Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I think all Anders ships are actually chaotic and evil but within that spectrum i made this. Aveline x Anders wouldâve gone in the neutral evil slot but I think Carver (specifically templar) deserves it more tbh.
Handersâ spot could really be anywhere on this chart, but i put it in lawful neutral because itâs the only one that can be made canon
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
âDo you believe Iâm the Herald?â
Slowly, carefully, Varric lays down his quill.
[AO3]
Tags: Inquisitor!Anders AU. Varric POV. Vanders. Religious themes. UST. Men exhibiting various behaviors.
Title from Baby One More Time by famed 20th century poet Britney Spears.
Word count: 3267
-
âGood, youâre awake.â
Varric looks up from the paper as Anders approaches, stops directly in front of him, just the low table between them. His hair is loose, clean but clearly slept in. It falls in his face, pools a little at his shoulders, casts funny shadows against his features even as it catches the red-orange of the firelight at the same time.
His eyes are bright. Not quite wild, but getting there. Itâs nostalgic in a way that Varric really does not like. Keeps him bound up and tight, waiting for danger, for bad news.
âSomething I can do for you, Inquisitor?â
Anders opens his mouth, closes it again. Varric thinks that it throws him off sometimes, being addressed by the title. It's part of the reason he keeps using it.
âWhat are you writing?â
âItâs-â
âDo you believe Iâm the Herald?â
Slowly, carefully, Varric lays down his quill.
âI mightâve heard something about that.â
âThatâs not-â he sounds frustrated, then seems to swallow it, âIâm not asking what other people are saying, Varric, Iâm asking you. Do you believe Iâm Andrasteâs Herald?â
Varric canât begin to explain how little he wants to answer that question.
âAnders-â
âDonât dodge the question, just answer.â
âYouâre really putting me on the spot here. I mean, itâs kind of an awkward question to just-â
âVarric.â
He should just lie. He lies all the time. Itâs easy for him, like writing, like breathing. Thereâs no benefit, that he can see, to telling the truth here.
He wonders why he isnât lying, even as the words are coming out of his mouth, he wonders what in the world is compelling him to be honest.
âYes?â
Anders blinks slowly, as if he canât believe what Varricâs saying either.
âAh, maybe. Probably.â He sighs, shifts in his seat. He feels terribly⌠watched. As there are a lot more eyes on him than there really are. Why isnât he lying? âI mean, shit. Either youâre the Herald or you have impossibly bad luck.â
Anders gives a short, skeptical, humorless laugh.
âWhat? Think about it. After everything that happened in Kirkwall, everything that happened before Kirkwall, you end up at the Conclave, you survive the Breach, an Archdemon, Corypheus, for a second time, youâve got that fucking thing in your ha-â
âSo thatâs your argument? I must be Her Herald, because itâs not reasonable for me to be this unlucky otherwise?â
âYeah, yeah I guess thatâs what Iâm saying.â
His expression is unreadable, the lighting makes his eyes seem unusually dark, and it makes Varric want to squirm. Crawl out of his skin. Run a mile. Something.
After a moment, Anders pulls a nearby chair closer, then falls into it heavily. He sits loosely, leaning back with his hands joined behind his head, knees open. He doesnât say anything, but looks at the tabletop between them, thinking.Â
Itâs like Varric isnât even there.
He picks his quill back up, but he doesnât do anything with it. Just watches Anders watch the table. It reminds him of the old days, the two of them across the table from each other, not talking, deep in separate thoughts.Â
Except the Hanged Man was always loud, even upstairs you could always hear people, always feel them nearby. Took a lot of the pressure off of one-on-one conversations and non-conversations alike. The great main hall of Skyhold, in comparison, is dead quiet, empty except for the two of them and the wooden scaffolding, and thousands of pounds of rock. Stone hewn straight from the mountain it sits on
Varric swallows. The stuff that Skyhold is built of is old. Really, really old. He pretends he doesnât notice, canât feel it, but he does. It's like a humming, almost, but silent. A noise that isn't a noise. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, fills him up with restless energy and makes him want to pace, to press his hands against the stone walls or- or, to lick them or something. Fuck if he knows. Itâs weird for his stone sense to bug him like this. Practically unheard of. Other dwarves got the itch, the feelings you just canât shake, the Call of the Stone, but not Varric. He figured that, because he grew up on the surface, because he wasnât religious in the dwarven sense, he never would. And now he doesnât know what to do with it, how to cope, how to make it stop.
Andersâ shirt hangs loose in the front, open enough that Varric can see the scar low down on his ribcage. The length and width of a broadsword blade, it parts him down the middle, carves his body into a symmetrical right and left half. Varricâs seen the matching exit wound on his back. Itâs higher up, closer to his shoulders. Evidence of the bladeâs angle, that the blow started low and was then thrust upwards into him, scrambling his organs, barely missing his spine.
It always makes Varric feel a little sick, if he thinks about it too long, and he tries not to, tries to keep his eyes up but they keep getting drawn back down to that thick, faded line of scar tissue. Itâs not something youâre supposed to survive, being cut open like that, split nearly in half. Anders shouldnât have made it long enough to tell him about it, shouldnât have lived long enough even to see the wound close, let alone heal and scar.
Anders has a lot of stories like that. Things he shouldnât have survived. Sure deaths that could be prevented only by a miracle. But he did survive them, every single one, and here he is, alive and warm and breathing, eyes bright as he watches the fire, hair disheveled and falling in his face. Varric wants that to mean nothing, wants all of it to just be a- a funny series of coincidences. But deep down, he just canât convince himself of it.Â
Anders drops his hands into his lap, turns his head from the fire to Varric. He looks tired.
âI didnât let you finish,â he says, softly, âwhat are you writing?â
âIâm not, itâs paperwork.â
âYours or the Inquisitionâs?â
âMine. Ruffles is doing all that other stuff.â
Anders hums, leans foreward to put his elbows on the table, chin resting on one hand.
âRight,â he says, then sighs, âI suppose I shouldâve known that.â
âBig organizations have learning curves, especially if youâve never actually been part of one. Youâll get there.â
âIt does change everything, doesnât it?â
âWhat does?â
âMe being- everything that happened before, who I was, what I did in Kirkwall, it means something different now. If Iâm the Herald, that changes everything.â
âI mean, not everything.â
âA lot, though.â
âIt does change a lot.â
Anders heaves a big sigh, runs both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face, holding it there behind his head.
âYou want a tie?â
âIâm fine,â he says, dropping his hands and letting his hair fall loose against the back of his neck, his shoulders. Itâs longer than it was in Kirkwall, Varric wonders if that was intentional or just something that just happened, because he forgot to keep up with it, ânow what?â
âFor you?â
âYeah. What do I do now?â
It seems like a genuine question. Like if Varric told him what to do, right now, Anders would actually do it.
Varric throws his hands up, lets them fall heavily back into his lap.
âFuck if I know. Anders, I donât even know what Iâm doing still here.â Deep breath. âI never, I mean I never officially joined the Inquisition. I donât know how to do this⌠disciplehood thing. Iâm a businessman, Iâve never really followed a chosen one before.â
He meant it to be⌠comforting, almost. Camraderie-building. You and me, Anders, weâre in the same boat. Out of our element, figuring it out as we go. But Anders just stares at him for a moment, expression blank, eyes slightly wide, as if Varric had just reached out and smacked him.
âDisciplehood,â he says, as if heâs choking on it, âMaker, Varric.â
âWhat?â
âIs anyone- no one else is calling it that. Varric, I havenât heard anyone else- are people saying that?â
âThat theyâre disciples?âÂ
Anders nods.Â
âI mean, no.â Varric admits, âNot in those exact words, but that is whatâs going on, isnât it? I donât think thereâs any other word for that.â
And he knows a lot of words. And heâs tried on a lot of them, but none of them seem to really fit and thatâs- thatâs the one he keeps coming back to. Maybe Anders is right, maybe thatâs not what it is for anyone else. But its starting to feel like it has to be that way for him. If heâs really going to do it, really going to join the Inquisition, really going to commit then, wellâŚ
And he is committed, now. The letter went out this morning, Mal should get it within the week. Should be back in Ferelden less than a week after that, assuming she is where he thinks she is. The fact that he even considered bringing her into this is a mark of, something. Something more than he's usually willing to give. The fact that he actually told her to come and that she will actually likely be here in two weeks' time isâŚ
He hopes heâs doing the right thing. Fuck. He hopes that heâs not making a mistake with this one. That he isnât in over his head. Because this isnât something he can backtrack, something he can escape easily. Once you say that someone is divinely touched, the very first time you follow along with them on that basis, put the lives of people that trust you in their hands on that basisâŚthereâs no taking that back.
âI wasnât expecting this from you.â Anders says, quiet and serious, eyes on the table, âThatâs why- I was just laying upstairs, I was trying to sleep and it just hit me all of a sudden. I believe it. I actually believe it. I mean I still donât- I still donât remember anything, but I believe that- that itâs possible. That that could really be what happened. That Iâm- and thatâs why I came here. I needed to be talked down or- or something. To be told I wasnât that special,â he laughs a little, in a half-hysterical way that Varric wishes wasnât so familiar, âand I figured⌠I figured that if anyone was going to do that it would be you. You were always good at talking me down, you- I thought Iâd come here and ask you and youâd say âno, no. Really Anders, Andrasteâs Herald? You? Be serious.ââ
He looks up.
âBut you believe it. You think it too.â
Itâs not a question. Varricâs mouth is dry when he swallows. He goes over a couple of responses in his head, dismisses most of them, settles on his fifth choice. Itâs the most dismissive, itâs barely even a response at all, but itâs also the least⌠earnest, choice. The least incriminating.
âWas that voice supposed to be me?â
âIt was.â
âAnders, that was terrible.â
Nothing for a second, a beat, then Andersâ face splits into a closed-mouth grin, like flesh parting under a blade, like something soft making room for something sharp.
âSorry,â he says, sarcastic, almost fond, âItâs been a while, Iâm out of practice.â
His eyes crease around the edges when he smiles. They always did that, but itâs more pronounced now that heâs older. The lines are deeper.
He wonders if it was like this with Andraste. If the people traveling and fighting with her ever looked over and thought- and had it hit them how human she was. How flesh and nature her body is. If they ever thought: here is fire in too small of a bottle. In his mindâs eye he imagines Ealisay or Brona, Maferath even, sitting by the saviorâs side and looking over and thinking: this is a woman. I have known her for many years. Mortal years. I see the places on her face where she is aging, I remember when they were young.
Maybe it wasnât as hard for them as it is for him. Because they doubted less or, because She had never done something so big it couldnât be fully forgiven. Maybe the weight of history did not hang so heavy on them.
Then again, Maferath clearly had his opinions.
âYou should go back to bed,â he says, in the same nudging, coaxing, quiet voice he used to use on him back in Kirkwall, when he would keep himself up late into the night or for days at a time. Head too full of the nightmares he never talked about, or else his whole body too full of light and sparks and frantic energy for him to rest, âitâs been a long couple of days.â
Anders makes an odd face. Varric supposes you could call it smiling.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
Varric has always suspected that heâs maybe not quite as subtle as he thinks he is, but he hates being reminded of it nonetheless. He wonders if Anders ever resented it, his poking and prodding and mother-henning. The sideways manipulations. He never said anything, and Anders has historically been the sort to not keep quiet if he felt condescended to, but that's no guarantee of anything. There were other factors involved, things that would understandably affect what Anders would and would not say. Money, to pick one example. And-
Varric shakes his head. The only way to know would be to ask. And he doesn't intend on asking.
Anders sighs deeply, like he's about to stand, and Varric, assuming that's the end of it, reaches again for his quill. There's a relief, in knowing the conversation is over now. That it will just fade out of both their memories, at least in a functional sense, and they'll never speak of it again. Just like so many other late-night conversations that came before.
"I missed you."
The pointed tip of his quill punches straight through the cheap parchment, splitting the numbers beneath it.
"What?"
"I missed you," he says, and it's just as baffling to hear the second time.
Varric realizes that he was hoping that Anders would say something different, if Varric made him repeat himself. And the look on Anders' face suggests that he can tell.
 "I know how it sounds but, in a way, I'm glad that things worked out the way they did. The idea that we would never see each other again it⌠weighed on me."
âWeighed on you.â
âIt made me sad.â
Varric doesnât know what to say to that. He feels like heâs losing control of the situation, like heâs standing on uneven ground. What do you say to someone who you only half-believe to be a prophet? What do you say to someone who canât be forgiven, when he says that he missed card nights in your room? What do you say to fire in too small of a bottle?
What does it say about Varric that he almost said it back?
Itâs all just so absurd. He wishes that Anders had chosen to say nothing at all, and left him out of it. Kept it to himself. He wishes Anders hadnât forced him to think.
âMaybe Iâm pushing my luck here,â Anders says, âmaybe this isnât fair for me to ask but- I donât need disciples, Varric.âÂ
(Donât say it, Varric thinks, please donât say it.)Â
âBut I could use a friend.â
Varric is losing control of the situation. He is in over his head. Maker-sent, god-touched, herald, thatâs one thing. Friend is quite another.
And what does it say about him that he can half-believe both, but only the second one is hard to say? That only one of them makes him ashamed, makes him feel guilty? That heâs so much more disappointed in himself for one than the other?Â
Andersâ hand rests on the table, palm-up, long fingers slightly curled in a way thatâs almost inviting. He doubts that Anders had done it on purpose, but that doesnât change the fact that his instinct is to reach across the table and grab it. Squeeze his fingers tight until it almost hurts them both and say of course, of course weâre friends. Blondie, when have we never not been friends?
Because thatâs what he wouldâve done in the old days. Because for reasons he doesnât understand and doesnât think heâd like about himself if he did, some part of him really wants to just forget. That it all happened, that it was real, that heâs angry for a reason. If he doesnât remind himself not too, he forgets, his head slips back into the good years and stays there. If he doesnât constantly remind himself, it all just slips away.
He stares at the open palm in front of him, the small pale scars and the calluses. It would be easier to forget. To stop fighting his instincts and let it happen. He resents Mal, for half a second. Resents that spending all these years with her has forced him to think about what is right, and not just what is easy. What he doesnât have to repress or handwave to be able to live with.
The Inquisitorâs hand closes.
âNevermind,â he says, âno hard feelings.â
He stands, looks almost embarrassed.
âGoodnight, Varric.â
âGoodnight.â
Anders leaves him, finally, and for some time after heâs out of sight Varric just stares vaguely in the direction he walked off in. Heâd say he was thinking but the truth is, thereâs not a single thought in his head. All empty, dark, ringing with the non-sound of ages-old mountain rock.
He tries to finish his paperwork and fails. Heâs tired, and the words bleed together, the figures melt into meaningless piles of numbers. He forces himself to bed eventually, tosses and turns there for a while because, despite the ache in his eyes and the heaviness of his limbs, he just canât get comfortable.
And then, right before finally drifting off, he has what he can only describe as an epiphany. A moment of wild clarity.
And because heâs a much more polite man than Anders is, he decides that it can wait until morning.
                                                    *
âIâm your friend, and Iâm in this with you for as long as it takes to finish it. All in, one hundred percent,â he takes a deep breath, âand I donât forgive you. And I never will.â
Anders sort of⌠relaxes. He honestly seems more relieved by the addendum than the original statement.Â
Varric is never going to understand how his head works.
âThatâs good to hear.â
For you maybe, he thinks, but he doesnât say it.
Hawkeâs coming, he thinks, but he doesnât say that either.
Heâll tell Cassandra first. Get that out of the way and Maker knows sheâll tell Anders for him. Two nugs with one stone.
âNow if youâll excuse me, Inquisitor, I have to go give the Seeker some bad news.â
Anders raises a wary eyebrow at him. He looks more put together now, a little tired, but very sheveled. Fully dressed, for one thing, hair pulled back and up, features catching the sunlight and casting a completely different set of shadows than they were by the fire.
Different and the same.
âBad how?â
Varric grimaces.
âI mean she isnât going to be very happy about it.â