*a conversation had in a quiet corner of Skyhold between two best friends about the possible necessity for a wingman*

Hawke: Will you write her story too?

Varric: Who? What’re you talking about, Hawke?

H: The Inquisitor, of course. You’re sweet on her, Varric. I can tell.

V: How do you figure that?

H: It’s not hard to notice, you know. The whole ‘making calf-eyes at each other during important missions’ thing is a little obvious. Not to mention how you look at her... And the kitchen maids are only too happy to share whispers of your nocturnal activities. Or at least the fact that you hardly spend the night in your own room.

V: Not so loud, please! Andraste’s sacred knickers, you really haven’t learned the art of subtlety.

H: Neither have you, from what I hear. Probably spend your nights pining for her like an idiot. You know she likes you too, right?

V: Hm?

H: Maker, Varric. Haven’t you noticed? She looks at you like you’re made of solid gold. Reminds me of Merrill, actually.

V: I guess so. But that’s just her personality, though. Too nice for her own good.

H: The Inquisitor’s fallen hard, Varric. Take it easy on her.

V: Don’t worry. But I think it’s her who’s gonna have to go easy on me. 

H: And here I thought you didn’t go for the hero types!

V: She’s not a hero. She’s just a normal person caught in the middle of all this shit, like you and me.

H: Then why is she called Inquisitor?

V: Convenient title. Besides, Inquisitor Velahris Lavellan - it has a nice ring to it, eh?

H: That’s her name? And you call her Clover? How’d you get there?

V: Long story. Tell you over drinks later.

H: Hey, V, if you ever need a wingman...

It was Vel who heard it first. The low, mournful melody of the stone - eking its way into her brain, corrupting her from the inside out.

“Do you hear it?” She spoke softly, barely a murmur over the noise of the prison. Clanging steel gates, screaming prisoners, the crying of the desperate.

“Hear what?” Varric replied, looking up at her to find her face empty, devoid of emotion. At the corner of her eye was a line of red, just beneath the skin. It glowed inside her, a sickly red warmth.

“The song.” Vel says, eyes blank and drifting into the darkness beyond their cell. “It’s beautiful, but so sad.”

Varric pauses for a moment, looking down at his hands.

“I know, Clover. I know.”

----------

He was glad he couldn’t see himself. Almost a year in a prison had him a little worse for wear - most notably, at least to him, the fact he hadn’t been able to shave. His beard grew in thick and fast, unpleasant and unwanted. Vel didn’t seem to mind, nuzzling her face up against his cheek.

“You look good with a beard, Varric.” Vel added, curling herself up into his lap with practiced ease. It was less difficult to fit her there, now - her frame was bony and pale, sickened and so small. Her tiny, thin hands found their way to Varric’s exposed chest, eventually wrapping themselves around his neck. They were cold and clammy against his skin, but he didn’t care.

He pulled her against his chest, taking off his duster to wrap it around her. She shivered slightly at the flutter of wind created by his movement, and he quickly pulled her in, tucking her head flush against his chest. 

“Really, Clover? Hm. I don’t like it. Isn’t it scratchy?” He huffs, planting his chin on the top of Vel’s head.

“No. It feels like home.” Vel speaks, her voice drifting into a whisper.

“Then I guess I’ll keep it. Just a little longer, though.”

----------

She got worse quicker than Varric thought she would.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” She whispered, crawling her way to him in the dark.

“Hey, don’t talk like that. Someone’ll come for us, Clover. There’s... There’s gotta be someone still out there.” Varric wrapped her small, spindly frame in his arms, trying in vain to comfort her.

“Varric, look at me.” Vel tugs his chin down, forcing him to look. Her skin was sunken and grey, lips cracked and eyes starting to crystallize. She hadn’t slept in days- no, weeks. How long had it been since they’d eaten? “I’m dying.”

“If we’re going to die here, tell me the story of her. Of Bianca.” She asked, her voice hoarse with pain. 

“I made a promise, Vel. I can’t just...” Varric starts, before being interrupted.

“The world is gone, Varric. Tell me the story. Please?”

“I... Alright, Petal. I’ll tell you.”

“Petal? That’s new.” Vel’s lips quirked into a tired smile.

“I can’t keep calling you Clover, now can I?”

“Suppose not. And Varric?” Vel mumbles, lifting her head up slightly to meet his eyes.

“Hm?” Varric hums in question before Vel presses her lips to his. It was a long, slow kiss, ending with their foreheads pressed together, sad smiles on both of their faces.

C R I M S O N  S I L K  &  C L O V E R  F L O W E R S

24. Tender - for Vel and Varric @dalish-rogue

She was nothing like Bianca. She was tender and compassionate, sweet and genuine. She trusted fully, loved without reservation, and Varric fell for her much faster than he should have.

“So, you and the Boss, huh? Lucky.” Bull half-whispers to Varric over a pint of ale in the Herald’s Rest. He seemed almost jealous, but who wouldn’t be? Vel was who she was. Not to mention, she did have a look about her. That sweet, doe-eyed elven face that made his bones turn to jelly.

“Am I? I feel like any minute, the Seeker’s going to come in and lop my head off for getting too close to her.” Varric laughs, only slightly serious. He knew that Cassandra wouldn’t dare. Vel had gone through enough as of late.

“Hey, everyone needs a distraction. Just so happens that yours is Vel.” Bull shrugs, leaning over the table to order another round. Vel walks into the tavern, slipping into the seat next to him and tucking her hand in his under the table.

“Long day?” Varric says, chuckling softly.

“You can say that again.” She smiles slightly, pressing her thumb into his palm. The gentle, affectionate touch made him sigh. “I could go for a drink.”

45. Svelte - for Vel and Varric

Vel’s form was slender, but not skinny. Her skin was supple and soft, warm and blush-pink beneath Varric’s fingers. He was out of practice. It had been too long - but he was glad he’d waited. She was worth it. She smiled up at him, red hair fluttered against the pillows.

“Are you alright, vhenan?” She asks, a tinge of curiosity and concern in her voice. She reaches a hand up to cup Varric’s face, tracing her thumb over his lips. Her hands were soft. Every inch of her was soft and forgiving, feminine and...

“Yeah. It’s just... You’re beautiful, Clover.” He says, smiling brightly. “I’m trying to find the words to describe you, but I can’t.”

“Then don’t speak, Varric. Deeds are good enough for me.” She smirks, pulling him down into a heated kiss.

My babies!!! AAAA

Who wakes up first?

Usually Vel. City boy Varric didn’t have to wake up before dawn to help move the aravels.

Who falls asleep first?

It’s always Vel. Varric likes to keep watch over her and make sure nothing will harm her, then snuggle in and wrap his arms around her. His sweet little spoon :3

What they playfully tease each other over?

For Vel, it’s usually over Varric’s dwarfiness. And vice versa, Varric makes fun of Vel’s elfiness. Something like “Oh yes, your Paragon-ness!” “That’s not the word for it, Clover.” “Well, I can’t help that the dwarves have weird names for things!” and so on.

What they do when the other’s having a bad day?

Vel will try and pull Varric away from his desk and into bed. She’ll sing him Dalish lullabies and tell him stories, combing out and braiding his hair. Then she’ll let him take a nap, tucking him in and planting a little kiss on his forehead. Varric would always take Vel aside and ask if she’s doing alright. He knows she has a difficult job, especially post-Trespasser, and especially since she’s an elf. If she’s having trouble, he’ll take the rest of the day off to work in the gardens with her. It reminds her of home, and he’d never admit it but it’s calming for him too, to watch her at work. Also, the dirt smudges on her face are precious.

How do they say “I’m sorry” after arguments?

Vel’s apologies are wordless. She simply presses a hand against him, letting him know that she’s there. Varric verbally apologizes, sometimes profusely. 

Which one’s more ticklish?

Actually, Varric.

Their favorite rainy day activities?

Sleeping in! Also, playing with the kids and occasionally, doing dramatic readings of the Chant of Light in various funny voices.

How they surprise each other?

Vel will put together a little surprise based on either the kids or her garden. Varric is usually the one to go all out on surprises - expensive and extravagant. Only the best for his lady wife 💖

Their most sickening displays of public affection?

Varric grabs Vel’s butt when he thinks no one is looking. Also, heavy petting at the Hanged Man is a thing 😂

Varric has written many stories in his time. He considers himself an expert on the subject. However, when it comes time to write his own, he has some difficulty finding the words.

Looking at her leaves him starstruck. He swoons over the smallest gesture: the way she examines ancient texts, the tenderness with which she carries the dusty, crumbling old tomes. The way her fingers trace the elven words, wishing the subtleties of her people’s bygone language would come to her in a dream. 

The curve of her neck as she stretches in her chair, the bend of her spine as she reaches gracefully over his own shoulder to snatch a few pages of unfinished work. The playful tug of her lips upward, the crinkling of her nose and the corners of her eyes as she smiles.

“You’re staring again, Varric. Why?” Her voice is soft, curious and inviting.

And in a single moment, he’s wordless. Mute. Defenseless. He wanted her - only her. His beautiful Flower of the Dales and a bottle of cheap whiskey, in a comfortably dingy tavern with a witty name. He wanted a world of their own where he’d never have to leave her bed before dawn. A universe in which they could exist in an imperfect, natural synchrony together, without secrecy or remorse. His heart was tangled up in longing, the desire to make the world perfect for her. To make it work for both of them. 

He wants to hear her sing again. The notes, too familiar to ever forget. He played the moments over and over again in his mind: the warm touch of her hand against his cheek as the lilting lullaby fluttered from her lips. She’d thought he was dying, and for all intents and purposes he had been. If Solas hadn’t been there to help him, well... He didn’t want to think about what could have been.

“Don’t forget me, vhenan.” She had said, teary eyed and weak, as she tried in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. She was covered in his blood from her chest to her thighs, her hands slick, the metallic scent of it thick in the air. It came too fast. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. To ask what the word meant. But now he knew.

It meant love. Permanence, finding peace at last. It meant whatever the user needed it to mean. For Vel, it was a home, simple and honest and enduring. For Varric, it meant the final resting place for his fragile, world-weary heart. But what they had went beyond love. It grew strong and deep in the fibre of their beings, their very souls entangled like the chains at the bottom of Kirkwall’s harbor. Together, their histories told a story like no other. A fairy tale he was determined to compile. He just had to ask.

He opens his mouth.