Varric hasn't seen so many drunk and happy faces since they had closed the Breach at Haven. His chest feels tight – in the best of ways – his heart hammering in his chest. Part of him assumes that it is relief that has sent his heartbeat into overdrive. Sparky had somehow pulled off a public truce with Celene, Gaspard, and Briala. They hadn't had to kill as many people as they thought they would. And even the Seeker had managed to shake the scowl off her face long enough for her drunken Inquisitor to ply her with punch. So it's no surprise that you should feel giddy with relief, right?

But there's something else. He feels it as he stares out over the balcony, his face warm with a liquor-induced flush, and his chest burning with the hum of some unspoken promise. He tries to cut through his own boozy fog, tries to summon Hawke's voice to soothe his quickening thoughts. But instead of gentle words, he finds only image after image, flashing through his brain in an explosion of color. Hawke in Hightown, slipping coins into the hands of a would-be thief. Hawke arranging flowers in Bartrand's room in the sanitarium, always staying when Varric would not. Hawke lying naked beside him, bathed in moonlight, crooked smile on her face.

Varric grips the banister, his knuckles growing white.

I need to see her. His thoughts are wild, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.

I need to see her.

I need to

I need to get out of here.

Her eyes open to an unending darkness, and she struggles to remember where she is. The Fade, the Nightmare, and then – Is this the Void? She never thought that the Void would smell so putrid, like taking Varric "dancing" after Wicked Grace. Hawke reaches for her sword, clawing in the darkness until her fingertips find the cool metal of its handle. Every nerve in her body screams in agony, as though she is being set on fire over and over and over again.

That's right. She twists, contorting herself in the tight space in an attempt to get a better grip on her weapon. It thought it broke me, but I wouldn't give it the satisfaction. The surface under her stomach is slimy, like lying in a pit of slugs. She presses herself further into it, her arms outstretched in front of her.

All is silent, save for the faraway sound of the beast's easy breathing. Her fingers curl around the handle, her chest burning with a song she had killed herself to hear. And what a beautiful sound it was. She hums to herself, a smile on her lips, pulling painfully at her scorched skin. The sword is heavy in her hands, the song light in her heart. She squeezes her eyes shut and prays for the best.

Always so reckless, she thinks, the scream filling her ears as she forces the blade even further down. Never truly understanding the danger until you find yourself. Trapped in the belly of the beast.

The belly of the beast, he thinks as he stares up into the ornate carvings on the ceiling. Guests of the Winter Palace, right after a string of assassination attempts. Varric yawns, his clumsy fingers struggling to undo the last of the buttons on his jacket. It isn't the most dangerous place he has ever spent the night.

"You said you loved me," he says out loud, catching himself off guard. "You said you love me, and then you died." Varric stares accusingly at the ceiling, waiting for Hawke to say something back. It is the first time he's been able to get himself to say the words, and they leave a sour taste inside of his mouth. "Hawke is dead." He says again, feeling the corners of his lips pulling down. "Hawke is dead, and she loves me."

Sniffling, Varric rubs his hand under his nose, flicking away any stray tears in the process. He had always known that she had felt that way, had never needed to hear the words out loud. He had always thought that feeling it was enough.

I knew she needed time. Good with affection, bad with words – that's just how she was. He groans, wondering why tonight's mood was sad drunk. Always running. Running from me, running from her feelings, running, running

Running.

Her feet are clumsy, her muscles severely weakened, her tendons snapping in protest. But she runs. She had cut and cut and cut until she saw the light, until it had exploded in a blinding flash right before her eyes. Falling down and crashing hard upon the ground, only to raise her sword once more. If there was one thing that she had learned from the Arishok, it was that no fight could be won from running behind pillars. The only way to do things was to face them head-on.

"You just have to be louder." Cole had told her back in Skyhold. And this time, she had made her voice known. Hawke had howled, and cut, and howled, and cut until her throat bled and her arms crumbled under the weight of her weapon, refusing to stop until the demon's massive head was a bloody stump at her feet.

And now, she runs. Blindly, the blood pooling in her vision, her legs screaming in protest, skin raw against the air whipping around her. But she knows where she is going. The hum burns in her chest, song blaring in her ears as the tears run down her cheeks.

I'm coming home. I'm coming home.

Home, it's too early to start heading home.

Varric grunts as he hears Sparky's voice cutting through his slumber, the sound grating against his already-aching head. He had ended the night in a drunken stupor, and now he was being woken up in a hungover nightmare. "Sparky, it's still dark out." He mutters, rolling onto his side away from her pawing hands. "Wake me up in an hour."

"We gotta go!" She gives him a pull, yanking on one of his nipples in the process.

He yelps, smacking her hands away as he sits up. "Alright, alright. Maker's tears, I have never seen you," Varric trails off when he gets a look at her. He had been expecting the Sparky who was willing to drag them out of camp at sunrise to explore whatever end of Thedas they found themselves in that week. Instead, he finds himself looking at a Sparky who looks as hungover as he feels, her eyes swollen and her lips dry. "You look terrible." He tells her. "And I saw you when you crawled out of the wreckage at Haven."

"Varric, we have to go." She says, her tone serious. Grave even. He doesn't like the look in her eyes.

Varric tries to joke, tries to lighten the mood that has settled in the room. "What's the matter? Empress Celene kicking us out?" When she doesn't laugh, he frowns. "Can't get a late check-out?"

"They found Hawke, and we need to leave!" She blurts out before shrinking into herself.

Varric feels his heart collapse, a wind howling in his ears. "Well," he says weakly. "Let's go."