against any feedback, and they're enchanted to suppress the electricity unless you turn the top ring once to the right. Hit someone with the palm to stun, grab and squeeze to kill. Have fun, and you're welcome.

P.S. Send my regards to Dagna. I'm turning this little beauty into a glove so I can use it too.

P.P.S. Varric, stop reading other people's mail.

-Bianca

"Handy, isn't she?" said Varric in a would-be casual voice. "Heh. Handy."

"Varric, that was terrible."

They spent the afternoon in companionable silence. Varric answered letters while Clariel worked on the silverite hand, carefully using her hooks to hold the delicate attachments in place. There was a certain satisfaction in putting together the final pieces, as though the hand hadn't really been hers until now.

She heard Varric swear loudly when he reached the last letter in the stack. "Shit. It's from your old Keeper. She says strange elves have arrived in Wycome. She says-" He sighed at the stricken look on Clariel's face. "You're finally going back, aren't you?"

She forced down the sudden lump in her throat. "I have to warn them, Varric. The Inquisition helped the Wycome elves, but...I know many of my people still fear and dislike humans. I don't want them to swell Solas's ranks."

"I'll help," he said with a grim smile. He pushed aside his letters, and pulled a fresh stack of parchment toward himself. "Your people fear the Wolf? We'll play on that to keep them out of his grasp."

She stared at him, aghast. "But...that's not the truth. He's not the monster they think he is."

The dwarf's face hardened briefly, then he stood up and left his desk to sit beside her. He picked up the prosthetic hand and helped her finish securing Bianca's rings into place; sparks of lightning swarmed toward the center of the palm before they vanished into the metal.

"Ginger, the truth is that he's going to kill everyone. You, me, our families-unless we stop him. I'll leave it at that and let the elves draw their own conclusions. Good enough?"

It wasn't exactly a lie, in the same way that Solas had never quite lied to her...and the thought made her sick inside. But she knew Varric was right. She was the Dread Wolf's heart, his love, and she'd borne his magic for years. If she told the elves of Wycome everything-she could see the looks of horror and disbelief on her cousins' faces, the suspicious fear from the rest of her clan, and the sick feeling threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm going to tell my family everything," she said firmly. "My parents and Aunt Deshanna. They need to know."

Varric gave a helpless sort of shrug. "That's on you, then." He returned to his desk and lifted his quill. Then he slowly put it back down and took a deep breath, as though steeling himself to say the words.

"You remember what I told you right after the Breach? How you should run before your life became a tragedy?" He downed the remainder of his glass in one gulp. "You can still take my advice."

"I'd think you of all people would understand. Giving up on someone is easy, but that doesn't make it right."

"Bianca's a little nuts, I'll give you that," said Varric, raising his eyebrows. "But last time I checked, she wasn't out to destroy Thedas."

"It's not about that." Clariel reached for the wolf jawbone necklace under her jacket, feeling its worn, smooth edges. Solas's last gift to her, tucked into her hand before he disappeared through the eluvian.

"I won't pretend it isn't painful. Loving Solas is...the most painful thing I've ever done." She took a deep breath. "But I would feel a thousand times worse if I had a chance to save him...and I walked away instead."

Varric didn't seem to have an immediate answer for this. Then he looked out the window, where the scar of the Breach was still visible. "The kid's out there," he said, and he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as her. "He can help Chuckles. It doesn't have to be you."

"Yes, it does." She stood up and started to pace his office. "The Evanuris labeled him a dangerous traitor. His followers turned on him after seeing what he'd done. The Dalish think he's a monster. I have to believe in him, Varric."

He opened his mouth, then shook his head and took a long drink straight from the bottle. "Andraste's asscheeks, how do you elves all get so stubborn?"

Clariel laughed as she picked up the silverite hand and attached it to her arm; instead of the warmth of her hooks or the gentle hum of the crossbow, a sharp frisson of electricity ran along her skin. She carefully turned the ceramic ring on the back of her hand; with an audible snap, lightning came alive across her palm, filling the viscount's office with the smell of ozone.

"Don't know," she said. "Maybe it comes with the pointed ears."


She knows it's just a dream, but she misses Skyhold so badly. She can't help indulging herself, walking all of her old haunts. The ramparts, with the Inquisition's banners fluttering high in the morning breeze. The garden in riotous bloom. And she isn't surprised when she steps out into the courtyard and sees the white wolf standing beyond the gates, closer than he's ever been.

Tarasyl'an Te'las calls as loudly to him as it does to her.

She hasn't even taken a step forward when he turns tail and flees, sprinting out the gates of Skyhold and out of sight. She stares, too stunned to follow-and then she feels the deathly silence of winter fall over her like a shroud. Her breath mists in the air. The grass under her feet turns white with frost. And she hears it now, a dragon's roar that she knows in her very bones, though she has only heard it once before.

Hakkon Wintersbreath circles the sky above her, a pure white wyrm of with eyes of blue. He bellows once more before landing in the courtyard, leaving deep gouges in the earth mere feet from where she stands.

She isn't sure how to address the Avvar god when he is no longer her enemy, not even the same entity she encountered in the flesh. But courtesy seems prudent, especially in the Fade. He no longer burns with the mindless fury that she remembers, and waits patiently for her to approach.

Her feet crunch over the snow that falls from his wings. "Andaran atish'an, Hakkon Wintersbreath," she says with a slight bow. The dragon rears, and frost cracks off his scales in great sheets, dagger-sharp ice landing all around her. She doesn't move. She has endured far worse dreams than this.

"Inquisitor First-thaw," he says in a voice that shakes her very bones. "You helped rebirth me. I do not like being indebted to a mortal."

She shivers but says nothing, steeling herself to look into the dragon's cold, narrow eyes.

"The one who follows you is greater and older than I. But he does not wish to be seen. I will drive him away when you dream, and so my debt is paid."

The frozen air makes her cough, but she takes a breath anyway and gathers her courage.

"No."

She's stumbling over her words now, trying to get them all out before Hakkon has a chance to stop her. "I don't want him gone. He and I have unfinished business. If you would honor your debt to me, help me brave the Fade on my own-without the Anchor. And I will consider it paid."

Hakkon lowers his great head until his snout is inches from her face, and for one heart-stopping moment, she's sure he's about to strike. She forces herself to look into his enormous glittering maw, wondering how those teeth would feel around her neck. Then the dragon breathes, a whisper of winter that swirls over and around her like a second skin.

"It is done. You are kin to me as you are to the Avvar, and all those who bow to me will bow to you."

She opens her mouth to thank him, question him, say anything at all. But he takes flight in a great rush of wings, stealing all the air from her lungs. She watches him soar up into the sky for hours, days, until he disappears into the beyond.

There is no visible mark like the Anchor, no obvious sign of Hakkon's gift. Yet she no longer feels the lingering cold, even when she kneels to bury her fingers in the snow. She can sense them waiting outside Skyhold's protective walls: Terror, Despair, and Desire who would prey upon her. But when she steps into the raw Fade, the silence of winter descends in her wake, and the nightmares slink away into oblivion.


A/N: Basically, I loved the Avvar and wanted to do more with Hakkon. Also, a non-mage Lavellan has no capability in the Fade without the Anchor, apart from being able to befriend spirits. I wanted to show how powerful a connection with a spirit could really be.

The finished version of the lightning hand was inspired by the electroshock gloves in The Legend of Korra. It's not fully articulated (ie; it can only open and close), but I still think it's pretty cool :)