First, things were different, and then they were entirely different.
Things were sticking.
First, the Inquisitor introduced him as "my friend, Cole", then as "my—ward, Cole", then as "Cole", and everyone understood—something.
A few people saw him and remembered, then more people saw him and remembered, and then many people saw him and all of them remembered, and the ground pushed back up on his feet where he pressed down with his weight, an anchor in place. Being solid.
He realized that it was happening very fast, if it hadn't already finished happening. Everybody's eyes worked in Skyhold, except for one of Cullen's soldiers, who had an eye that didn't work but who used his remaining eye better than most people used their two, and except for one of Fiona's mages, a woman who was only in her forties and who may as well have been able to see.
They saw humanness better than he still felt it. He was moving with a concept of time. Time flowed in him, and he was better coming to watch it flow. When people noticed him, he didn't see it as a single thing, as one stone at the bottom of a river, but as a little boat made of waterproof cloth that he suddenly didn't want to sink, because boats were supposed to float.
He made it move when they saw him again. He was one of the Inquisitor's men. They asked who he was, exactly, and what does he do? He is one of my fighters. He's self-trained, but skilled. How old is he? Who trained him? They made up stories. He was sixteen, and came to Skyhold as the last survivor when his family's carriage was raided by bandits; perhaps the family trained him. He was twenty-one, and he had been living in a cave near Haven until the Inquisition took him in; he used his knives to hunt or fend off would-be attackers and thieves, and he seemed so young because he never had anyone around to help him get older. Nobody knew how old he is, except whoever put him in the dubious box that Cullen's troops carted him into the keep in from a secret apostate city, along with the apostates' (or magisters'; many of them were probably magisters) robes and enchanting doodads. One person thought he was a Tranquil at first, but that person had not met many Tranquils, and even then they knew better once he said hello, from the lift to it.
And the Inquisitor was right except not. He did bother them to know he was there, and "there" wasn't even the tavern anymore. He still went there, but it wasn't just there. "There" was "here"—anywhere "here" could be. He caused them to be upset by looking, and part of it was worry, with minds filling in what poor thing could have seen? In strange times like these, and part of it was fear of a killer for the Inquisitor who had suddenly appeared, a killer who they'd failed to notice.
Now that they'd seen him, it was too late for any of them not to. They could forget a while and recall it all at the same time if he came out of lying low, which he'd tried, as well as explaining himself. They listened but didn't believe when he said that he was fine, if that was what they needed to hear, because it wasn't telling them enough; he told the ones who were afraid that, don't worry, you won't not notice me again. It didn't work. It would make anything that came after harder.
One of them had laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. Cole hadn't been certain whether he liked it, and neither had the one who laughed, himself. He'd said "I wouldn't miss you, ser, I don't think," and he'd been talking about the hat without using one word or gesture that indicated hat.
Since he'd stopped sleeping in the tavern, most of them, fretting or fearful, understood that the strange boy with the hat was now lodging with the dwarf with the masculine chest.
A silk shirt with the top two buttons undone. Ohh, but the chest hair, she says, sighed, smiling. A joke. He walks straight and takes more space as eyes draw him up and down, side to side.
Varric knew about appearances, but Cole did not plan on asking him at night.
Varric wrote at night, and why wouldn't he? Varric was a writer, and the fact was related to making appearances talk and pick their own names. He made shapes out of stone that didn't exist, and they animated in the mind and in the Fade; he was a maker, not a fighter. Common knowledge. He was an Inquisition operative who made. Even on the field, he made, for the sake of fighting. "Artificer".
Varric Tethras was, no less, an author, and an operative of the Inquisition.
He was still more than Cole was, and said more.
And he was making. Making more, and meditating.
Cole sat on the edge of Varric's bed, listening to his quill scratching.
It was a good sound. He didn't need to tap his heels on the headboard. Varric was listening, too.
"I can hear gears turning, kid," said Varric. "Guess you're rubbing off on me. You got something to say?"
When Varric went quiet, everything was quiet.
"—I don't have gears," he said.
"Juuust another expression, Cole." Varric turned halfway in his chair, smiling. Laying out an invitation already. "You haven't moved an inch since I sat down. You focused on something? Worried? Anything you need to say?"
"Not—need…" Cole let his head drop to one side.
"Anything you'd like to, then. I'm taking a little break to let Jolie and Requin here plan their next moves."
"What do people think of you?"
"They think I'm three feet of rugged good looks; I've got a way with words that're worth a few coins on paper, and worth a knock on the head for smartassery out loud."
"But—why do they think you're part of the Inquisition?" Cole nodded, still; that wasn't complete, but it was true. He drew his knees up onto the bed with him and leaned forward, hands up on his legs. There was a rocking sound. "You're a writer—even people who don't know you know that, but no one asks why you have to go out on the field to do that, with people who fight."
"Well, I tote and openly fondle my crossbow often enough." Varric laughs. Not all that happily, like the one who made the joke about the hat. "I'm the only man for Bianca; 'course I'm worth keeping around on an adventure."
Like the joke about the hat, that was a joke about something not mentioned. Cole stared through it to see it pointing in, as it frequently was, making a joke at himself for playing pretend, parodying pain. Puppets to hold the place of people past, that are too "cute", tongue in cheek, made of wood and wire, or of cats' cushions tied into people-like shapes with golden twine.
"This is no time for jokes, Varric," he says.
"You're no fun anymore, Blondie."
The realization is stark—for the fun had been to cover the fear. He said it was for justice, but
was the justice great…?
It didn't go any deeper.
Varric saw his staring, and pulled the joke back out, and put it aside. His brow lifted. "You… looking for something, kid?"
"I—" Right, except not. "No."
He had been looking at something, but he hadn't been searching; was that the right answer?
Varric's mouth tightened at one side and he knitted his brow, looking into Cole. "I'm assuming you're curious about something; you're worrying about how everyone sees you, or whatever it is they make of you. Can't you—" Small break, but a full one. Noticeable. "—get that kind of thing straight out of their heads anymore?"
It drew a bit thin, and was held back, the way someone holds a phrase back when they want to ensure room for an apology, already sorry.
Like a hammer landing on cloth, Cole felt an inclination to apologize back touch down.
"I can." He made the "can" softer, meant to assure. "But it's easier to hear what they feel than what they think, because it's louder, and it's right there—and they're not always sure what they think, when I try to catch it."
"So… you've learned to turn it off?"
"Off of what?"
"Never mind." Varric reached back, lightly hit the desk with the side of his fist to
And he thought, priceless.
A thing that you make a person—but a good thing. Cole tentatively smiled.
And Varric beamed. "So." He turned to face forward again, mostly—body, but not head. He tapped his temple. "Were you sneaking a peek at my writing again, kid?"
"I know you don't like it when I do—I'm sorry."
"That's the kind of not-so-straight answer a person gives, kid." The beam was new and propped up against nothing, self-making and self-sustaining. "But, here, why don't we do this again—if I can't keep you outta the creative process, be my advisor. Now… You probably heard this story hatching, too. Madame Requin, here. You and I both know her. What do you think she'd tell Jolie here?"
Cole leaned on in without getting off the bed.
Madame Requin was a joke, too.
He saw a map of her that Varric had made in his head, made one in a flash of Vivienne to fill in blotted spots with (Varric would fix them himself, later, and he'd correct Cole if his pathfinding was wrong), and delivered the next line, in an Orlesian accent that made Varric laugh.
"Spot-on Vivienne," Varric said.
Varric called attention to Cole the next day. He felt him do it.
Cole was sitting on the steps in front of the hall because no one was going in and out at the time, and a connection hit him like a light arrow made out of a stick. He looked over his shoulder.
A human woman with unease of not knowing tingled in her brain leaned down a bit to mutter a question to him, eyes going back and forth, and Varric started making shapes.
"I could tell you a little about the kid," Varric said, scrubbing his jawline once with his hand to prepare to tell a secret. Then he lifted a finger, pointed lightly. "See that hat of his?"
"That's new."
"Nah, actually. He wears that one when we're out on the field. It's an assassin's hat. Look, the brim casts the face in shadow. Makes sense, better than wearing a mask if you're gonna be getting into some high-intensity action. Bet if you tried some serious dagger-dancing in an Orlesian mask, the fucker'd practically dump buckets of sweat into your eyes. Anyway, I don't know when or how he ended up on his own, but after he did, he went into … can't exactly call it the business. How about the charity? If some poor, downtrodden sap was in dire need of some help that they couldn't scrape together the coin for…"
"I—ah, I see…"
