The Coming Storm

By R2s Muse

Chapter Summary: Varric picks the wrong night to return to Kirkwall.


Varric

The loud squelching of his boots in the muddy street was more than enough reminder that Varric was in Kirkwall again. There was nothing quite like Lowtown's combination of harbor silt and foundry soot that became shifting black sludge every time it stormed. The sheeting rain and sucking mud slowed his progress but at least it also kept most inhabitants indoors. Varric hadn't seen a soul other than the lone guardsman who sleepily had observed his ascent from the docks.

Varric trudged around a corner and caught sight of a dark shape looming in the distance, silhouetted against a sputtering lantern that was tucked into an alcove in the roughhewn wall. Shifting in and out of focus, the shadow danced a jerky minuet to the whistling gusts of wind. As Varric drew near, the fog parted to reveal the source of the monstrous shadow. A bound figure hanging upside down and swinging erratically at the end of a rope. Although grim, even gruesome, the effigy made Varric smile.

The Hanged Man. Like coming home again, he thought to himself.

Stepping out of the rain and into the warm interior of the tavern, he was assailed by the rank smell of old ale, smoke, sweat and a harsh cleaning agent that could never quite eradicate the other odors. He took a deep breath and was immediately transported to happier times. The rows of dark wooden tables and benches were all uncharacteristically clean, tidily arranged and right side up. Also empty.

Behind the bar, a blond bartender with an open face was drying some mugs with a white cloth. When the draft from the door reached him he looked up and went pale. "Varric!"

Varric chuckled at the surprised response, which was not uncommon in the three years since his infamous escape from Kirkwall with its Champion. "How goes it, Corff."

"I-it's been a long time, friend." The bartender licked his lower lip. "Welcome back."

"Thanks." Varric looked around at the empty room. "Seems a little early for last call."

The blond man shrugged a shoulder. "It's past curfew." When Varric gave him a puzzled look, Corff explained, "It's not safe after dark, they say, on account of all the mages on the loose. So Knight-Commander Cullen instituted a curfew. Times have changed since you left."

"So it would seem." Varric pulled off his wet leather gloves with some effort and then slapped them against his thigh to shake out the water. "Offer a poor traveler a drink?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course. Of course," Corff replied, making himself suddenly busy behind the bar. "I should have some of the good stuff here somewhere."

"Ah, you remembered." Varric had never been a fan of the drink at the Hanged Man, even what Corff called the good stuff. But at least it was better than the swill he offered normal customers. Varric eased onto a tall bar stool while Corff puttered around and eventually slid over a heavy goblet of wine. Varric took a polite sip and made an appreciative sigh. "Perfect. So, curfew, huh? I'd heard rumors of that sort of thing."

Corff nodded a bit too emphatically. "The mages have folks running scared."

Varric frowned. "And the templars are who they run to? Isn't that new viscount still running things here?" The Kirkwall nobility had eventually agreed upon a successor to Marlowe Dumar, almost four years after the viscount's unfortunate demise, but word was that the new viscount was an ineffectual milksop who merely had been the least objectionable candidate.

"We technically still have a viscount, if that's what you mean. But it's the Knight-Commander who folks really look to now. Since the Gallows mages escaped for good this time, he's the one that protects us."

"Cullen, huh?" It's like Meredith all over again. Varric scratched his chin. "Most everywhere else, templars are just slaughtering mages in the streets."

"That could very well be." Corff pulled at his lower lip. "Around here, we mostly see the templars on patrol . . . not on the warpath." He shrugged. "It's a crazy world out there. As you must know." Varric grunted in assent.

Corff cleared his throat and his eyes darted to the door. Almost nervously. "And, you, Varric. It's been a while since we saw you round here. Where've you been these past few years?"

"Oh, here and there," Varric said in a non-committal voice, taking another sip of the mediocre wine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but he remained sitting, with hands relaxed.

Corff cleared his throat again. "A-and the Champion? We hear such tales about her. Her and you, and what went down with Meredith. Unbelievable tales. Y-you still travel with her?"

Varric chuckled. "Hardly. That's all in the past. I'm just a simple merchant now. There are no more tales to tell."

The tiny beads of sweat that popped up on the bartender's upper lip confirmed that something was off. "I hope for your sake that's true," Corff mumbled. "I-I'm sorry, old friend." He backed away from the bar toward his storeroom just as four heavily armored soldiers stepped from the shadowed corners of the room, their dark plate bearing a white sunburst and eye symbol.

The lead warrior stepped forward, bright eyes watching Varric from behind a dark cowl that completely obscured his face. "Varric Tethras, you are under arrest, by order of the Chantry."

Varric took a final sip and dabbed the corners of his mouth. "I thought the Chantry no longer had soldiers to command."

"You will come with us now," the man said sternly. The others stepped up behind him in a show of solidarity.

Varric pursed his lips. "Or perhaps you're not really with the Chantry. Care to show some identification?" When they said nothing, he added, "No? I thought not. Well, I think Bianca will have something to say about that." He whipped his crossbow from his back before the men could take another step, and Bianca indeed said her piece by firing a bolt into the thigh of the lead warrior.

"Get him!" hissed the leader, swearing and staggering from the leg injury. The others jumped to comply, drawing blades as they advanced. Varric caught another soldier in the shoulder, knocking her to the ground with the force of the almost point-blank shot. He backed away toward the inner warren of guest rooms at the back of the tavern, mentally mapping out the three potential escape routes he could think of off the top of his head while he reloaded. The soldiers followed, closing in on him, when a new voice rang out with authority.

"No."

The uniformed men immediately stopped. "He is not to be harmed," the voice continued. Varric squinted into the gloom, barely making out a fifth figure in the darkness near the door. The soldiers obeyed, sheathing their swords somewhat reluctantly, and continued forward, perhaps hoping to corner him.

Something made Varric glance over his shoulder to see three more uniformed men emerge from the back rooms to flank him. Their swords were still drawn, but they stood at ease, knowing as Varric did that the fight was over. For now. Varric held up his hands, letting Bianca dangle loosely from one hand.

The lead soldier limped forward, his mouth thinned in pain. He glanced at the corner where his superior had stood, but it was now empty. He turned back to Varric, his lip curling up in a snarl. He jerked his head and the soldiers behind Varric grabbed him roughly by the arms and ripped Bianca from his hand.

"Hey, hey, hey, he's not to be harmed, remember?" Varric reminded them.

"Bring him," the leader barked and someone shoved him from behind.

Although he had surrendered, Varric had no intention of making it easy for them. So he let the soldiers bear the brunt of his weight as they literally dragged him through the rain soaked streets and up the slick, endless steps leading to Hightown. The two men holding his arms were panting heavily when they finally topped the last step and started across the noble sector's market square.

Varric had assumed they were taking him to the Chantry when they headed up to Hightown instead of down to the docks and the fearsome Gallows fortress standing in the middle of the bay. So he was surprised when they stopped far short of the steep stair to the chantry complex, in front of the one place in Kirkwall he knew as well as the Hanged Man.

The flowering vine around the entrance to the mansion had grown wild and obscured the red, braided crest that marked it the ancestral home of the Amell family and Kirkwall's onetime Champion, Marian Hawke. In the years since Hawke's hasty departure, the estate had sat empty and untouched, the city having more pressing problems than an abandoned noble property. One of the soldiers yanked open the heavy riveted door without hesitation, suggesting that the estate was no longer vacant.

The men dragged Varric inside and down dusty corridors lit by sputtering sconces. One of them kicked open the door to a small sitting room. The interior of the room was dark but for a single spot of light from an indistinct source. Varric could see the dim outlines of bulky furniture covered in sheets. One of Hawke's uncomfortable high-backed wooden chairs had been uncovered and dragged to the middle of the room, under the light. The soldiers roughly thrust Varric down into the hard seat.

He squinted against the spotlight. Only dimly could he see that someone was waiting for him. He heard the faint creak of leather and a dry shuffling, like someone flipping pages. Varric shifted gingerly and blinked as his eyes started to adjust to the painful contrast of light and dark.

"I've had gentler invitations," he said reproachfully, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The figure stepped into the light. Another uniformed woman with severe short black hair and a pale, heart shaped face, holding an ancient, leather-bound book with a Chantry symbol on its cover. She looked down her nose at him. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast. Seeker of the Chantry," she announced in a Nevarran-accented voice. Her tone, clearly accustomed to authority, revealed her to be the person giving orders at the tavern.

Seekers, huh? Well, shit.

The Seeker jerked her head at the men standing just behind Varric's chair. They left without a word, leaving him alone with the woman. "And just . . . what are you seeking?" he asked.

"The Champion."

To hide his sudden frisson of fear, he made a show of looking nonchalantly at his nails. "Which one?" he obfuscated.

She was having none of it, though, and angrily sprang forward, glaring at him. "You know exactly why I am here!" she shouted. She threw the massive tome down into his lap and, in one smooth move, drew her dagger and held it up to his throat. "Time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you're good at it." Instead of waiting for him to say something, she flipped the dagger in her hand and stabbed it down into the pages of the open book. He held his indrawn breath for a moment before letting it out in relief that she had just avoided hitting anything vital. Nevertheless, he still had to fight the instinct to shift the book to a safer position in his lap.

In an effort to relieve the tension, he chuckled, but it came out more like a nervous titter. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Start at the beginning."

He looked down at the book, which was covered in carefully scrawled notes and descriptions of Hawke and each of her friends. He ran his fingertips over one page as he quickly skimmed, already catching a number of inaccuracies. Not much truth to be had here. Varric made a few quick mental calculations and decided that the Seeker was just chasing legends.

One legend. Coming right up. He flexed his knuckles and started to describe one of his favorite tales about Hawke. How she almost single-handedly had fought her way through the darkspawn horde threatening her homeland. Just as he was adding in a high dragon to the rather vivid battle he had concocted, Cassandra advanced on him again.

"Bullshit!" she yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "That's not what really happened."

"Does that not match the story you've heard, Seeker?" he asked carefully. It had been a pretty good story, if he didn't say so himself, so this did not bode well. Perhaps she knew more than he'd anticipated.

"I'm not interested in stories. I came to hear the truth." She raised her chin, looking down her nose at him again as if hewing to some mythical higher principle, where the truth was some immutable ideal instead of simply one man's story, told from a certain point of view.

"And what makes you think I know the truth?" He shrugged, still hoping to look innocent.

"Don't lie to me!" She advanced on him, moving him to hold up his hands defensively as she invaded his personal space again. "You knew her even before she became the Champion!"

"Even if I did," he hedged, "I don't know where she is now."

The Seeker turned away and her voice became softer, sounding earnest and even a little tired. "Do you have any idea what's at stake here?"

He took a stab in the dark. "Let me guess: your precious Chantry's fallen to pieces and put the entire world on the brink of war? And you need the one person who could help you put it all back together."

"The Champion was at the heart of it when it all began. If you can't point me to her, tell me everything you know."

Interesting. Was the Seeker asking him to set the record straight after all the myths and legends that surrounded Hawke? "You aren't worried I'll just make it up as I go?"

"Not at all."

The Seeker's confidence he would tell the truth, while misguided, meant he might be able to do some good for Hawke. Get the real story out. The offer was too good to refuse. He sat back and steepled his fingers. "You'll need to hear the whole story."

He started again with Hawke's escape from Ferelden, only this time telling it much the way Hawke had described the tale herself. With a few embellishments, of course, where the narrative lagged. But by and large he stuck to the real story of Hawke's meteoric rise to prominence in Kirkwall and her inevitable conflict with the tyrannical Powers That Be. Cassandra was a rapt audience, even if she often interrupted, sometimes to challenge him, sometimes for clarification. Sadly, she started to have a sixth sense for when he strayed too far into fiction. The Seeker was wily that way.

Cassandra had sat down in another uncovered chair he hadn't noticed and pulled the enormous book into her lap. The ancient vellum pages were mysteriously whole again after the melodramatic stabbing incident, which more than anything else spoke of the consequence of this woman that her book was so powerfully enchanted. She flipped to a blank page and periodically jotted down notes while she listened, although never when he expected. The discovery of the red lyrium idol and their betrayal in the Deep Roads earned only a few quickly scrawled sentences, while their first encounter with Knight-Captain Cullen or that silly detour to Chateau Haine warranted a heavily scribbled page or two. In fact she asked more questions about Cullen's role in the Battle of the Gallows than Meredith's.

Varric never got the whole picture of what Cassandra really thought had happened in Kirkwall, although it was clear that she had bought into several conspiracy theories floating around the Free Marches. Like the one where all the companions had come together from Ferelden with some kind of master plan to overthrow Meredith. Anyone who knew Hawke would know that she was incapable of having planned anything so far in advance.

"So that's it. That's the whole story." He'd finally come to his rousing finish, weaving in just the right mix of heroism and cryptic fatalism. Hawke saves the day. Mysteriously disappears into the night, leaving behind only legends of her passing—

"Then Meredith provoked the Circle," Cassandra said, her awed revelation interrupting his inner monologue. "She was to blame."

"Or that damned idol was. Or Anders. Take your pick."

Cassandra frowned thoughtfully and Varric knew he had her. After hours of storytelling and cross-examination, he had succeeded in impressing the Seeker. "Even so, had the Champion not been there. . ."

"It might never have even gone that far," he said drily before he could stop himself. Truth be told, Hawke had stirred up as much trouble as she had solved, but he instantly regretted his quip when the Seeker's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I see," was all she said.

"So how is hearing all this going to help?" he quickly redirected. "You've already lost all the Circles. In fact, haven't all the templars rebelled, as well? I thought you decided to abandon the Chantry to hunt the mages."

"Not all of us desire war, Varric." The exhaustion was back in her voice, lining her face. "Please, if you know where the Champion is, you must tell me. She is a hero. A woman that the mages would listen to. Someone who was there at the beginning. The Champion could stop all this madness before it's too late. She may be the only one who can."

He almost felt sorry for the Seeker and her futile quest. "Is that what this is all about?" He shook his head and looked down at his hands for a second. He no longer wondered at her sincerity. Too bad, really. "In that case, I wish I could help you," he said and truly meant it.

"Just tell me one thing then—is the Champion dead?"

"Oh, I doubt that."

"Then you are free to go, Varric. May the Maker watch over you during the dark times ahead of us." She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, not sparing him a second glance.

"Same to you, Seeker," he said softly to her receding figure. "Same to you."

About an hour after they had let him go, Varric was crouched behind the marble balustrade atop a nearby mansion, covertly watching the door of Hawke's estate. The skies had cleared and the moon was now visible where it dipped toward the western horizon, fleeing the faint blush to the east that heralded the dawn. From his vantage point he could see the small groups of soldiers that came and went, but now an expectant tension ran through their ranks as they lined up in formation. Finally, Cassandra emerged into the square, motioning with her hand for the soldiers to march.

Out of the shadows, a woman clad in the same Seeker armor approached Cassandra. The woman's bright red hair glinted in the torchlight and Varric started in recognition. The sweet face of a saint. The smooth stride of an assassin. Leliana, also called Sister Nightingale, left hand of the Divine. It had been three years since he had accompanied Hawke to another clandestine encounter with the red-headed bard who performed the Divine's more unsavory activities. The Divine's personal attention was never a good thing.

Leliana and Cassandra spoke in low, urgent voices, but Varric was too far away to hear the exchange. Cassandra handed the ancient book to the sister, who touched the cover reverently. The two then followed the marching soldiers out of the square and toward the stairs down to the lower city. He watched a moment longer before slipping back down to ground level.

ooXXoo

Soon Varric was making his way down the twisty byways of Darktown, thankful that the rains had stopped since the runoff often mixed with the sewer waters in the undercity. After a few furtive glances to be sure he wasn't observed, he stopped at an unassuming wooden door and made an intricate series of seven knocks. He waited and after a minute heard a single knock in response. He waited for more but when there was nothing, he repeated the series of seven. This time he heard two in response. He added the next series of three, but heard again only one in response.

He sighed in exasperation. "Andraste's flaming ass, it's me!" He heard a muffled curse on the other side of the door and then the clicking of a lock. The door opened slightly and he slipped through into the room beyond, shutting the door firmly behind him.

A woman with short dark hair and striking blue eyes lowered her dagger, relief clear on her face. "Sorry! I can never remember the sequence."

Varric shook his head ruefully. "Sometimes I wonder how you became a hero of legend, Hawke," he grumbled.

"Hey, now. You were gone so long we were starting to think you'd been compromised," a deeper voice admonished him. Three lanterns simultaneously burst into flame and the blond mage who had spoken shook his fingertips out as if extinguishing the arcane fire that had lit them.

"We were starting to worry about you," Hawke added. "A trip for news from the Hanged Man should not have taken this long. What happened?"

Varric ran his hands wearily over his face and rubbed his eyes. "You are never going to believe the night I've had. But first, pack up. It's time to get out of sodding Kirkwall again."


A/N: Thanks again for reading! Stay tuned for Chapter 4: Inquisition, which will end this little series of vignettes. FYI, Chap 4 will include some possibly spoilery speculation about DA: Inquisition.