"I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction."
John Steinbeck - Travels with Charley

CHAPTER 4
Bob's a Terrorist

9:41 Dragon
25th Firstfall

The Free Marches
One League East of Markham

36 Days

They were making good time. Whether it be from decent planning in travel: the southern route at the base of the Vimmark Mountains had leveled out and been far easier to traverse, the road growing wider, the rocks forming a natural railing against the cliff and the cloud front eventually moving to the south. Or, from good fortune: a trade caravan from Ostwick they'd stumbled upon when rejoining the grassland roads had been able to resupply them and offer temporary shelter for the night of the twenty-third.

Or even from grave misfortune. They'd reached Markham scant hours before nightfall on the twenty-fourth. Often known to outsiders as The City of A Thousand Spires for its design of small circular chimneys on the roof of most houses and businesses, Markham's defensive walls also had large, rounded towers placed at intervals that were used by The Watch, the city's official guard. Finally, the Chantry claimed seven gargantuan and beautifully carved, circular towers.

Varric was far more fond of Markham's other name known by travelers, The City of a Thousand Feathers, due to the wide variety of birds that had made the towers their homes. These birds, in fact, gave Markham's citizens reason to create a name of their own; The City of A Thousand Droppings.

Varric and Anders, upon reaching the nearest tavern, found several tattered but well-aged 'Wanted' posters stapled to a board, all of them featuring a startlingly detailed artistic rendering of Anders' face. Apparently, blowing up a Chantry in a nearby city had made him something of a celebrity in Markham, which made sense considering that their Chantry was one of the largest and most beloved in all of Thedas.

So they had immediately, and very quietly, excused themselves out of the premises and once more beyond the walls of the city, instead pushing their exhausted equine companions several kilometers farther east before eventually feeling safe enough to build camp and rest amidst the wide open space of a windswept valley.

They were making good time.

After pitching the tents and building a fire, eating and feeding the Orlesian stud, having his fill of both drink and arguing with/insulting Anders, stumbling around in the dark for nearly a half hour to find a decent place to relieve himself and then using the light of the fire to make his way back to the camp, Varric finally passed out sometime in the early morning, the taste of mead and meat still on his tongue.

9:41 Dragon
29th Firstfall

The Amaranthine Ocean
Estwatch

The boat ride from Hercinia to Estwatch had been rather uneventful, which was unusual for Varric, considering how much he detested canoes. The skyway had opened easily enough from the abandoned tower and Hawke's home had appeared much the same as it did three years ago.

He was a little amazed that the key still worked in the door and that the foyer was in such good state. The stone walls were free from cobwebs, the entry-level furnishings had been recently dusted, right down to the polished bronze coat rack. Even the plants were still alive. Perhaps Hawke had taken the time over the last three years to reflect and heal after all. After Bartrand's full-fledged mental collapse, Varric had taken to heart the mantra that a healthy home is a healthy heart and mind, and Hawke seemed to have built a new life around this idea.

As he was winding up the narrow, circular, stone-walled stairwell, though, Varric began to notice traces of moss growing out from the edges of the stones. Mildew and moisture became thicker as he continued upwards, and an unpleasant odor started to make it harder to breath.

Did she not come up here? Had she moved her things downstairs, and he'd simply missed her presence on the first level? No, he definitely hadn't missed her. She may have gone out, though that would've defeated the purpose of the self-exile.

As he rounded another level in the stairwell into an even heavier state of dark green moss and pungent funk, Varric spotted a silver candle stick in a small recess in the slimy stone, half of a melted candle still burning, the wax pooling at the edges of the silver base. Furthermore, something clattered to the floor not far off.

"Shit!" A familiar voice cursed in mild annoyance.

Hawke.

Varric quickened his step, soon reaching a small landing with a tiny wooden table and a chair meant for a child that he didn't remember seeing before and a wooden door set into the stone that he did. He was about to open the door when something on the table caught his eye.

A tin platter, like an offering plate. In the middle of it rested a small, thin, rectangular object he couldn't quite make out in the relative darkness of the stairwell. He reached down and picked it up off the plate, bringing it to his eyes. As he held it, it seemed to quiver beneath his fingers and he very nearly dropped it out of shock.

It was black and charred, filled with tiny holes and clearly burnt, very nearly beyond recognition, but Varric immediately spotted a joint and a knuckle. It was a finger. The dwarf grimaced and felt a shiver run through him, along his spine and into his arms and hands. The burnt digit shook between his pointer finger and thumb.

This caused the finger to ripple in his touch and little white creatures to slide and wiggle out of the holes. Maggots. He suddenly felt several of them on his face, their slick bodies cold and wet on his cheek.

"Maker-fuck!" Varric coughed out, chucking the finger and jumping back, slamming his back and head against the stone behind him. He slapped his hands against his face and hopped from foot to foot, grabbing the lapels of his duster and shaking them furiously, uttering whispered vulgarities.

Next to him in the stairwell, a child giggled.

Varric whipped around, terrified, backing up, seeing nothing there.

He continued stumbling backwards until he hit the wooden door, which gave way against his weight and slammed open.

Varric lost his balance, turning, tripping on his feet and falling to the floor before-

Grey daylight, shining in from a nearby window of the stone tower. Boots. His boots. And his coat.

"Well, this is it," he heard himself say. "The perfect place to get lost for a while."

"Right," he heard Hawke's voice respond, "and no one will be able to get lost in the same place?"

"It's like I said-"

"Because it's a good deal of money, you know? If someone else, a bandit or traveler stumbles in here, or someone who's actually trying to find me…"

Déjà vu. He'd had this conversation before, three years ago. Varric got to his knees and stood up. He was staring at the back of his own head. He stepped to the left, around himself. Across the room, Hawke was leaning against a dinner table, a fork in her hands, looking at Past Varric, her eyes vacant and her hair, usually wild and all over the place, now drab and lifeless.

Past Varric shook his head, waving his hands, "It's like I said; only a handful of people know about this place at any given time, and exactly who knows changes each time ownership changes hands. The guy who lived here before you did will wake up tomorrow morning remembering that he's spent the last eight months in solitude, writing his memoirs in peace. But he won't remember where. Neither will the guy's editor, who told me about the place once the allotted time was up.

"And no one can stumble onto this place because, to the naked eye, it doesn't even exist. It's a small tower home on a small island in the middle of the ocean built by mages eons ago, Hawke, this is old, old magic. It works."

Hawke stared at the dwarf for a long time, fiddling with the fork, tapping it against her other hand. To a casual observer, she would've seemed to be considering her options, but Varric now and Past Varric from three years earlier shared the exact same thought. She wasn't thinking about anything. She was simply going through the motions, doing what looked normal out of habit. There was nothing in her left to actually weigh any options.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice, as he remembered, utterly devoid of emotion. She dropped the fork back onto the table and walked to a set of double doors, opening them, revealing a spacious bedroom and workspace, another staircase at the far end of the room leading up into another section of the tower.

"And," Past Varric continued, following her into the bedroom, causing Varric now to wince as he remembered this next bit of unpleasantness, "in six months, I can come back and check on you."

Hawke stopped by the four-poster bed and turned to him, expressionless. "Why?"

"Well, to see how you're doing. If you'd like to leave-"

"Is the storeroom in the basement always going to be stocked like that?"

Past Varric sighed, rubbing his temples. "Um… new stock gets sent down the current from Hercinia every month. Dried foods, mostly. Meats and cheeses, candles, quills, parchments and ink, too. You'll have to be waiting at the edge of the island to pick it up along the shore on the first, but it will always come and apparently it never misses that spot. Something about small-scale current manipulation, old lyrium trade routes, I don't know, I just know that whoever's sending it doesn't know where it's going or why, but that it will always get sent."

Hawke merely nodded in response.

"So, like I said, I'll be back in six months-"

"Who are you paying, Varric?"

"What?"

"Who is my money going to?"

"I-… a man named," as Past Varric said the name, a wave crashed against the foundations outside and the now Varric felt a momentary dizziness. For the second time, he heard the laughter of a child. "Which is a pointless name to say," Past Varric continued, "because it's a one-time payment and neither one of us will remember his name tomorrow, and he won't remember that the place exists until either you leave this place or…"

"Or I die."

"Just-Hawke, listen to me, dammit. I'll be back in six months-"

"Give him everything."

Past Varric grit his teeth, frowning, squinting. "What?"

Hawke's vacant expression didn't change as she walked to a window by the bed and drew the curtains. "Give him everything. All the money I have."

"Hawke, the place isn't that expensive, or you're just that rich; however you want to look at it, that's not just a year or ten years, that'd be enough for two or three lifetimes."

Hawke leaned over a desk to light a candle. "Then keep the rest for yourself. Just make sure the rest of my life is paid for in full-"

"Fuck it!" Past Varric whipped Bianca from her holster, took aim and fired. The bolt shot clean through the middle of the candle Hawke was lighting, embedding it half an inch into the stone. The flame didn't even go out.

Nor did Hawke flinch.

Past Varric trained his aim on her. "You wanna die?! You want to just call it quits, why not let's make it easier on ourselves right now, huh? I put one right through the middle of your forehead, since you're apparently too much of a coward to finish the job yourself."

Again, Hawke remained unmoved.

Soon, he dropped his aim. "So that's it then. You just don't give a shit. Not about the world, not about yourself. You're just going to stay here and wait to die. …she'd be real honored, Hawke, I'm sure."

Hawke walked past him to the next window as he re-holstered the crossbow and she closed another set of curtains. "No she wouldn't, Varric. She wouldn't be anything. She's dead."

"I… I just never thought the day would come when I'd see you give up. And I'm not taking your money."

"Then give it to the poor. Or the rich. The Chantry. Burn it, melt it all down and make a crown, a scepter and a chair, I don't care. Just leave."

He chuffed, and Varric now remembered the sting of those words, feeling it in his chest. "Slink back to Kirkwall, eh?"

Hawke stood in the middle of the room, staring at him. "I don't really care where you go. Just leave, Varric."

Past Varric shook his head, turned and walked out to the dining room before stopping.

Varric now squeezed his eyes shut. "Just leave, just leave, just walk out the fucking door and go!"

But he hadn't then, and didn't now. Past Varric turned on his heel, his face ruddy and his eyes wet and determined. "Marian," he said, "I'm coming back here in six months."

Hawke watched him from the bedroom. "You were right next to her, Varric. You were standing right next to her, and you didn't stop it. I didn't kill you then for the same reason I'm not killing you now. It's not about honor or friendship, those things are gone. It's simply that she's dead, and killing you serves no purpose. There is no purpose anymore, to anything. And in showing me this place, you've at least proven useful, this one last time. So that's it. But you're the only person besides me who knows where I am. And that means that maybe you'd be more useful now dead too. But maybe not, so I'll let it lie and again, that's it. And that'll be it until the moment you step through these doors again. You do that and I'll kill you," she said, flatly, tonelessly, as if she were commenting on the weather, "I'll kill you."

Past Varric kept her gaze for several more painful seconds before walking to the door Varric now had slammed through, and for some reason, Varric moved to follow him.

"Hey," Hawke said, whispering in his ear.

He turned to find her standing over him, and suddenly the room was dark, the daylight gone and the moss and pungent odor, the smell of rotten flesh from the stairwell had returned. Hawke was looking directly at him now, not the him from three years ago but him, her hair long like it was in the portent stone, her eyes black without pupils. She was smiling at him. There were bloodstains on her teeth.

"I told him to leave," she said, nodding towards the open door, "you're not going anywhere, dwarf."

Varric reacted automatically, unsure if it was out of fear or self-preservation. He balled a fist, reared back and punched Hawke square in the jaw.

She stumbled back and vanished into the slime-slicked stone wall with a child-like giggle.

Varric considered bolting for the exit, willing his legs to run. It's right there.

"So were you," Hawke called from the bedroom.

Someone was crying in there.

With dread in his stomach like he'd swallowed a pouch of weighted stones, Varric found himself approaching the double-doors once more.

The curtains were made of long, dark hair now, the strands seemingly weaved together. The stone slabs had turned to pulsating flesh. The bed and the table were gone and the staircase at the far end was built of what looked like human torsos.

Hawke stood in the center of the room, Merrill before her on her knees, sobbing. Hawke had a fistful of Merrill's hair, which was also grown out now. Hawke was gripping it tightly, twining locks through her fingers. They both were watching him, tears streaming down Merrill's cheeks.

"You were right there, Varric," Hawke said again.

"Hawke-"

"Hey!" Hawke was holding a dagger now, smiling. "You want to see a trick?" She placed the dagger against the flesh of Merrill's neck.

"Hawke, no!" Varric yelled, reaching out a hand, rushing forward into the room.

As Hawke slit Merrill's throat he spotted the child-

it tricked me

-out of the corner of his eye, hiding against the other side of the bedroom wall, all cracked skin, ash and burnt flesh-

it's been waiting for me all this time

-it screamed and laughed, opening its mouth wide and lunging at him, running towards him, closing the distance between them in a matter of seconds-

this was what it wanted all along it's been feeding on her for three whole years now it has me

-arms open wide and jumping onto him, teeth razor sharp, just a child, so little and frail-

now it has me

9:41 Dragon
26th Firstfall

The Free Marches
One League East of Markham

35 Days

"Varric, wake up! It's just a nightmare, man, no one has you!"

Varric woke with a start, kicking and struggling beneath the thick wool blanket. The burnt creature was above him, out of the dream, gripping his shoulders tightly.

"No, it wasn't my fault!" He tried to force the child away, clawing at its chest.

And feeling a soft mixture of fur and feathers. A coat.

He blinked. The child was gone. Anders stared down at him, his handsome features etched with a mixture of worry and bewilderment.

"Varric…"

"Hercinia."

"What?"

Varric politely shrugged Anders off, wiping the sweat from his brow and sitting up in the tent. Outside, everything else was packed and set to one side, the fire pit gone, Anders' curative magic having restored the grass to its healthy green sheen. The chestnut mare and the black pony were standing nearby, nuzzling each other and nickering.

A gust of wind buffeted the side of the tent. Varric swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth and looked to Anders. "Hercinia. When we get there, when I leave for Estwatch, stay for two days. No longer."

Anders searched his eyes. He smiled. "It's the stone."

Varric stared back blankly, not following.

"The portent stone; I'm sorry, I should've warned you. It… it can have this effect on people once they've used it. Gives them the impression that elements of their dreams-, they seem so lucid, past and the future get all jumbled up. You think the events of your dream will play out, but Varric, you can't trust it. You were just having a nightmare. You're fine." He moved to leave the tent.

Varric grabbed his arm, stopping him. "No. It's got nothing to do with the stone, there's a very real chance that when she sees me she'll-... If I don't come back in two days, or if you see Hawke and I'm not with her…"

Anders frowned. "Yeah?"

"Run. Just run home to Tevinter and don't look back."

Three Leagues East of Markham

When they got back on the road, Varric started to feel better. The sky was blue, the fields and low-lying hills and valleys of the far east Free Marches were vast and open, with thin patches of pinkberry bushes and apple trees dotting the trails here and there. The dream began to fade and with it the notion that Hawke was surely going to make good on her parting words.

Anders, on the other hand, was in a tizzy. "What would she do, skin me alive? Boil me in oil?"

"Blondie…" Varric reached up as they clopped beneath the branches of another apple tree and swiped at a low-hanging red apple, but missed again. He grunted with frustration as the Orlesian kept moving forwards.

"I mean it. Andraste's knicker-weasels, dwarf, what did you do?"

"Nothing that can be helped now. …it was a nightmare, I'll get over it. You should too."

"So if I see her and you're not with her?"

"Oh no, you should definitely run, I wasn't wrong about that." Another low-hanging branch, another apple, another swipe. Nothing. "Shit!"

"Well, can you at least tell me why you put her there? Did she… I mean, did she go on a murderous spree or-"

Varric chuckled. "It's Hawke. She went on murder sprees before breakfast lest she got cranky. But I never said I put her there. I just left her there. Like she wanted."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Because she smelled bad, Blondie. What difference does it make?"

"It makes all the difference in Thedas if she's just going to kill us. I like being alive."

"If what the portent stone showed us was true, Hawke is going to be far more likely to-" There, just ahead, a branch he could definitely reach! Distracted, Varric shifted in his saddle, his mouth beginning to water at the site of the largest, juiciest looking apple he'd seen yet. "To, err… help, than she is to… come to papa, come on," he said under his breath as the pony neared the branch.

Anders glanced back, curious. "Than she is to come to whom?" His eyes widened as he spotted something in the tree Varric was under. "Varric, stop!"

Varric reached out with both hands, surging up and clapping them around the apple and-

Hitting air. The branch had moved on its own. He looked up.

A pair of dirt-encrusted boots sailed down at him, smashing into his face and knocking him from the pony's back.

The dwarf rolled on the thin grass trail, listening to the Orlesian whinny and trot off to the north, reaching behind him and grabbing Bianca, coming to rest on one knee, trying to shake the stun and pain from his head so that he could take aim.

Until he felt cold steel at his throat. He looked up slowly, crossbow dangling in his left hand, to find a sword-wielding bandit standing over him, grizzle-faced and grinning.

To his left, he saw Anders still sitting on the chestnut, surrounded by four more tall, gangly men. All of them were dressed in dull brown rags, holding daggers, swords or maces between them.

The bandit at his throat said, "You know how this works, little man. Money, valuables, weapons, your horses and the clothes off your back. The only way you leave this valley alive is in your small clothes, back the way ye came."

"I'll give you this warning once. You're making a mistake," Varric said. "One that's a lot more trouble than it's worth."

The grizzled bandit laughed, his humor soon echoed by the men surrounding Anders. "Spare me the lies, dwarf, I've heard 'em all. You're spies working against the Orlesians, you're cursed adventurers and if we take your stuff, the curse passes to us. Or maybe you're on an important mission from the Black Divine hisself, and the entire land'll crumble without you reaching your destination in a timely manner."

"Oy, Benji," a scarred bald man, the tallest and dumbest looking of the lot, and the one holding the reigns of Anders' horse, spoke up in a deep, baritone voice, "don't forget about the one where they're being hunted by Antivan Crows, and if the Crows don't get this kill first, they'll come after us in retruh…reterb… instead, to get back at us, like."

The leader pursed his lips, annoyed. "Right, Bob, that's a good one too. In truth, we really don't care. We just want your stuff, so hand it over before we start making holes to piss in."

"That's not a problem, Benji," Varric said, "you'll get everything you want. Blondie, give them your staff."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Anders said, eyeing the men around him.

"It's alright. Just give them what they want."

After a moment, Anders' begrudgingly slid his staff out from its sheath that rested along the mare's side and tossed it to Bob. He shared a look with Varric that was very clear; you'd better know what you're doing.

"Alright, a good start," Benji said, pleased. "Now the rest."

"Sure, sure. Just let me ask you something first."

"What's that?"

"You been to Markham within the last three years?"

The bandit leader chuckled. "We're from Markham, you idiot. So don't even think of pulling a fast one on-"

"You gentlemen ever drink?"

Now they all laughed again.

"'Do we drink,' he says," Bob chortled, "what a idjit!"

"Of course we drink, dwarf," Benji leered, sliding the sword downwards and poking Varric with the edge of his blade, "in fact, once we're done with the two of you, we're going to walk back home, sell your shite to the black marketers and drink some more!"

"And in all the time you've spent in Markham's taverns," Varric continued, keeping his voice calm and level, "you've never once looked at the 'Wanted' boards?"

Benji shrugged, but the smile was beginning to slip from his face. "Sure we have. We keep our noses clean in the city. Well, 'cept Bob."

Bob nodded solemnly. "Girls are pretty. In the big, poofy dresses, they don't run so fast, 'specially at night. But the ones with big titties got big lungs, so sometimes the Watch catches me on 'em."

"Right, sorry to hear that, I guess?" Varric gave Benji an inquisitive look and the bandit rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say, 'never mind him'. "Well, anyway, if you've looked at the boards, you honestly telling me you don't recognize him?" He motioned to Anders with a nod.

The bandits all gave Anders a closer look. The mage simply remained on the mare, his face expectant.

"Maker's arse," a bandit brandishing a mace said, "at's the fucker been blowin' up Chantries!"

"Hey," Anders began, offended, "it was just the one-"

"That's right," Varric said, cutting him off, "that's who he is. He's Anders… the terrorist."

Anders shot him a withering glare.

Benji tilted his head to one side, puzzled. "The what?"

"You heard me. The terrorist."

"What's a terrorist," the bandit with the mace asked, taking two steps away from Anders.

"It's a man who's killed a lot of people," Varric began. "and-"

"Oh, well, Bob's a terrorist, then," said a bandit with daggers and a lot of dirt on his face. He smiled over his shoulder at Bob, who nodded appreciatively.

"No," Varric shook his head, "not-"

"What do you mean, no?" Bob asked, angrily. "I killed me so many men I lost count. Why can't I be a terrorist?"

"Yeah," Benji chimed in, agreeing with his subordinate, "why can't Bob be a terrorist? He can't count very high to begin with, but I've personally seen him kill scores of men. If any man's a terrorist, Bob's a terrorist."

"I prefer the term 'freedom fighter', actually," Anders said in a soft voice.

Everyone fell silent and Varric bowed his head in frustration, silently cursing the mage.

The group of bandits burst into sudden, uproarious laughter.

"That's the dumbest name I've ever heard," Benji said.

"What the fuck d'you fight freedom for," asked the dirt-covered bandit with the daggers between giggles, "what did it ever do to you?"

"Let me guess," said Benji, "did it steal your sweet roll?"

"No-no, I know," said the man with the mace, the fear clearly having left him as he howled with laughter, "it kicked his dog!"

"Ooh, ooh, I got one," Bob shouted, "freedom porked 'is mum!"

"'Ey now," Benji yelled back, a big grin on his face, "freedom did that to my mum, I think I might be a freedom fighter too! Ha ha!"

"Except that you can't," Varric said calmly from his knelt stance, looking back up.

Slowly, everyone stopped chuckling. Benji eyed him with his fierce smile, his eyes alight with the promise of violence. "Who's a dwarf on his knees to tell me what I can't be? My mum said I could be whatever I wanted."

"And have you ever chained children to the ground in rows of ten before an altar of fire, only to slit their throats for the powerful blood they keep inside?"

The bandits grew dead silent. Benji frowned. "No, I-"

"Of course you haven't," Varric said. "You've never needed to break open the earth with the blood of the innocent. And maybe Bob's killed forty or fifty men, maybe he's killed a hundred, but he's never broken the will of one, much less an army. Because you've never needed to command the attention of a nation before. To fight the freedom of every man, woman and child demands far greater fortitude than you can comprehend."

Now each of the bandits, Bob included, began stepping away from Anders.

"Call him a terrorist or a freedom fighter, it doesn't matter. He's still-"

"He's still at our mercy," Benji interrupted with a growl.

"Completely," Varric agreed. "You can kill him right now, if you'd like. Me too. But do you really think he blows up Chantries around Thedas all on his own? Even Bob's smart enough to know that isn't true."

"Uh, yeah," Bob said, clearly unsure of whether or not he actually was smart enough to know this.

"Y-you talk too much, dwarf," Benji stuttered, "…what's your point?"

Something inside Varric was bursting, like a vine from a seed long dormant. It felt like waking up from years of hibernation, like crawling into daylight from an empty, black pit. This wasn't the same tired tale, this was new, this was fresh. And his audience wasn't yawning, they weren't quietly mocking him or wondering when they could sneak towards the door and go home. They were rapt with attention. They were his for the taking. He was breathing again. He was coming back to life.

"My point is simple," he said, weaving the strands of bullshit together as he went, mixing it with the truth of the past, a master taking up his craft once more, "Anders works as part of a group. This group works with other groups, all of them working in secret towards a common goal. You and I will never know what this common goal is, but that doesn't matter. What does matter is that they spread out from Tevinter long ago to achieve this unknowable goal and situated themselves in every major city in Thedas before any of us were born, and they'll be there long after we're all dead. You live in Markham. They are amongst you. You see them every day. Perhaps you buy fish or grain from them, perhaps they sweep your streets. You will never know; you may see some of them all of the time, you may see all of them some of the time, but believe me, Mr. Benjamin, you will never see all of them, all of the time, and they are out there."

"Maker's arse," the bandit with the mace said again, terrified.

Benji tried to smile, failing miserably. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face. "And I, I suppose you're telling me that-that if we kill this man, here, that they'll know."

Varric shook his head, chuckling. Now for the twist. "No, that would be silly. No one can simply know something like that."

The bandits muttered sighs of relief and nervous chuckles with him.

"Like I said, you can kill him if you wish," Varric smiled. "The damage has already been done."

Benji looked mortified. "What damage?"

"Why, the Mark of the Ancients, of course."

"The Mark of the Ancients?"

"Yes. There are five of them, entrusted to members within the order who are deemed current necessities. Blondie there being one of them, and I think we all know why. As long as the Mark remains within his possession, everything is considered fine. The moment he relinquishes it, well, that they'll know. That's just basic magic. And after that moment, preparations will begin for the-," he glanced at Bob, "what was it you were having trouble saying before? Ah, yes, the retribution. And rest assured, there will be retribution. Markham will burn. From the Chantry to the markets, the towers to the homes. All the spires will fall, and vengeance will be sought beyond all measure of reason or decency."

"Okay," Bob said, nodding vigorously, "you can keep the Mark thing. We don't want it."

Varric silently willed the leader to make the connection, and he did not disappoint. Benji eyed the dwarf with clear dread, "but you said… What exactly is the Mark?"

It was time for the killing blow. "He's a mage of Tevinter, Benji, what do you think it would be? It's a staff."

Benji let out a low groan. Bob looked dumbly at the staff he was holding for a few seconds before giving a yelp. This information proved too much for the bandit with the mace. He shrieked in a high, girlish voice, threw his weapon on the ground and bolted, running south.

"Wait, Cutter," the dirt-covered bandit cried, "get back here, you coward!" This was to no avail, as Cutter did not stop running.

"That's not fair! That's not fair," Benji screamed, dropping his sword and backing up, pointing a finger angrily at Varric, "you son of a bitch, you told him to give it to us!"

Varric stood up, brushing the soil off his coat and pant legs. "Yes I did. And you, a bunch of lowly apple-tree outlaws, readily accepted it."

"No-look, fuck, give it back!" Benji said, looking to Bob, "there's still time, Maker, there has to be, just give it back!"

The other bandits picked up the call, all of them shouting at Bob to return the staff.

Bob thrust the staff at Anders, his eyes pleading. "Take it, take it! We don't want it!"

"Really?" Anders asked, amused, "you all seemed so eager before, ready to challenge the might of the Tevinter Imperium."

"It was a mistake, er… milord," Bob said, bowing his head, holding the staff out in front of him, "please, 'ave mercy."

Anders snatched the staff away from him, affecting a haughty tone, "the Tevinters do not know of mercy, scum, but perhaps there is still time to save your worthless hides."

"Anything," Benji said, rushing towards the chestnut and falling to his knees, "anything you demand!"

"Return to Markham and throw yourselves before the Watch. Perhaps when my associates see that you've decided to spend some time in a dungeon rather than rob from the puissant nation, they'll withdraw a few of the explosives."

"Yes, milord," said the filth-covered bandit, "we will!"

"Run to the hills," Benji screamed, "run for your lives!"

The four remaining bandits took off west, down the path towards the hills and Markham, running faster than Varric or Anders could've thought possible.

Varric walked up to Anders and stood next to his horse, the two of them watching the bandits run.

"You've still got it, dwarf."

"Thanks, Blondie."

Soon, Anders began to giggle. "Did you hear what they started calling me?"

Varric bit his lip, his face scrunching up. "Yes, yes I did… milord."

They laughed, hard and long, until the bandits were a small group of dots at the base of a distant hill.

When Anders' laughter started to fade, he said, "You know… Bob was a rapist."

"Oh, yeah… that's too bad, they were kind of a fun group. Better take care of it."

Anders twirled his staff. "What else is a terrorist for?" He launched a massive, whirling fireball into the sky.

As they watched it sail towards the group, Varric patted the chestnut, who nickered in response. "I think I like freedom fighter, now. It's starting to grow on me."

They smiled at each other as the fireball hit the base of the hill in the distance.

When smoke began to touch the horizon, Varric turned and brushed his hands together, invigorated. "Now then, where did that blighted pony get to?"

ARTHUR'S NOTE

Now might be a good time to pull a Greek Chorus and recap some things, just so no one gets confused, or to help out anyone I've already confused from poor storytelling.

The dates-

9:41 Dragon
10 Solace

-always appear beforehand so that you know when the current chapter takes place and can easily spot it, which is important because the story bounces back and forth in time.

There are three things going on this tale.

1. In the prologue, with Putter and Clause, something really bad happened in Minrathous during the first of the new year. End of the world stuff. That's what we're building towards. We started with 41 Days left in the old year. Now we're down to 35. In Varric's dream sequence, there was no Days Remaining count, because at this point in the story, Varric doesn't even have a reason to head towards Minrathous. But we'll touch on this storyline later. Much later, as we're still in Part One.

2. The Main Storyline, the part that's counting down towards the end of the year. This is the storyline that will feature the group getting back together, and thankfully, Hawke's about to enter the picture as Varric will be reaching Hercinia and Estwatch, for real this time, in the coming chapters.

3. The past bit, three years ago, detailing the events that lead Hawke, Varric, Merrill and Isabela to part ways. There are five parts to this flashback*, told out of order for a myriad of reasons (number one of which being dramatic effect, none of which having anything to do with being purposefully confusing or kitschy/gimmicky, I promise) and we've already been through one of them, when Hawke had her meltdown at the end of a vicious battle, as told through Isabela's perspective, which I'd wanted to do because we wouldn't be hearing from her for a little while yet and because, out of the four of them, she was the only one not in the loop as to any growing tension. In parts one through three, we'll see what lead to the meltdown and in the fifth part, we'll continue from where we left off at the burning caravans. As you may have already guessed, tragedy continues to ensue.

So that's it. I haven't ruined anything, I just wanted to clear some stuff up, just in case.

*In addition to the five-part flashback, the scene between Past Varric and Hawke in the dream sequence plays as a sort of epilogue to these events. After everything was said and done, Hawke called it quits and I really, really wanted to show that scene, which would've lost a considerable amount of emotional value had it appeared after Varric reaches Hawke for realsies.

And hey, if anybody can't see the little line-break bar that FFNET lets me add between scenes, please, let me know.