#veilbound

“This isn’t something you can say no to,” he stood from where they had been sitting together in front of his fireplace, “The rest of the Warden forces will be needed to hold back the hordes of ‘spawn. I will be the one who can get closest to the Archdemon… It is the duty of a Grey Warden to end the Blight, no matter the cost.”

She got to her feet to try and meet his gaze, despite the height difference, “What about Tabris?”

“What about Tabris?”

“She survived,” she pointed out.

He folded his arms across his chest, “The reports from that day are hazy at best. She may be praised as the slayer of the Archdemon, but there is no possible way that she could have made the killing blow. It must have been Riordan.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you,” his tone turned hard, glancing into the fire for a few moments before he let out a drawn-out sigh, “Eva, you need to accept this.”

“I won’t.”

“You must,” he looked back to her, taking hold of her hands, “What is the cost of one life compared to the horrors that we face?”

“Not when it is your life. You would not stand by and let me do the same.”

“I know,” he said quietly, “And I am sorry to put you through this.”

“Then don’t. Let someone else do it.”

“Eva…”

“I don’t care,” she harshly sniffed back against her tears, letting out a hard, harsh laugh, “I made my peace with the shortened lifespan, and the fact that we wouldn’t be able to have kids, because we could build a life after this was over, make the most of the years we had left… and now you’re telling me that that time will be less than a few days?”

“I wish we had more time, but no matter my feelings, no matter how much I love you, I have to do this. Without the Archdemon, the Evanuris will be vulnerable. It’s the only way to end this.”

She let her hands slip from his, shaking her head to herself, “If your life means so fucking little to you, perhaps it’s best I make the break now, save you the trouble of breaking my heart.”

“Eva please,” he reached for her, but she pulled away, crossing the room in a matter of strides and slamming the door closed behind her on the way out.

In her own quarters, a feminine figure awaited her.

“Do not be alarmed, it is only I. And before you tell me to leave, know that I have a plan.”

*~*~*

“I can save you.”

He jolted at the sound of her voice, not having heard her enter. His darling rogue was forever light on her feet, and even if she had not been, he had been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he likely would not have heard her even if she had danced into the room with bells around her ankles.

He rose to creep her, but a gentle hand on his chest guided him back into his seat in front of the fireplace, her perching herself in his lap. He relished in the familiar weight of her body against his, taking in the sight of her bathed in the warm firelight.

The anger was gone from her gaze, her tears long shed, instead her fingers traced slowly along the lines of his face as though taking in every detail of him.

“Vhenan, you-”

“Please, my love, just listen to me,” she said, “I am sorry for how I reacted earlier. I know your duty, it is one of the reasons I love you; your loyalty, your dedication. But it doesn’t have to end like this, there’s another way. So that no one has to die.”

He frowned, “What are you talking about?”

“Tabris is hailed as the one who killed the Archdemon, because she did. She performed the killing blow and survived.”

He shook his head, “That’s not possible.”

“It is when one of your closest friends is a Witch of the Wilds,” she said.

“What are you saying?”

“Morrigan came to see me, to tell me what no one else outside of Tabris’ inner circle knows. A ritual was performed, before the battle in Denerim, and it allowed for the Old God’s soul to pass into another being without destroying it or the host.”

His eyes widened, “Why does no one know this?”

“Because it’s old magic, some might call it blood magic,” she told him, “And it… it requires the involvement of someone untainted.”

“You.”

“Yes.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to take in all of the information, “And let’s say that this was even possible, and I could even consider being involved… would it harm you?”

“No. There would be some… changes, but I would live, and so would you, or whatever Warden felled the dragon.”

He met her eyes, unconvinced, “You think you could absorb the soul of an Old God and it would just cause some changes?”

“Well, It wouldn’t be me absorbing it, it would be,” her fingers brushed instinctively over her abdomen.

Panic lanced through him, “Eva, are you-?”

“No!” she protested quickly, before she relented, “Not… not-“

He cocked his head at her, “Not yet? Is that what you were going to say?”

“Just let me explain.”

“A babe would absorb the soul? That’s the plan?”

“That how it worked last time.”

He let out a hard breath, “Kieran… I knew I sensed something about him.”

“That is how Tabris was able to live,” she said, “Morrigan was pregnant with him when the Archdemon was slain, and he absorbed the soul, was born with it. He was fathered by a Warden, Morrigan’s magic bypassed the sterility.”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating, eyes fixated on the flames.

“Davrin,” she said softly, “Please say something.”

He glanced to meet her eyes, “I’m not saying yes, but if we go through with this, and it works, you’ll be pregnant.”

“I’m not asking anything from you, Dav. If being a father isn’t what you want, I won’t hold it against you.”

“And leave you to raise a babe alone?” he sighed, “But is that even what you want? Beyond a measure to save my life?”

“I never thought I’d want it,” she admitted, “I was determined not to want it, thought that if I ever came to be with child it would have been unplanned and unwanted. And when you told me that being a Warden made you sterile, I made my peace with it, it made a decision that I had very complicated feelings about very easy. But then Morrigan offered me this, and… it’s got me thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“About a little babe,” she said, “With this mix of your features and mine, they’d have my eyes, and your ears, and I would sing them the songs my mother sang to me, and you would tell them stories of the Dalish, and we would be run ragged trying to stop them yanking Assan’s tail and feeding him leftovers. You would be such a patient and good father, and I would be so shit at discipline, and the kid would probably have all of my flaws, and you’ll be at the end of your tether with us both. It would hard, and messy, but it would be ours. And yes, maybe this is ill advised, to be committing to a child of all things when we have barely had a chance to be together, and maybe we do this and the world ends anyway because I can’t convince the currently non-rampaging elven god to chill his shit and not tear down the Veil, but whatever life after all this looks like… I choose a future with you.”

He took her face in his hands, kissing her hard. She moaned softly in surprise against his mouth as he pulled her closer against him.

Oh okay, she thought to herself, letting herself get wrapped up in his embrace, the pair of them tumbling out of the chair onto the rug in front of the fire.

*~*~*

They lay together in a tangle of limbs a while later, clothes abandoned somewhere in their haste. She had begun to doze off when she felt his hand move to rest against her stomach.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

She cracked her eyes open to look at him, finding him watching her with concern, a furrow to his brow.

“Well, it won’t if we keep trying before Morrigan does her ritual,” she pointed out before she brought her fingers to brush against the back of his hand, “Which part are you worried about?”

“All of it,” he said, “If it doesn’t take, and the ritual can’t work… or if it does take but the ritual still doesn’t work, or hells if I die before I even get a chance to kill the damn thing. It is a little harder to face my death thinking of you alone with a babe.”

She shrugged a little, “Then you’ll just have to come home to me, no matter what.”

He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that bubbled out of him, “Just like that?”

She nodded, “Just like that.”

“Home… I’m not sure either of us know where that is anymore.”

“It’s with each other. Wherever it leads when this is done, as long as we’re together.”

He sighed, “It’s late, I think we both need some rest, don’t you?”

He slid from his chair to take the weapon from her hands, but she held tight, staring down at him with barely concealed… anger, confusion, perhaps even desperation, he noted.

She turned the crossbow in her grasp so that he could see the name he’d carved into the side of it.

Marian.

“What does this mean?” she asked, her voice quieter now, and he can feel the warmth of her skin as they both hold the weapon.

“Well, it’s your name, Blackbird,” he said with a tone just a smidge too casual that she relented in frustration, thrusting it hard into his arms.

“All these years and you still can’t be honest with me?”

He heard the edge of tears in the back of her throat, and he almost turned his head away in shame, but urged himself to keep his walls up, as he always had.

“Wasn’t sure Bianca Two had the same ring to it,” he said with a half sighed laugh, but she didn’t smile.

“Why my name?” she asked.

“You’re my best friend,” he told her.

“Bianca wasn’t.”

“She designed the last one,” he pointed out.

“And what input did I have on that contraption?” she challenged.

Everything, he thinks. The entire weapon was inspired by her, the deep red wood it’s crafted from, the Fereldan silverite detailing, the feathers that Davrin carved into the base that he’s pretty sure she hasn’t seen yet.

He looked at her, drunk in the sight of her here, in his room, in the depths of the Fade, at the end of the world. Tomorrow they would face the Evanuris in battle one final time. Either it would be enough, and they would be victorious… or they would all be dead.

He hadn’t wanted her here, had lied about their search for Solas, desperate to keep her safe, to let her live what semblance of a retirement she had earned, back in Ferelden raising her children with Anders. And yet, once she had heard he was in trouble, she’d had Merrill more or less punch a hole into the Crossroads to come find him. And there she had stayed, an acting agent of the Veilguard, Anders as their live-in healer and back up Warden, whilst their twins ran amok in the Dread Wolf’s lair.

The years had been kind to her, despite everything. She looked older, though he had aged gracefully into it, laughter lines etched into her face, a few steaks of grey in her dark locks, loose around her shoulders for once as opposed to the ponytail she had favoured in Kirkwall.

It had always been the assumption that he and Garrett were the closer pair, forever laughing and drinking with each other. But it was her, his Blackbird, that had truly known him all these years. The one who called him out on his bullshit, but his fiercest defender. He had wanted to protect her in turn, from getting involved with Anders, from the Inquisition, from everything happening with the Evanuris.

And yet again, he had failed.

He sighed, shaking his head, “Like I said, it’s late. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

She turned away for a moment and he prayed that she was heading for the door, but she looked back at him.

“The world is ending, Varric, and you still won’t say it?”

“What would you have me say?” he challenged.

“The truth, for once in your damned life.”

He ran a hand through his hair, “Fucking things up with my best friend isn’t the last thing I want to do before I die. I can’t lose this. You, us. So just… drop it.”

“Just drop it? Like we dropped it for years in Kirkwall? Ignored it, said it was nothing? Fuck, part of me thought I’d imagined it, this thing between us. And now, after everything that’s happened, everything that I’ve lost, that we’ve lost, all of this time… and you put my name on your crossbow the night before we face certain death.”

He set the crossbow on his desk, avoiding her gaze, “Blackbird, I-”

“For once in our lives, will you call me by my actual name? Instead of hiding behind that fucking nickname?” she yelled at him before she let out an exasperated sigh, her amber eyes seeking his, “Varric, please. Just be honest with me, with yourself, just this once.”

He wants to, more than anything. To let those final few walls down around her, to bare himself to her heart and soul, to tell her how he feels, how he’s felt it for years. He wants to spend his final few hours in this world with her in his arms, so that he could face whatever end would come for them all with no regrets.

But this isn’t one of his stories.

“And what exactly is it that you want?” he meets her eyes with a hard expression, “You’re married, and you love Anders. What would hearing any of this change, hm? You shouldn’t…” he tried to maintain the hard tone he’d taken, but seeing the way she pulled back from him, he felt it break something deep within his chest, “You shouldn’t be here. Not with me. Not tonight. You should be with your family.”

“You’re right,” she said, taking a step back, putting physical distance between them, “Goodnight Varric.”

He turned his back as she left as he couldn’t bare to watch her walk away. He heard her pause as she reached the doorway, waiting for him to call to her, to stop her, but when he didn’t, she kept going, closing the door behind her.

It took weeks of hard-fought battles at each other’s side, even harder fought conversations as the two differing personalities attempted to work together, but Rook finally saw her.

It had been the early hours of the morning, or whatever counted as morning in the Fade, but as the other members of the Veilguard had found sleep, Rook had found none, and it seemed that neither had Lady Lavellan. Rook found her already sat at the kitchen island, a cup of tea in her hand, staring contemplatively down into the steaming liquid.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Lavellan looked up at her, letting out a sigh, “Is it that obvious?”

“I hate to break it you, but the circles under your eyes give it away,” she pointed out, pouring her own mug of tea and leaning against the counter to look at her, “Does it ever get easier? Finding rest after everything we see?”

“I’ll tell you when I know,” she gave a soft snort into her mug as she took a mouthful.

Rook sipped at her own mug, humming at the taste, “Is that honey… with hints of dragonthorn?”

Lavellan’s eyebrows rose, “You have quite the palate. It’s my own special blend. I guessed there wouldn’t be much tea here so I’ve been mixing my own.”

“No, the Dread Wolf doesn’t seem to be a fan of tea,” Rook noted, “Or most things, I’ve found.”

“Not entirely true, he does have a taste for tiny cakes.”

Rook smiled at that, “And what about you, Lady Lavellan? What do you have a taste for? Aside from excellent tea blends.”

“Honey cakes,” she admitted, “I used to make them all of the time when I was young, my papae’s family recipe… I can’t remember when I last had the time to bake. Everything just been so…”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “It has… Y’know, I never thanked you.”

“Thanked me? Whatever for?”

“Coming out of retirement, being here to keep my ass out of the fire,” she said.

“Sweet as it is for you to say, I never actually retired,” she pointed out, “Keeping people’s asses out of the fire is what I’ve been doing since the Conclave exploded.”

Rook examined her for a few moments, then gave a resounding nod, “Breakfast.”

“What?”

“I’m going to make you breakfast.”

“I couldn’t impose-”

“It’s the least I can do, all things considered. Besides, I enjoy cooking, so c’mon, what do you…” she trailed off, eyes landing firmly on the one unused pan that still hung on the rack, “How about an omelette?”

A smile spread across Lavellan’s face, “They are my absolute favourite, how did you know?”

“What’s with the one omelette pan?”

The conversation had occurred within the first week of living at the Lighthouse, not long after the full team had been recruited and they had truly begun to explore what the Dread Wolf had to hide away. And for all of the mysteries and magics here, there was only one thing that truly bothered Rook.

The irritation in Solas’ voice was palpable as he turned to look at her, “I’m sorry?”

“You have the most depressing kitchen setup, you own one fork, spoon, knife, plate, bowl and cup, all which look like they’ve never been used… and yet you have a top-of-the-line Orlesian omelette pan.”

He huffed, “Of all of the inane queries you have used this tenuous connection for- How do you know it’s Orlesian? And that it is designed for omelettes?”

She put her hands on her hips, “I know my way around a kitchen with my eyes shut. So, what does a god who doesn’t eat need with an omelette pan?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “Lucanis was looking to use it, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some hidden magical art-”

“No!”

She glanced up at him with a mirthful smirk at his protest, “No?”

“It’s…” he regained his composure a little, “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

Her smirk only grew, “I’ll tell Lucanis to get his own. The omelette pan will remain untouched until you can escape the Fade and treat yourself to breakfast.”

Oh that old wolf had it bad.

“Educated guess,” Rook smiled.

“I’ve had a love for them since I tried them on my first trip to Orlais, back when the Breach had just opened. I had to adjust to shem food, but the omelettes, I fell in love with them.”

“Then you’re in luck. Omelettes are my signature dish.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“As I said, it is literally the least I can do.”

Rook grabbed the pan that had sat untouched for Maker knows how long, setting it to warm up on the stove as she gathered ingredients out of the cold storage. She set to work, cracking three eggs and whisking them through a sieve, creating a smooth mixture.

Lavellan watched her, still nursing her tea, “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you got the dragonthorn on the first try. I thought it was quite subtle. I didn’t realise I was in the presence of a connoisseur.”

Rook hummed as she whisked, “Hardly. I spent the better part of my youth being trained how to cook by only the finest of Orlesian slaves. My master wanted nothing but the best when we prepared his meals, so I was taught very young how to taste test everything.”

Lavellan met her gaze, “Varric told me a little of your past when he said that you were working together, but he mainly brought up the Shadow Dragons.”

“I can only imagine the spin he put on it,” she rolled her eyes a little, slicing off some butter to melt into the now hot pan, “The slave breaking free from chains to rebel against the system and bringing freedom to the Imperium.”

“Is that not the story?”

“It a version of the story. I’m just… doing what I can.”

“It’s more than most do.”

Rook turned, pouring the egg mixture with care into the pan, hands steady as she guided it to fill every part of the surface, wanting an even cook, “Do you know why I enjoy cooking? Despite my past?”

“Tell me.”

“My master hated eggs. He wasn’t allergic, but he had a distaste for them so bad that he would physically strike us if there was even an egg in the kitchen,” she said, eyes fixed on the omelette as it began to take shape, “So I decided that I would learn to cook every egg dish that I could cram into my head. I would learn them, cook them, and perfect them. And I would feed everything I cooked to the others in the household.”

“You took that risk?” she asked.

Rook grabbed some of the cream cheese mixture that Lucanis kept pre-made in the cold store, piping it delicately through the centre of the omelette, “When I was a child and was first sold to him, I knew that I couldn’t fight him. I was too young, and even if by some miracle I could kill him, I had nowhere to go. So I took solace in my little acts of rebellion. It kept me alive, gave me a reason to never truly give up on the idea of freedom… And the fact it brought joy to the others? That small act that was just for us? It gave us hope.”

She missed the smile on Lavellan’s face as she folded the egg over the cream cheese, the Inquisitor finally realising why Varric had chosen her as his second in command, just as Lavellan couldn’t see the soft look in Rook’s eyes as she told her story, finally opening up to someone.

She slid the omelette delicately onto a plate, finishing it off with some quickly chopped chives and some black pepper, placing it in front of the former Inquisitor.

Lavellan looked positively ravenous at the sight and dug in as soon as Rook handed her a fork, devouring it one messy mouthful at a time. She glanced up at Rook, tears pricking at her eyes, “This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

Rook snorted, “Shut up, no it’s not.”

She swallowed down her mouthful, “Rook, I’m telling you, I’ve eaten at the Orlesian royal court itself, but this blows their chefs out of the water. This is so good,” she shovelled another forkful into her mouth, “Thank you.”

“Eva.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Eva.”

She smiled at her, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Eva, I’m Brenna.” She lifted her mug of tea towards her, “To small acts of rebellion.”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted, “You didn’t have to kill it this time. Next time you will. All you have to do is remove the skin. Then we can show Papae and the Keeper.”

He brought the knife with shaky hands to the rabbit’s fur, barely putting pressure behind the cut before he dropped the blade, scrambling away from it, desperately trying to rub the blood from his hands.

He heard his sister sigh, even as his own breath hitched in panic. He hung his head, tears in his eyes as she skinned the rabbit herself. She knelt in front of him, pressing a kiss to the dark curls at the crown of his head.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” she whispered softly, then began heading back towards the clan’s camp.

He sat amongst the leaves for hours, still trying to clean the crimson from his skin.

She did try. Every day with him for two years, trying to teach him different methods of how to hunt and prepare animals, but he had no stomach for it, unable to comprehend taking a life, let alone feeling the warmth of that creature’s essence on his bare skin.  

And at nine when his magic manifested, marking him as the next leader of Clan Lavellan, it only worsened. If he could not kill a simple rabbit to add to the night’s stew, how would he be able to stop someone from causing harm to his clan, his family?

It was his sister who calmed him, telling him that if he could stand at the head of the clan, she would always be at his side, to protect him. From harm or from the harsh realities of the world, he could not be sure.

His father, his Papae, dies when he is barely fourteen. It is a torturous death, infected with the Blight, and they are lucky that it only takes a handful of the clan members, but he remembers the rot, the corruption, sitting at his father’s bedside in their family aravel as his Mamae dabs choked blood from the corner of his mouth. Jerrad Lavellan speaks soft works of love to his wife, tells his daughter to protect their family, and as he looks at his son, Moss knows that he sees a boy that has not grown to his expectation, not a hunter like him, nor proving to be worthy of the magic blessed to him. He dies that night under his wife’s blade, ending his suffering.

At fifteen, when Templars came for him in the woods near their home, it had been her that had saved him, fighting and killing them with rocks, her bare hands, and finally arrows. And when it was done, she had cupped his face, hands drenched in their blood, checking that he was okay, that he was not hurt. He could barely look her in the eye for the shame of not being able to turn his magic on them, knowing he would have been taken away forever if she had not stopped them.

Even as they scrubbed all evidence of the incident away in cold river water, the bodies burning on a pyre behind them, he could not rid himself of the metallic scent in his nose, reminding him of what he did not have the strength to do.

At the age of seventeen, he could feel that same warmth of blood on his face, but this time it was his own, dripping from his forehead as the Keeper carved the markings of Mythal into his skin. He swore he could feel the hesitation in her movements, preparing herself to stop the ritual, to deem him unworthy of such a blessing. In many’s eyes, he was a child still, too weak to be their First. And yet, she persisted, perhaps too stubborn to admit that he was not ready for this.

It would have been better if it had been his sister who was born the mage; she who had received her own vallaslin with her eyes proudly open, not showing an ounce of pain, ready and eager to prove herself. He could have relished in gentler pursuits, learning to craft or tend the halla, perhaps he would not feel dripping of blood from his forehead, the reminder of the responsibility he now bore.

At eighteen, he kissed a boy for the first time.

Tucked behind an aravel at the Arlathvhen, he allows himself to have fun, drinking deep of the crimson fruit wine, laughing with those his own age, those who did not know him as the Clan Lavellan’s weak willed First, instead just Moss. He found himself pressed against the wood of another clan’s aravel, a boy whose name he did not know and would not remember leaning over him and stealing that first tender kiss, and Moss, wine soaked and heart struck, wonders if this is what love feels like.

It is but a few weeks later he found his best friend, Summer, crying near the halla pens, a hunter like his sister, but gentler in heart, dedicated to Sylaise, not Andruil. She wept in his arms, and admitted that she was with child, conceived during the Arlathvhen, the babe’s father an unknown hunter from another clan. Her greatest fear is being sent away, to raise her child alone, or perhaps worse; to raise it with a man she does not truly know.

“Marry me,” he says. They can pretend that the babe is his, and he knows that the Keeper will approve the match.

“You don’t want this,” she tells him, “You don’t want a wife.”

He meets her eyes, thinking of that sweet boy that had kissed him, “You and I both know that I can’t have what it is that I truly want. But I can protect you. I can keep you safe.”

They wed less than a month later, before her stomach could start to show.

And before the next moon cycle, he awoke in his marital bed to find the sheets soaked in blood, his wife clutching to him as she begged him to do something. But for all of his magic, there is nothing he can do to save the babe.

It is his own mother that holds Summer that night as she mourns, his sister tearing the blankets from his bed to be burned. He stands at her side and watches the flames reduce to ash the evidence of something else lost to his own weakness. Later, she will find him scrubbing his hands raw, sobbing and praying to Mythal for strength.

At twenty-four he watches Brenna leave for the Conclave. It should be him, he thinks, as the Clan’s First, he should be the one to take the risk, but she is the one that convinces the Keeper to send her instead. She kisses him atop his head as she did as children and promises him to be home soon.

When they hear of the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he cannot sleep for fear of the crimson that haunts him, memories of blood smeared and soaked into his skin, duty seared into his face, constant reminders of the boy he has been and the man he must now become.

He hears word of a Herald of Andraste, the only survivor of the attack, and he knows that he must travel to Haven.

At thirty-nine he is a man changed. A man who has seen destruction and war and loss on a scale unfathomable, some memories his own, others playing in his head from the Well’s voices. His skin is now littered with scars earned in battle, fighting as part of the Inquisition against demons and dragons and would be gods. He has faced down the deities of his people, some as allies, others as enemies, and he has survived. His hands are drenched in the blood of those he has fought and slain, and yet, the weight, the reminders of his failures, are gone.

Instead, he is grateful for what remains. For Summer, still his best friend but now his ex wife, living a life filled with love with her husband and children. For Brenna, who had survived against the odds, rising up to become the Inquisitor, trusting him to stand at her side through everything, now finding her own happiness in retirement.

But most of all for Dorian, the man who had captured his heart from the first day they met. He never intended to fall for a human, let alone one from Tevinter, but he fell effortlessly in love with him, and received such love in return that he could scarcely believe it every day when he woke up in the arms of a man that truly wanted him, Dorian’s touch alone helping to battle the nightmares and doubts that plagued him. And after many years, they have built a life together, one that he would give anything to protect.

At thirty-nine, he crouches in front of his son, examining the cut on the boy’s knee.

“Papa, it hurts,” his son sniffles.

The idea of steaming hot water, or at least something tepid, sends a shiver up his spine that he cannot ignore. Besides, he knew she was right. Life on the road was hard, they avoided crowded areas as much as they could for fear of being recognised, but there was only so much either of them would be able to take before it took a toll on them.

“Alright,” he nodded, “Just for the night.”

They carried on up the road, entering the village proper, soon finding a cosy tavern nestled at the centre. She entered first, keen eyes scanning for Templars or anyone else immediately suspicious before allowing him to enter behind her.

They both near leapt out of their skins when the bartender called to them, welcoming them in, telling them to relax by the fire and he’d bring them some stew. They shrugged out of their wet cloaks, taking two chairs next to the roaring fireplace, Anders watching the tension leave Marian’s shoulders as she began to warm up. Two steaming bowls of stew were brought to them, with warm ale and fresh bread, and Marian smiled to herself as Anders ravenously devoured his food.

She forked over the coin to pay for their meals and a room for the night. They weren’t flush with cash, not having had a lot of time to prepare before leaving Kirkwall, but by some divine will, Marian had been born with both excellent money sense and quick fingers. She knew how to lift coin from those who had enough to spare, and make it stretch to help them survive. It had become abundantly clear to him since living on the run exactly how the Hawke family had made it through their first year in Kirkwall when he witnessed her bartering with the last merchant caravan they’d passed for supplies.

He watched her chat with the bartender, clearly seeking news of their friends and family, so easily slipping into the guise of a weary traveller trying to make her way through the world in these dangerous times. It was the same way she would charms nobles and bandits alike, her genuinely kind demeanour masking her silver tongue.

She returned to sit opposite him, shaking her head to indicate that there were no obvious signs of anyone nearby; both a relief and a worry.

“He did say there’s work in town, if we needed it,” she told him, “He’d be happy to lease the room for longer.”

He sighed. It was a nice thought, having somewhere to set down roots, if only for a few weeks or months, let themselves recover, reconnect. But the longer they stayed somewhere, the greater the risk of being found, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Love, we-” he began to say, but she cut him off.

“I know,” she said softly, looking into the crackling fireplace, “It’s not safe.”

A palpable silence fell between them. They had always found comfort in the quiet between them, content to just be in each other’s company, even before they were together. She would visit him in his clinic, spend entire afternoons or evenings mixing potions and poultices side by side. Or once he had moved into the estate, they would waste away hours in the library as she read or dealt with paperwork whilst he worked on his manifesto. Even in bed, they could lay tangled in the other’s embrace, no words needed between them as they traced freckles and old scars on each other’s skin.

But now… Now the silences were heavy, drawn out. She had given up so much for him. She had chosen him, and this life together, over her life in Kirkwall. Even after everything that had happened at the Gallows, if she had given him up, let that good heart and charming nature speak out for the cause, she could have stayed, probably would have been made Viscount for her trouble. And instead, here she was, living meal to meal with him, sleeping in a tent on the roadside most nights, lying for any scrap of news about the people she loved most, not knowing if they were dead or alive.

It ate away at him, knowing that he had been the cause of such suffering to her. In his plan, he was never meant to survive. He would have been killed for what happened in Kirkwall, a martyr for the cause, the noose removed from around his love’s neck.

He watched her gaze trail from the fire to the small band in the corner where three entertainers played a lute, a violin and a drum, their songs now building up pace and earning a cheer from the other patrons as they got up to dance.

It set an ache in his chest, reminding him of simpler nights at the Hanged Man, playing cards with the others, Garrett’s raucous laughter and relentless flirting with everyone, Varric’s tall tales, Maker he even missed Fenris’ brooding. And his Marian, oh how she loved to dance. She would find a partner with anyone she could grab, usually Isabela or Merrill, her lithe roguish body moving perfectly in time, though sometimes drunkenly, with the music. He had been pulled into her arms on more than one occasion, more willingly after they were involved, following her lead as she danced without a care for who was watching.

“We should get some rest,” she said quietly, but her eyes went wide as he got to his feet, offering her his hand.

“Dance with me.”

“What?”

He swept into a bow, feeling it twinge his back, but he extended his hand again nonetheless, “Marian, my love, will you dance with me?”

She blinked a few times, “But… wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” he said.

“What about drawing too much attention to ourselves?”

“We’ll be gone in the morning,” he reminded her, “Tonight, let’s just dance.”

She took his hand then, following him as she rose from her chair, leaning into his arms as they mingled with the other patrons who were moving along to the music. They moved together without words needing to pass between them, knowing the subtle hints in each other’s expressions as to who would step where and when, when he would spin her, trusting in how far he would lean her back in his arms.

The music was drowned out by the melodic sound of her laughter, the sight of her warm, infectious smile making him forget everything that was happening outside of this tavern, everything that would await them again come morning.

Later, they would retire to their room to enjoy a shared hot bath and fall into a bed together for the first time in far too long. They would sleep for as long as they would allow themselves, and past dawn they would be on the road again, towards destination and dates unknown.