#martyrmarked

It takes him days to get through his mail. Petitions from Kirkwall, loans to wade through, and even his editors demand something from him - a new chapter even in the middle of a war, of all things - for Swords and Shields of all things. It’s cast aside, another pile for another day. More bills, his own now, rent for an apartment he doesn’t even live in and a bar tab from a city he couldn’t even reach. Personal bills end up being paid, crammed into an envelope, and handed off to be whisked away across the seas. Mess is nearly tended to, the dim light almost causing a flare of pain behind his eyes; thumb and forefinger come to rub the pain from behind his eyes, and his free hand searches for glasses; instead, he finds a familiar lettering on his desk. His hand falls from his face, and his vision clears with more focus. 

It’s familiar writing, neat and boxy; thumb comes and traces the top line of the envelope. It was not Bran’s elegant looping handwriting nor the clean lettering that lay locked in his desk drawer, but he was still far too familiar with that handwriting. It had been a few months, maybe more. The letter is turned over, once, twice and then a pause - why now, why not when the world began to end? He had written to her, but nothing in return. There is a thought that letters could have made it to Haven, maybe to Kirkwall, maybe not; everything had happened all at once. He doesn’t scramble, but a letter opener is sought out and runs quickly under the seam. Vellum is pried free; the envelope is fed to the fire behind him. 

Words are not prickly, but they aren’t affectionate. They are clinical, with a mixed message about the red lyrium and the tremendous, ugly thing lingering, rather than asking questions or demanding reasons. There is a memo stating that she would be there before the end of the week. It’s not enough time - it’s never enough time. There are thoughts, desperate and churning over and over in the back of his mind - thoughts of the woman just steps away. 

A heartbeat away.

Vellum nearly crumples in his hand; there is the younger, angrier thought that if the letter in his hand never reaches him, there is no burden of proof. However, he is not a younger, angrier man. There is no hiding from this, no apartment in Kirkwall, no tucked tail; there is only the long way forward. Rather than dawdling, two letters are penned with haste - one will arrive in moments, the other a few hours at least. Letters are passed off, and he finally wilts against his chair, under that long shadow of the hour and the flickering of the fireplace behind him. There is that bright panic in the pit of his stomach; somehow, he’s done all of this wildly out of order, and somehow, there is a layer of betrayal to all of this, that he has gone and broken some sort of unspoken vow. There was no vow; Sidri had asked for honesty - not to show every card tucked into his quiver. If she had asked, she wouldn’t; he knows this - he knows her. 

He knows her.

It is the very thought he clings to as those hours spin into days, stretching wide and welcoming close to the end of what he knows is the end of the smith’s work week. There are words he remembers, things that were done, and it still churns his stomach - he laughs as if he’s the expendable one, a barbed comment about family. 

Something still sits uneasily - even after Sidri appears, that churning does not settle. Bianca speaks - it’s plain, half of it feels like a lie, half of it something else. She asks them not to keep her waiting - that there are things that still need to be done ( there is a remark that dares to barb, but it is swallowed ). That unease barely settles, but they can do this now, rather than later, to have a leg up for a return to the Approach. The Hinterlands are less than a day away, less than half a day with the right party. 

“You don’t have to do this now.” He knows they are Sidri’s words; he’s kept her eyes through most of it. A silent plea for forgiveness, something he’s not sure he needs or has earned - but this was never his intent, to expose his nebulous and almost settled past. Except it wasn't, it never had been - he had always spun it away until now—spinning a story, writing it all away rather than facing it head-on. He doesn’t tell Sidri she’s wrong; instead, he stands there for a moment or two, fighting his words ( foul words at himself and foul words at the situation ). Somehow, he lands on the fact that he has to, he wants to - it’s only said to Sidri over the fire. 

For once, he finds himself itching to get to the opening of that thaig; it doesn’t take as long as he expects, but he’s quiet the whole trip - keeping mostly to his thoughts and unease. There is one comfort, when they stop in the midafternoon to break, Sidri’s hand finds his shoulder ( and for one brief moment, he finds her hand ). Again, he’s reminded he knows her.

Before the sun sets, they lay eyes on that dreaded thaig; there is still the dread that sets in, as this is something much too large, filled with secrets. Bianca barbs, too familiarly, and he nettles back, asking about whatshisname, and the sinking feeling lurches his stomach when he meets Sidri’s eyes. However, that does not last very long; that sinking feeling lurches into a deep anger. Sidri’s questions are poised, and she even allows grace with them, unravelling a tale he almost already knows, but Varric sees red, nearly as red as the lyrium humming behind the door. There had been a promise with that key - a promise that had been broken in more ways than one. There is half a claim, half a claim of ignorance. 

“Shit, she couldn’t. I told her exactly how bad this was; I warned you to avoid it.” Anger burns through him, searing as he steps forward, with anger still bleeding from each word. 

“I screwed up, but we fixed it! It’s as right as can be!” 

“It isn’t a fucking machine, Bianca! You can’t just swap out a part and make everything right!” There are more words that dare to come, but Bianca cuts him off - a knife nearly poised for his jugular about wallowing over mistakes - stories that he never tells. For a moment, over it all, he catches Sidri’s eyes once more, another silent apology for everything he’s almost said and needed to say before now, all of the things he will say after this. 

So he laughs, half sarcastic, half hurt, “As if I write about my own stories.” 

“Varric.” It is clarity for the briefest moment, a rush of cold air over rampant flames - rolling them over, and it is simply the way Sidri says his name. 

She knows him. 

“Sorry, Si— sorry, Inquisitor,” A name nearly slips; instead, it is wrapped back up, almost too formal, but he shakes it off, shakes all of it off. “Bianca, you need to go, before someone misses you.” There are other things; things should bubble over in his anger, disappointment - the unease had been disappointment lodged somewhere deep in his chest. 

“Varric.” That time, it is not Sidri; that time, it is Bianca. There is no flash of red, no pop of anger behind his eyes; instead, it’s more defeatism; rather than words, he shuffles half away from her, half away from the situation. He minds his steps and realises he’s put himself next to Sidri ( some of that anger unfurls, just a small amount ). “If you get him killed, I’ll feed you your eyes.” 

“Bianca, watch it.” He doesn’t think; he simply speaks, forgetting who else is in the room, “You forget who you’re speaking to, and she deserves not just my respect but yours after all of this.”  

Then his voice lowers, and finally, he turns. Dorian steps aside, and Cassandra does as well. “Besides, you’ve nearly killed me.” If there are other words that come, he doesn’t allow them near in; anger forces him out into that cave, down a beaten path looping around.

It’s a long, quiet hike up - a long way down to the lake camp. Once again, he is lost in a sea of his thoughts, and the others let him be long after they finally break free from the thaig. Other things are almost said, but Varric is thankful for Dorian and Cassandra, who ask Bianca to step aside. It gives him enough time to make it further down and away from the fuss and down towards the camp.

However, through the thicket and woods, he stops, pausing for a moment as his breath shakes. It makes his chest ache in a way that he craves a physical wound over this panic and ache. Gloved hands find the trunk of the tree as he counts and reminds himself he can hear the arguing up the hill. Those angry words should be his, not Dorian’s. Yet, there’s nothing left in him; Bianca needs no additional words, and he doesn’t have the words she wants. Those have all since dried and fallen like ashes from embers or leaves off a fall tree, and whatever had been left had been incinerated by anger less than moments ago. It was the same hot flame that licked at him in Kirkwall, Haven, and now here. Voices get closer, and the snap of a twig under a boot. 

There is no pull of a knife; rather, he moves and looks, meeting sad eyes, sadder than they ever should be. She knows him. But those eyes shouldn’t hold pain that is hers. This was never supposed to be that of all things. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be; he could not verbally plead, and his words are all but gone for now, replaced by panic and anger.

She knows him. 

He knows her. 

She moves first, ducking low and curling against him. It is not a hug, nor is it a kiss, but she leans forward and presses her head to his, and the panic rushes out like the tide in the morning; his breath steadies, and he seeks out her - hand moving from the tree and coming to rest on hers. It’s not a kiss; it’s something more. Noses brush, and he can he can feel her breath against his skin. There is a shudder, and he half wonders if it’s still his anxiety, something more, and he exhales, and it is steady. 

“I should…” 

“I know.”

There are voices up that hill - voices getting closer, and he doesn’t want them to see him like this, to see her like this. She steps back, just a step, and it’s noticeably colder, yet her arm is still in his hand. There is no additional retreat from her; he has to let her go like she let go of him on the ride in. She slips through his fingers, like smoke from a fire, but he doesn’t break her gaze. He holds until he returns to the dark and looks down that hill, finding the camp among the darkness and the rare stars under a clouded sky. It comes closer and closer as the voices fade further and further away. 

Flags come into view, and he sighs again. Thankful for the hour, grateful for how few people wanted to sign on for this; he pauses again - she likely kept it small for him. 

She knows him.

There is no lotto, no shift to pull, and since they are so late, the tents are already set. Rather than claiming one, he settles in front of the fire, the dismal flickering thing; his pack is shoved down by his feet, and his crossbow is placed aside. Eyes fix on the flames, and he breathes; it takes a moment; however, he does settle, for the first time in days, half-warming himself in front of that fire. He can hear them all on the approach as they are not quiet - Cassandra and Dorian bicker over something ( he’s half sure the man has picked a fight to keep her away from him ) before they disappear into their respective tents. 

There is a softer set of footsteps, footsteps that are more than familiar, and she settles right next to him, her pack next to his. “Are you alright?” 

She knows him.

“No, but thank you. I knew - I had a feeling that when she showed up in Skyhold, it was bad - but, shit.” 

He knows her.

The fire crackles in front of them, a flare of white and red shooting towards the sky, “You didn’t expect this bad; nobody expects this bad.” 

More words spill out of him, overflowing when they dared not to hours ago; they pour over the rim and flood all over everything, “Sidri, I told you, I am bad at this - I’m not good at any of this if Cassandra hadn’t arrested me, I would-” 

“Found your way here.” It’s a finite statement, the same voice she uses with war meetings when Cullen and Leliana speak for too long. “You’ve earned your place, just as much as the others, if not more…But, Varric, will you see her again?” 

It’s a question that gives him pause. She’s seen this before—in his letters—but he doesn’t freeze. “I always have, not sure, not yet, no.” The fire snaps between them again, another reminder that their friendship, whatever it had become - whatever comes next, had started over one of these fires. His words are low, quiet next to her, “I should have told you, but it wasn’t something I was going to tell you in a letter.”

“Would you tell me? Or do you need more time?”

Another pause, and he breathes. Finally, a story is pulled out from behind his lungs, a story he had cradled for the longest time. Carefully, he undoes the wrapping and displays the story of a broken nose and buried knife. “When I was much younger, I rebelled my way through life, nearly killed me a few times, but she and I met during that time; it wasn’t good for either of us; she was a young genius and like magic, she could get anything to work, and I was impulsive and self-centred; I still am impulsive.” However, more of the story comes over that fire, “We ran as children do, and we got caught; I caught the ire of her family, hence the broken nose and a stab-wound — that nearly killed me.” Finger comes to tap the bridge of his nose once before he sighs. He can hear her sigh at the way he glazes over being stabbed; her concern ekes more softness into his words. 

Voice lowers again, almost lost, “Then she got married, and we kept in touch, but this is the most I’ve seen of her without someone trying to kill me, a miserable cycle. This just ends it.” Then he moves, pulling his pack close and pulling Bianca’s few letters she’d sent into his hand. There is no hesitation as they fall into the fire; vellum and ink swirl into the flames, and they lick them into the abyss - a remainder of ash. They burn and swirl as she’s closer to him still - and that anger in the pit of his stomach finally unravels—a firm and silent ending for now. 

“Thank you for telling me.” Her voice is soft, soft enough that he knows it’s meant just for him. 

“Thank you for listening.” She shifts, and he moves, too, his hand finding her - lingering again for as long as she’d allow. “No more secrets.”

There is no hesitation in her words, “I would never ask that of you.” 

“I know, it’s my choice.” It’s a boundary he’s trying to push past to break through that ineffable boundary; something else unfurls, something that allows him to believe that maybe he’s not trapped under his own choices. Had Hawke been the last one to bear all his stories and pain, he wants to try again, even if their narrative ends up doomed.  “For something greater still if you’ll wait for me.” 

USFW Unprompted Questions (always loved) // Inbox Open!

Asha doesn't wear shoes you nincompoop.

character questions! // accepting // @martyrmarked

For you, nik, always ✨

It's been a very long time since I've played Inquisition so I am fully going off vibes and pure memory. I need to replay this game at some point, it truly has been nearly ten years lmao I have something written on her page without many details but looking at it I don't know how true those things are anymore.

The one thing I will say which encompasses them all however is that Asharen is a trusting person, she has a trusting nature for better or worse (truly more often for the worse)

Let's start with the folks that she considers her closest friends:

Cole, who is literally her best friend, the person that she is likely closest to and the one that is basically the first person who she talks to about her crazy ideas for rift artifacts. Cole is such an important person for who Asharen eventually becomes.

Dagna, while technically not in the inner circle, Dagna is instrumental to be able to craft the lyrium needles that eventually become Asharen's signature way of using rift magic. She is her sparring partner, and the person that she knows is always willing to talk about topics that most would consider boring. She is in the inner circle to me

Varric, The Iron Bull and Solas are the three people that she takes consistently out with her on missions. She likes their sense of humour and it's always a pretty good time. She likes hearing Varric's stories and likes his sense of humour, very smart in things that she excelled in the clan and makes her understand how much she actually doesn't know about finances lmao; the Iron Bull is literally unlike anyone she has ever known, she likes his relaxed attitude towards things and Solas just knows so much about magic and history that it makes her head spin. They are all incredible at what they do.

Josephine, as the only other "antivan" there (if Asharen can even be considered such) and the first person that actually tries to engage with her culture in a respectful manner? And coming from a human? It's nice. It doesn't surprise her that it would be an antivan woman that would do it, her experience in Antiva City does say that they are more knowledgeable and open than others. Still, Josephine becomes the arm that she leans in when it comes to politics. Even if Asharen does get angry at her because of the Florianne's box debacle.

Friends:

Sera is someone that starts off on a rocky foot for obvious reasons but they eventually become friends - Sera is fairly younger than Asharen (I think they put Sera at 18-21 and Asharen is around 33 by Inquisition) which gives her the impression that this is probably what she sounded like to her older siblings. Sera one day made the mistake to prank the Inquisitor and got at least ten of Leliana's pigeons just loose in her small room in the Inn. It's not what Asharen would like to have done but they become more creative with the pranks

Dorian is someone that she takes a while getting warmed up to but it's hard not to be charmed by him. Also, he is frighteningly intelligent and it's impossible to not want to drown him with questions on his research on the magic that eventually led to Redcliff. This period of Inquisition is a lot about Asharen finding about herself and her interests and Dorian helps a lot in this. However, I would say that they become closer at the turn of Veilguard since Dorian does become someone that she reaches out frequently. That being said, their first conversations around each other's cultures does make her want to scream inside, but she listens and they have discussions which would likely be closer to debates in other circles than anything else. A later stronger friendship.

Cassandra in the weirdest of ways I think that Cassandra can potentially help Asharen a lot. Their faith are obviously not the same, they do not operate the same way but there is a lot of turmoil that is happening with Cassandra's story which does inform her own experiences once the Vallas'lin information is revealed. In a way, I can totally see conversations with her on matters of faith molding and informing her own opinions on where she eventually lands on the Evanuris and the future of the dalish. Asharen never thought that she'd be able to have those sort of conversations with a human much less the right hand of the divine. But she knows so little about it and I think if nothing else, Asharen would be there to give her a warm hug and a shoulder if she needed it after the Seeker's situation. So a much later friendship for sure

Acquaintance & Advising roles:

So here is where things are a bit more complex and harder for me to pin down.

I think that Thom Rainier (Blackwall) 's betrayal of trust doesn't land as hard because they aren't necessarily close during Inquisition. However, it still hurts. And I just think this kinda speaks to her trusting nature (and her lack of knowledge about the wardens) that she never saw it coming. It is actually just a taste of what is to come, but speaking to him and taking him to help atone for what he has done and eventually join the wardens does set a precedent, doesn't it?

With Vivienne she respects the woman, it's impossible not to, but her opinions about mages and what their future should look like makes her head spin and she cannot find common ground where either of them can give ground. The dalish have their own set of beliefs of magic (which can vary from clan to clan) and after all that they learn about the circles and the templars, especially with the information that comes out from Redcliffe and what happens to the Tranquil? It's hard. Vivienne is brilliant and Asharen leans on her for any and all knowledge specifically about how to handle the mages within the circle and the templars she will give the Inquisitor because it would be foolish not to. Asharen helps her with the heart of the wyvern and offers her shoulder if Vivienne ever wants but I don't think they are ever friends. There is deep respect, but friendship seems out of reach.

Leliana is quite closed off, I think that Asharen would be too focused on too many other fronts to attempt to peel those layers of ice unless her attention was pulled or an opening was given which I don't think Leliana would often do. She trusts that Leliana is the best in the business though and would not want to have her as an enemy.

Cullen is a complicated one. She respects him and his knowledge and respects so much where he is now, it takes quite a lot to turn around and attempt to unlearn a lot of things that have been (at times) literally beaten into you. She tries to meet him with compassion because that is what he also met her with the first time they spoke in Haven. Even if she was taught as a child to run from people like him, and hide. In the strangest of ways I do think they could become friends, especially if they both try to improve on their chess skills. I will say, there are exceptions to this, or making this friendship harder / easier depending on who is in her life. But this is default state.

And here is another thing which I find important to bring up: Despite how it all started, Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen and Josephine represent something so important to Asharen and how Inquisition becomes what it does to her and how it paints the world.

The first few days in Haven post the first trek up the mountain, the way that they do try to comfort her when they can't find her brother and keep trying to find him (my headcanon, don't @ me but I think that Cullen would have asked their soldiers and Leliana would have kept contact with their scouts trying to find Ren), it's important. They are human, not mages, they owe her nothing, they are important people in their organizations and she is just a dalish girl with a mark in her hand who might have caused this disaster. And yet they still try to help her and find her brother. They still listen to what she has to say and consider her words.

He can’t say the same about the Hinterlands. It’s fine; that is what he has convinced himself of fully as he continues to sink further and further into the mud. Camp is not an elegant thing; instead, it is a series of tents and people lining what was left of any walkway. Cassandra, ever the jailer of their party, had reminded them to be respectful as the tents and flags went up. It was the wilds, he had thought at one point, who gave a shit? Since it was so…verdant, he knew eventually, he would fall into the mud like Cassandra had. Of course, she had been running her mouth at the three of them and misstepped, still funny, still notable. 

Less funny?

The people who had surrounded their wagons, the people who had popped up after they had freed a crosspoint from everything but normal. He finds himself thinking that as the sun has long gone and he’s wandering those lines of tents. It isn’t Haven; it’s not a sea of navy and green greeting that bejewelled sky, torn still asunder by magic he knows he will never understand. Yet, the glow of the camp isn’t green - rather, it’s a rich glow of campfires, which leads him through; instead, he’s trying to cut through all of the bustle to see if any rations are left. He finds himself thinking about it again as he tries to cut past someone and ends up being pushed aside, an unfortunate side effect of his size. It’s not fine, but he chalks it up to the rush of refugees and people wanting to eat. 

Nothing about this is acceptable or normal; he decides as he settles next to someone he doesn’t know; the man shoots him a look, tending to the fire. Varric rolls a shoulder at him, at the situation if he is honest, but before he’s able to state something clever, something that could be smarmy enough to make even the Herald laugh, across from him, and between Cassandra and Solas - but instead, someone runs into his shoulder, more refugees, a never-ending sea. It reminds him of Kirkwall - but worse. Somehow, it’s worse here. It's the coldest winter on record, the sky split in two, and somehow, he’s in the middle of it ( bad idea ). People, of all kinds, now clamouring at him at a fire rather than at a bar or in the middle of a square. Solas attempts something brilliant, trying to get up and out of the way. Varric attempts the same. None of them are able to really move; there’s a line of people asking for food. So, he’s given pause listening to the people and the agents argue over rations. Cassandra makes some noise and some comment about how a delivery was delayed. She also somehow excuses herself, a path forming as she states she will talk to the requisitions officer.  

They’re short on food in the worst winter on record.

It makes Darktown look habitable. 

He’s passed a child somehow. It pulls a laugh from Solas, a laugh that is silenced by the back of his hand and sweater when Varric shoots him a look ( Varric bites back a laugh when the same thing happens to him ). It’s just a kid, a hungry kid. He remembers Merrill telling a story about how Lowtown always would want, but a lot of folks would be damned before letting a kid go hungry. So he pulls his pack to his feet and digs through it - it’s dried fruit and bread, but it’s handed over. “Go, take it.” The kid does, shooting off the log and into the night before he can even expect a thank you. The same thing happens with Solas; he hands over something and then excuses himself once the child darts away, and his pack goes with him. “Well, that’s one less mouth to feed.” One of hundreds, maybe more. 

Ferelden is dense. 

And they had people and time.

And he, unfortunately, had a plan, well sort of - it’s a memory, Hawke, Merrill, Isabela, and himself, trouble waiting to happen was what Aveline called them, had been in Lowtown one night and stopped something and inadvertently caused a brawl. Well, it knocked over a food cart and solved the issue they had been trying to fix. Kids suddenly could eat, and the vendor couldn’t hike prices either; Isabela and Hawke had lifted the man high into the air and paraded him around like he was the very thing they were all after. There would be a few modifications - there isn’t a food cart he can knock over - that would be the quickest fix, but…

But…he hasn’t pulled the arms off of Bianca yet or taken the knife out of his pack, and there is nothing but ram up and down these hills, as one of the new scouts had told them ( Harding, he thinks ). They had done it during the day, but it wasn’t enough -it never is, he lands on, sighing. “Lots of people will be cold and hungry if we don’t get our shipments,” Varric states out loud, eyes still trained on the rations cart. “Say…Herald, Sidri - Sid.” He corrects, he shortens - nicknames and all. 

He knows people can get up in the trees; it’s just going to take a team to get the meat, and he’s actually willing. Trees and buildings - how different can they be? “Do you think I could borrow some of your scouts? Maybe we can help with this ration problem.” We - him included, well - when in Ferelden, he guesses. “Maybe that Harding girl, she knows the area.”

THE INQUISITOR (“what are you doing?” someone asked. she turned, and replied, “waiting for her.”) & THE HERO OF FERELDEN.

Perhaps it would have been smarter to run anyway. Although Harlan has seen the competency of the members of the Inquisition, he has no doubts he could slip away one way or another, but the thought, in the moment, seemed too troublesome to pursue. At the end of the day, all he really wishes for is peace, and if a castle filled with spies, murderers and diplomats is what gives him some semblance of it, he's not one to complain, even if his current idleness makes him feel a little restless — and certainly watched.

So he moves down those winding stairs and towards the nearly evergreen moor, one even in the thick of winter would be verdant and warm for training and tourney. Something that had been lingering magic, according to a friend — a man who watched his six — Varric had laughed, laughed until the first snow fell long and hard, and the canopy of green in that training yard remained, a reminder whispered by a friend that not all was what it seemed. Pack shifts under one of his hands, and he does his best to shake that thought aside, rather to focus on weight anew in Bianca, new arms and new counterweights on her pins, but that aforementioned training ground is not empty. 

It is not populated by Templars, nor mages that have joined over the months, if not more. Rather, it is the Inquisitor rather he pauses before that near threshold of a training ground and head tilts to watch, it has not been long since that trek out of Haven, not long since set bones and shared stories, but he pauses watching her. It is knives that he is used to seeing. Daggers are dangerous and in a pair, something he had watched plunge deep before into a dummy, a Templar, or even someone else attacking them; yet this time, it is stern shoulders, tightly held as a breath is drawn in. That breath is not like one of a charging soldier; rather, he knows it well, from taking a form years ago and people long gone, like a prince lost to a principality. Rather, he lets form follow through, and rather than a knife being drawn, it’s a bow being brought into position. So he whistles, low and not at the Inquisitor, rather at Sidri, more at everything rather than the stance. 

“Is there anything you can’t do? Let me know now, that way I can be ahead of editing the tall tales I’ll cook up.” It’s stated with a chuckle, his pack coming down against one of the bushels. Bianca is next, more against his leg than on the ground, but all of this is more amusing than anything. 

“You didn’t tell me you could shoot, Sid.” That’s punctuated with informality, much more like him and with a raised brow. Then again, everyone and everything, himself included, seemed to be keeping close to the chest. Even still, he goads again, this time, one foot into that practice field. What else was unknown, still something that had not come up between missions and evenings, walks and the in between, but he cannot help but wonder what else, even if that may not be his story to tell or the one to earn. Instead, his eyes are drawn to her and thoughts are shaken aside with a laugh, an excuse with it. “Can you use a short sword too?”

He sneaks in.

He usually does, soft soles on the stairwell when everyone else has given into the nature of sleep. There are some other things that come with this sneaking, a few things to add to his piles of paperwork joining hers, the remarkable intermingling of their lives - even during the most uncertain and complicated times. A step squeaks under his boot, and the door ahead peeks open, and he catches the first glance of her. Dark eyes catch his, and a smirk is quick to work across his features, nearly smarmier than usual. They don't get to do this often; she's far too busy, and he’s busy but in a different way.

“Waiting on me?” He asks, only taking one step. She doesn’t move from peeking behind that door, eyes pools of a dark mystery, a part of the sky speckled with stars. Perhaps, that's where he had first found those stars that he had pulled low.

“No, I was waiting on some other beardless dwarf.” She jests, wounding him, and he flourishes a hand across his chest as if to show off said wounds 

“Now, Inquisitor,” he teases, taking another step up towards her, another foot towards that ever-piercing gaze that shot through him in the most mystifying ways. “People may take it the wrong way if you say it like that.” 

This was not the intention; he just wanted to spend a few hours working before falling into a dreamless and restful sleep beside her. Alas, he is teasing her, and she laughs and looks at him; it is incredibly fond. She’s an easy distraction, pulling the door open further. He moves up another stair and another before she leans over, and one of her hands twists into the lapel of his tunic, nearly gliding over bare skin. It is not much of a kiss to start as she leans low to press her forehead to his, and he leans further up and brushes his lips against hers chastely until she leans further down, that hand no longer in the collar of that red tunic, but rather it has found the sacred space that is wholly hers. He takes one more step to kiss her properly when her hand finds his heartbeat. She tastes like mulled wine and something sweet, and he nearly caves then and there - pushing her back into her room and the paperwork be damned. 

But she fixes the collar of his shirt and pecks his lips sweetly, and he swallows, the dark thoughts that follow are swallowed down with them. “I knew you missed me.” He manages to strangle out, and she tugs on his tunic and, by extension, him up the last stair or so, and he laughs as she does it.

“Never.” It is punctuated with a laugh, her clear laugh that draws him out of anything. He has snuck up here to work alongside her, not tempt the both of them. Well, there was always a glimmer of hope for temptation, nearly. Her fingers have left his collar, but they have found his hand - her hand sliding against his calloused palm, and they fit together perfectly. “Was it dull here without me?”

“Oh just, Sparkler and Chuckles, as always, arguing over who's more right.” The same as always, one Friday, he had wandered in after the sun had dipped low and had found the pair nearly at each other's throats for some reason or another, and they had both turned on him like Wild Mabari. “I should have gone with you; this one was - rough.” 

“Was it the same fight as it always is?” Over Solas’s clothes, Dorian’s magic, thoughts on apostates, and even better thoughts on Tevinter. Sid’s hand slides through his as she lets her fingers go slack against his and makes her way towards her desk, overcrowded with a litany of things. She decants something over by her desk, and he dumps his things on the settee and the end table he's claimed as his own on nights like these. “Red, okay?”

“I cut in at the end of it; I don't know what started it,” He takes a second to shuffle through his books, “That sounds…wonderful, actually.” He’s not a wine drinker; he has never been and only drinks it when she offers, as she normally gets the best stuff, normally. 

She pours two glasses, and he makes quick work of feeding her fireplace and rekindling it back to life. She pushes the topic further, pressing a wine glass into his hand as she does it. “As much as you hated breaking up that fight, you would have hated what we did more.” 

“Bastien? Is he?” She swirls the glass; it is enough of an answer. Varric’s features soften, “Shit, is she…?” 

“No, and I told her to stay with her family, to get things in order…” So the Iron Lady remains now behind in Orlais, romance leading to despair, timeless love leading to heartache. Varric doesn't swirl his glass; instead, he tips it back in a long sip, draining most of it. “She should be there, and with them.” War makes it hard to mourn; it may be the only time someone is allotted space in full, but Sidri has always allowed them their rights in grief.

“To take the time she needs, yeah.” He states watching the fire pop for a moment. Sidri takes a sip of her glass, mindful and her free hand finds his shoulder. It settles there, as if designed, but all of this has been a great struggle and choice for all of them. The words cool over them, and he dives back into the fight between Dorian and Solas, stating that one is stuck in the past and the other is too focused on a too-far-off future. It finally pulls a laugh from Sidri, after their far too serious conversation. He half kicks himself for not going with her, something that half tumbles out of him when she's made it back to her desk, and he's taken up post at the settee with glasses perched at the end of his nose. 

“I should have gone with you.” It is inelegant, but he's learned over these months that words of finery get him everywhere, but when he needs to be direct with her, he much prefers being direct with her. 

“No, Varric,” She mollifies with some blanket now pulled around her shoulders as well. “You hate Orlais, and you even told me privately you didn't want undue attention.” Correct, his editors and publishers had kept his fame in Orlais tightly under wraps; when it came to light, he had requested some time away that was granted with ease.

“And, I think we made the right call with the party.” 

He takes a beat to reply, remembering the grouping. “You, the Iron Lady, Tiny, and the Seeker - that is an impressive team,” Varric states, looking up over a Kirkwall ledger.

“Harding took Vivienne’s position when she stayed behind, I didn't think Lace would be able to keep up with Cassandra and Bull, but she held her own,” Sidri states; he can hear the smile in her voice, the pride almost. “You know, she told Bull he could throw her.” 

He shuffles his papers and collects his thoughts, good that Harding was fine with being tossed, but not him. “She is from Ferelden, dearest. I do not need to be thrown.” He’s also forty-some-odd years old at this point. Hawke had also done it once. Varric remembers being drunk, and it did not end well for any of them, especially him and his poor back. “She should rotate onto a strike team; she's a ball of energy.” 

“I’ve offered, she likes scouting - said she feels like she's doing something to help people.” Sidri offers additional details about how she's offered her a team and autonomy; Varric shrugs, and his pen follows his mind and the steady beat of her words. She continues on, landing somewhere in between just placing her on a team, even if it wasn't her team. 

“Stick her on my Hinterland’s team next month; that’ll be a test.” She laughs at that comment of his. They didn't always divvy up into smaller teams, but when they did, he was generally assigned to the Hinterlands, which he was thankful for. He also had acquired the reputation of being devious. People would sign up thinking he wouldn't care. Well, surprise - he did care very much. The conversation lulls again; there are glances and smiles. He gets up at least once and moves beside her, dipping low to peck her lips before refilling her glass and then his own. Moments like these are not promised, and he leans down to kiss her one more time; the taste of wine is still fresh on her lips, and he kisses her again until all he can taste is her. 

“Varric?” She's still seated, but she's pivoted the chair and all but pulled him to her. His work has been forgotten on the other side of the room, and the pen he bought her in Val Royeaux on their first trip to Orlais has been discarded on her desk. He hums at her rather than replying. He's retreated as much as she's allowed. However, he can still feel her breath on his face and the way the firelight catches the dark colour of her eyes, showing the glimmer of starlight within, casting long shadows across her face and mixing several emotions into one. “Promise me something?”

She aches for a friend - for more than that, a sister. She aches, and she's below him, looking up with pleading eyes. He doesn't recognise his voice for a moment as it is low and lost nearly to the crown of her head, “Name it, dearest.” He oft falls back to the eponym gifted when he intentionally did not strike a comma, when she flipped his words and his heart in a swift go. She's on her feet as it leaves his mouth, curling against him, her forehead low and close like that night in the Hinterlands, and he's reminded why he scaled that tree and carved their initials there. 

“Never to bore me.” 

He laughs. He knows why she says it. They've talked about the past, him more than her - but his has come out in a wild streak blazing across his sky, and the anger that came with that night with Bianca in that Thaig had been blinding and rueful, his relationship with the smith up until that point had been considered knotted and complicated, she had seen through that by holding his hand at a fire as he burned what little he had left and wove together a promise of no more secrets, if that had bored her - he doubts Kirkwall will. It did not mean he didn't know what had been intended for her, a Chantry marriage, to some titled Templar with a house only for her to tend. 

Sidri Trevelyan deserved more than to be some housewife, much like he deserved more than to be some footnote ( she had once told him ). So he promises, not with his words first, but rather he leans up and kisses the underside of her jaw, gently drawing a line down her neck, until fabric meets him. He does not move it aside, even though he desires to; rather, he sighs against her, agreeing silently to never bore her. The words eke their way out of him, as her nails graze his scalp, likely pushing much too long and greying hair out of the way. 

“I promise.” It’s breathier than intended, but her hand is running through his hair, pulling it loose and letting it fall free. She's one of the few who have seen him so bare; even if he was acting properly, she's one of the few who has made him lower his voice and think. She told him once there was very little he could ask for that she would not grant; he knows this, as she has done so much already without an ask. He's allowed to ask for things, but the words dry like ink on a page. The words are like ice melting in the sun; it would be easier to write them down, but her hands are against the plain of his back, and he can feel her heartbeat against his. So he asks, smothering the crack in his voice, “Sid, promise me something.” They are whispered against her neck, just for her, as if he's confessing somewhere holy, she is - not in the way they see her, they loft her - no, she's holy in a way that makes him laugh at her jokes, how she doesn't mind country dances, how she braids any little girl’s hair who asks her, and how she has ensnared his heart and soul. 

“Name it.” Her words are low for him, and they assure him that whatever he states will be met with exactly what he needs. He has seen her move a mountain, and he has seen her do the impossible. 

He wants to see her live.

He knows the words he wants to say are impossible, so he's careful. “Promise.” He pauses, nearly tripping over those words as - they will hurt each other. One day, all time runs out, so he moves with intention, cooling cups of tea and paperwork that was never a date. “Promise to never hurt me, intentionally.” It’s tacked on, like he knows, like he already knows she never will. 

Her words don't come immediately, as her hands are on his face, forcing him to meet that gaze. He can see the ghost of the words on her lips, and he kisses them. She promises him between each breath, and he doesn't care that they are supposed to be working; life is short. “I promise, " she states again, against his scruffy cheeks as he lifts her into his arms, as if he cannot be without her for another moment.