Varric
Varric had already taken down Maxwell's stats for a book he may or may not live to publish regarding the Inquisition. He was willing to bet it would sell like hotcakes, regardless of if everything about the Inquisitor, or Maxwell, as he preferred to be called, was accurate or not.
Varric took some liberties, but it was hard to exaggerate when the man was doing all of it for him.
Case in point.
Now.
Three bandits, all hammering away at Maxwell's shield while the man took them apart piece by piece, sword flashing out from behind his shield.
Varric squeezes the trigger on Bianca. Two bandits now.
Maxwell notices, even if the bandits did not, and disregarded defense for offense. He roars, startling the remaining pair with that deep roar that belong more to a bear than a human. He rushes forward with the shield, lashing out at one as he passed to bear the other to the ground, crushing him under the weight of steel, flesh and bone.
Varric lets Blackwall and Vivienne finish the straggler up, holstering Bianca as he trots over to the growing legend. The man was covered in blood, and if he was being honest, the dwarf could never tell if it was his, or the people that decided they could fell him.
He looks up, eyes too bright and blue for the carnage he'd just waged. "You alright?" Were perhaps always the first words out of his mouth.
"Eh." Varric examines the nick on his sleeve, "Ruined my good coat, but I suppose that's the price I pay for wanting to wear silk."
There's a smile that plays at Maxwell's lips, before he's turning, checking on Vivienne and Blackwall.
"Everyone alright?"
"Of course, darling." Vivienne dismisses it with a wave and a roll of her eyes.
"Peachy." Blackwall hesitates, then adds. "Still trying to figure out how you manage to squeeze behind that shield, but…" He shrugs, his smile smothered by the beard. Varric wonders if he should exaggerate the beard on the man, given he's got so little else for his character.
Maxwell grins, standing and producing a towel from his pocket, wiping the gore and grim from his face and neck. "Well, I was picked on as a kid for being too big, so I guess I got good at hiding behind things."
Varric can't tell if he's joking or not, but his quill and notebook jot it down just the same.
"Anything else interesting happen in your childhood?" Varric probes.
"Oh, the usual. Kidnapped by mercenaries at eight. Murdered the captain by nine. Took to the seas at ten, shipwrecked by eleven, and rescued by the Fereldans at half that. Then I took a captain's job at twelve."
He's lying, but that sarcasm is still useful, appearing only when it's him or Sera. Maxwell seems to be a man of many faces, playing to his charms, but never hiding who he was.
He stands his ground, but respects other's opinions, careful not to tread on them unless he had to. Varric respects that.
"So." Maxwell mutters, stowing the cloth, which Varric was sure someone had the thought to enchant, given it never changed from its dusty brown hue, no matter how much blood Maxwell mopped up with it. "Any ideas on where the Witchwood is?"
He'd have to exclude how terrible Maxwell was with maps in his book. That might not make for a very good character flaw.
He grimaces as Maxwell slowly rotates the map, humming softly to himself. Blackwall steps forward, and Varric sends up a soft prayer that their Warden friend was better at navigation than their Inquisitor.
When he first met Maxwell, he was sure the man acted exactly how he fought. Violent, loud, with a passion for drawing attention and giving as good as he got.
Not unlike Iron Bull now that he considered.
What he found surprised him.
Oh, he bantered, he joked, he had all the sass and humor of a mercenary, and he could match and give it out in equal favor, as became apparent in their weekly Wicked Grace.
But when Maxwell eases into the small wooden chair across from him by the fireplace at Skyhold, he knows the man is not a fighter. He glances at Varric for permission before leafing through the pages on the table.
"Writing about us?" He asks, low and calm, as his voice usually is when being private.
Varric shrugs, caught and willing to be. "It's good material." He smiles. "Though, I hope it doesn't turn out to be a tragedy."
Maxwell took that comment in stride, giving him a flash of teeth and a shrug. "You and me both." He skimmed through a couple of pages, then frowned, auburn eyebrows furrowing over clear blue eyes. "Giant?"
"You're six foot. I'm a dwarf." Varric defends effortlessly.
There is another lapse in silence before a huff. "I guess I do fight like that."
"Bringing up the question of why might be good character development."
Varric's fingers are already tightening around his quill, leisurely reaching out to ink it before returning it to his page. He adjusts himself, meeting Maxwell's eyes to wait for the exposition.
"I was always big. And my grandfather made a point to make sure I knew it." He looks uncomfortable with that admission, so Varric makes a note to change it. "He would always say, 'Maxie, be careful with your friends. You're stronger than them. You need to protect them with that strength, not hurt them.'"
"The words stuck I take it?"
Maxwell shrugs, something between a smirk and a grimace appearing on his lips. "I guess so. I learned how to defend, not fight. With my body first, how to take a hit, bladed, weighted or otherwise. Then with a shield."
"Then with a sword?"
"I was never taught how to use a blade." He confesses, "Just how to stop them."
Varric snorts, "You picked it up quickly."
Maxwell's smile is tight. "Had to."
And that's when Varric realizes that Maxwell charges into combat not because he wants to clean house, or murder. It's because he doesn't want anyone getting hurt except himself.
"I guess that's as good a reason as any." Varric mutters, jotting down the observation as Maxwell leans back in his chair. "Anything else you'd like to divulge?"
"Make sure my character absolutely hates tomatoes." He says without explanation or preamble.
"Why?"
He smiles. "Because if I'm lucky, someone will read it and send me a basket. I love them."
And Varric can't tell if that's ridiculous, or insightful given all the things Hawk received due to his book.
He finds out what Maxwell looks like when he's angry in the worst way possible.
He also finds out why his shield has an edge and his gauntlets nicks and sharp edges.
Cassandra falls.
Charging through the pouring rain on the Crestwood battlements, matching Maxwell step for step on the slick cobblestones as they blocked sword, axe and arrow alike from the cornered highwaymen.
Varric saw it coming.
He sees the shift in their leader's swing, the crumbling edge of the battlements so close to Cassandra as she advances.
He sees the Seeker's foot skid towards it as she takes the heavy blow.
And he shouts that same title as she loses balance, tumbling over the edge to the courtyard below. He's too slow to save her.
His shooting pauses long enough for him to watch. She tumbles, throwing her sword clear, and curling up on her shield. She hits the ground hard.
And doesn't move.
The thunder roars.
There is no lightning.
A stray thought questions that, but when he turns back to the battle he understands why. There is no thunder. There will be no lightning. It is no force of nature making that terrifying noise.
It's pouring out of Maxwell.
He's charged in, burying himself in the five bandits, an arrow stuck in his shoulder. He doesn't seem to feel the pain, even as an axe bites into his side. He plunges his sword through armor and into flesh. He slices through metal and leather, leaving his sword shoved through an archer's arm and into his ribs. He rips the axe out of his side and uses it to cleave a man's head from his chest.
He throws the axe and the man tumbles to the ground below, joining Cassandra. There is no question in his death, not when he lands on the axe, and Varric can see the blade through his back.
Maxwell faces the chieftain, only his hands and shield.
The greataxe swings.
Maxwell catches it on the shield and knocks it aside. Like a blow that sent Cassandra skidding back is nothing.
He's still screaming.
Varric isn't sure if he stopped to take a breath or not.
Bianca eases to the ground and he's vaguely aware that Dorian is no longer flinging spell after spell at their adversaries.
They're both captive, watching in some sick trace as they watch Maxwell rip the great axe out of the bandit's hands and throw it over the battlements.
His shield slides off, and Varric can't find it in himself to turn away as Maxwell bears the man to the ground, driving the edge over and over into the man.
Until the shield buckles, the bloodstone he'd fashioned it from crumpling under the blows. Maxwell tosses it aside, exchanging a blunt steel edge for gauntleted fists.
Until the blood has no chance of being washed away by the rain. He stops then, when Varric is sure the man's head was more fragmented than whole.
He stands, great chest heaving, arms shaking. He turns to them, and even from ten feet away, through lightning and rain and coated in blood.
Varric can see it.
Maxwell isn't angry.
That moment has passed.
He's terrified, bright blue eyes filled with tears.
Varric isn't sure what scares him more.
Cassandra is fine.
Bruised and sore, but after a healing potion or two, and some quick treatment Dorian was only too eager to supply, she's back on her feet.
Maxwell is still trembling, holding himself together with gritted teeth and swallowed feelings.
Varric can see it.
Even if the others don't.
They stop for the night, at Maxwell's insistence. A quick camp set up in the still-wet grass. Dorian dries it with a spell, commenting on the disappearance of the rain.
"Must have been the rift reacting to the lake." Maxwell remarks, going about setting up not only his tent, but all of theirs.
Varric notices him mother-henning but decides it's better than watching the man tremble next to the fire, standing and anxiously casting glances at Cassandra every few moments.
It's not till they retire for the night does Varric pull him aside, off a distance away.
"Kid."
He swallows, meeting his gaze before looking back to the camp.
"She's fine."
He nods, recognizes that fact with a shaky breath. He shakes his head. "I've… I've never been so scared."
"That makes you mortal. You like her?"
The look Maxwell gives him is bewilderment, then shock, then exasperation in roughly that order. He shakes his head. "Varric. I…" He swallows. "I'd lose it if any of you got hurt like that. For any of my friends."
Varric believes him.
"I didn't have a lot of friends. I was too big. Too strong. I didn't like the games the other kids liked. I was too quiet at parties my family threw." He grabs Varric's shoulders, "Varric. I'm terrified I'll loss some of the best friends I'll ever have in my life."
Fuck.
Varric swallows, feeling his throat close up, tongue feeling too fat a crude to make a reply.
Varric mutters the curse again, shaking his head. "Kid… Maxwell." He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair before turning back to the man, the mountain, that broke only when one of his loved ones was in danger. "With you protecting us, I don't think even an ArchDemon could touch us without asking your permission first."
Maxwell nods, shoulders still shaking, eyes still looking frazzled and unfocused, but he nods again. "Right." He swallows with some difficulty, then squeezes Varric's shoulder. "I…" he purses his lips. "I'm sorry. I… I said too much."
Varric claps him on the shoulder. "Nah." He smiles, watches as the man rebuilds himself, refusing to look weak, not for appearance, but because he doesn't want to scare his friends. "Friend."
He says the word, mulls it over in his mouth before repeating it. He's had friends.
All sorts of friends.
Back alley friends.
Money-bought or brokered friends.
Fair-weather friends that lingered for only a twinkling of an eye before they vanished at the first drop of rain.
He'd had friends he could die fighting for.
He had friends that would die fighting for him.
He supposed he could add Maxwell to that list now as well.