SHE MUST be able to see it - the moment he almost seems to collapse, when the melody takes over and he almost joins it, becoming one and the same with it because he has always been it even before this body and these hands and this voice became tangible. A grotesque heart about to take flight, reconnect to that vastness he had to leave behind decades ago, desperately aching to go back, no matter the happiness this unexpected chance at a physical life brings him. He never mentions it, never talks about it, never voices it out out of fear of hurting others and meeting their lack of understanding, but it is always there, settled inside this body in depths only he can reach. Hawke knows nothing of it. Miles, perhaps a bit more, but he isnât aware of how deeply this river runs and erodes him. Itâs not a secret Sy is keeping from him, itâs just⌠a precaution. A way to shield both of them perhaps. Because thatâs what terrifies him: that this might be read as dissatisfaction for the love he has been given, that it might be a sign that nothingâs enough for him, when thatâs far from being the case. How could he explain a part of his own nature without hurting anyone?
   Perhaps he will make peace with it eventually. Perhaps, but never early enough.
   And then the song dies naturally on his lips, although it keeps living inside him even if no one is around to hear it anymore. With one last spin he turns to face Hawke again, grin as bold and bright as usual, perhaps just slightly louder. (In any sense. In every sense.) âWhat for? Told you I would.â He sits down on the ground again, this time a little more gracefully than before. He hasnât quite sobered up, but heâs going to get there eventually. âAnythinâ for my favorite pal.â
   IŇ á´á´ á´Ę being asked about it, she wouldn't be able to describe exactly what she saw, or felt. Then again, she isn't a poet: words have always been Varric's front, weaving them into their own sort of melody, and she had never been too good at them. Diplomacy is something forcibly learned (and she's still by far not the person one should ask for it) over having no choice but to deal with it or to doom everyone she knew. She will never understand the obsession with putting the one that had merely been the one to wield the weapon of victory into politics.
   (She knows why, of course. The masses need a tangible idol, and it's better someone who they know protected them once, and the ones in power need someone to blame when things inevitably go wrong. And she thinks of her found family full of fugitives and criminals and lives in fear, not for herself, but for them.)
   Still, she smiles. None of her worries have to do with him, after all, and he had been nothing short of delightful. She knows she will be haunted by this song for years to come. Perhaps the rest of her days. Andraste behold that it will always stay the good type of it, the one with fond memories, and not one of bitterness or fear one day.
   "You did. Still can appreciate it, can't I?" She grins, rolls her shoulders. "I fear I can't offer you apt entertainment myself."