[12]

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] - [11] – (AO3)

isabela

You’d run out of swear words a half-a-mountain ago, and you’re just trudging silently behind the Inquisition agent who thinks she’d recruited you, wondering what you think you’re doing so far from the sea. Even when you were grounded in Kirkwall with Hawke, when you came back to Varric, the sea was always right there, salt-sweet and white-tipped, comforting with Her deadly whispers day and night.

White tipped mountains are an entirely different sort of thing; trees whisper in the winds at night, but it isn’t the same, not even close, and the stones are stubbornly silent.

You figure that’s where the damn dwarves get it, right?

You can’t decide if you’re going to hug him or hit him.

Probably aren’t going to have to resort to stabbing.

Maybe?

He hadn’t even left a message behind for Kitten.

For you, either, nothing beyond an in-progress letter that sounded like all the rest.

Even in your own head you keep shying away from wondering if that’s better or worse. Does he trust you to know? To know what? After all this time, does he not trust you at all?

That seems unlikely. He’s let you hold Bianca a time or two, which is a Void or two more serious than your wedding vows had been. Not that he deserves even the side-ways comparison to Luis, no matter how annoying it was to come back to Kirkwall to discover he’d let himself be carted off by a fucking Seeker.

Idiot.

But somehow he’s your idiot, so it seems you’re the one to go check on him when it becomes obvious no one else has heard from him either.

Except for Hawke. Of course Hawke. Always Hawke. If she wasn’t family, if you didn’t know how much she hated always being Hawke that’d get annoying. Instead it’s just something else to worry about, a very short note that said only: stay put for once, please.

Varric doesn’t say please.

Well, occasionally when he’s spread out on a bed or cornered in his favorite chair by the fire and you tease him a bit longer than usual, but that certainly isn’t the sort of thing he’d put in a note for Hawke.

If you’d realized there’d be snow involved, you might have just left him to hang.

No you wouldn’t.

You would have packed wool socks.

Maybe some chocolate to melt over the campfire at night.

Definitely more rum.

Andraste’s Tits, you might let him hang for some more rum.

No you won’t. It isn’t even close, and that’s why you’re in the middle of fucking Ferelden in the winter trying to pretend you’re more pissed off than worried.

He’s never broken his word before; for all most people think him twisty he’s always so very careful with what he says, what he lets people think, what he promises. It’s been three years since he told you he’d be there in Kirkwall when you came back, and he always is, always, somehow knowing even before you tell him, usually waiting for you at the docks with a shrug and a half-hidden smile. He always had a terrible story or three about what he’d been up to while you were gone, which he doled out in bits and pieces between all the welcome-home fucking.

It’s almost embarrassing how much more you miss the stories than the fucking. It’s damn fine fucking, of course. But that’s not all that difficult to come by, if you’re determined enough. The stories though… his breath against your skin as the firelight fades and you wrap yourselves up in blankets, the rhythm of his words a counter-point to the staccato echoes of your steps as you traipse together through Lowtown, his laugh echoing up to the rafters as you toast offer each other a toast, ale or rum or wine or even some rich black Rivaini coffee brought out on a chilly morning. 

Maker’s breath, you miss his laugh.

He better tell a damn fine tale when you catch up to him, or else.

Or else…

Or else you’ll never forgive yourself for not being there for him when it happened, whatever it was.

[11]

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] – (AO3)

varric

You’re not there.

You’re not going to be there.

You’re used to being a liar, take a certain amount of pride in it, in fact, but this time is not the same as the rest. This one chafes, this one burns, this one is too much.

Your broken promise breaks your heart, though you can’t admit that to yourself. Don’t dare let doubt or hurt trickle out past your smile, past wide-spread hands and a sarcastic quip or three. If you let yourself feel, you might not be able to hold the mask, something too close to anger will slip and your “escort” will shift from grumpy and suspicious to something even worse.

You’ve already been threatened and interrogated and kidnapped. Certainly don’t want to let the Seeker’s focus shift so she thinks to share her sharp knives and loud words with someone else. You have to protect them. Isabela would insist she can take care of herself, but she’d agree with the rest. She’d want you to protect Hawke, Fenris, Merrill… even Aveline, for all Isabela claims not to care about your Lady Shield-Wall.

Thinking their names makes the ache in your heart grow worse, but you can’t not, even as you betray them, leave them, pretend they mean nothing to you at all.

None of them need a Seeker nipping at their heels.

Neither did you, but you’ve been caught. Might as well try and tangle her in her own net, long enough to make sure no one else leaves too many tracks behind them as they scatter out of sight.

Maybe you really couldn’t find them if you looked. Maybe it’s not a lie.

You almost snort out loud where the Seeker or her people could hear you.

When did you get so bad at lying to yourself?

It even sticks in your craw to badmouth Choir Boy, and that’s usually just some good entertainment of an evening. This isn’t any of your usual jokes; you can’t give him a chance to fight back.

There is no fighting back against the Right Hand of The Divine.

You know this is what you need to do, you know it’s the right decision, you know this is your job, the only one you’ve ever been good at, lying to save your family.

You know they’ll never forgive you.

You didn’t even have a chance for one last letter, one hint, something to help her figure out the rest. You hope she cares enough to try despite it all, hope she cares enough to –

You know she’ll never forgive you.

[10]

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] – (AO3)

isabela

It takes longer than you want to get back; too soon you have to go again. Kirkwall’s a shit-hole, but it’s one that needs supplies, and there aren’t a fuck-ton of honest Captains lining up to keep trade going with a shit-hole that’s still a little bit on fire. Sometimes.

You’re not sure when you turned into someone who couldn’t ignore that sort of thing. You’re pretty sure it’s Hawke’s fault, whenever it happened.

You’re practically a merchant.

You shudder quite dramatically at the word, but you find you don’t even really mind, especially not when Varric sees you off, handing you a satchel with a smirk. He refuses to say anything about it, just waggles his eyebrows and fingers and whistles something almost lewd as you walk away.

Keep reading

[9]

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - (AO3)

lip-stained shot glasses and ink spattered fingers (varribela) for @w0rdinista​ and @tarysande​

varric

There’s ash in the air, smoke in your lungs, blood under your nails and things you don’t want to think about ground into the soles of your boots, but none of that is what makes the sharp pain in your chest twist, tighter and tighter, none of that is what makes it hard to breathe.

You need more time.

There isn’t any to be had, not now, not with the fires ringing the horizon as you head towards the dock, the heavy knowledge of the tide changing pressing down on your shoulders, making each step half a stumble, half a fall. No time left, not with Hawke leaning against Fenris’ shoulders, soot-streaked and exhausted, their hands tangled tightly together as he gently tugs her forward, keeps her going.

You’re jealous a little, you think, that you aren’t leaning the same way against Isabela, that you can’t, either of you, manage to rest, not now, not to run away.

You don’t get to run away together.

There isn’t enough time, not for words or kisses or one last chance to be inside her, and isn’t that the only thing you can think about now when the world’s ending, not the lives behind you or the blood spilled, but the weight of her breasts in your hands and the shape of her scars against your tongue when you kiss her body, the contrast between the cool press of her piercings and the heat of her skin, the way her hips lift with a jerk right before she comes, the only ungraceful, inelegant motion you’ve ever seen her body make, and it’s only sometimes, only when you’ve startled her, brought her up before she was expecting it, and her nails catch on skin or sheet or pillow and her eyes close and her chin lifts and her breath stutters before she groans your name.

All you can think of is the sound of her laughter when she’s half asleep, the curve of her smile when she wakes, her eyes dark and glinting like gold when she blinks.

You always knew she’d leave you, knew she be carried away by the sea, but even so it’s too soon. You aren’t ready.

You knew you’d never be ready, but you still weren’t prepared for how much it aches, more than the knot between your shoulders from bracing Bianca all day, more than the burn in your eyes that started with that first sharp light lifting from the Chantry and that has only gotten worse, breath by breath and blink by blink, until you’re amazed you can still see at all.

Until you wish you couldn’t, not when all you can see in Kirkwall is death.

Not when you’re going to have to watch them leave.

But Hawke has to be free, and no mages will be free after this, not unless they hide. Hawke and Daisy must go. And Fenris won’t leave Hawke, and Rivaini’s the only one who stands a chance of getting them on a ship…

Isabela would never abandon her Kitten when she needed her. Nor Hawke, nor Fenris.

You don’t think about Anders.

You miss Blondie, and you have to stop yourself from wondering how long he’d been gone before you noticed.

Choir Boy’s in Hightown, Red and her Guards in Low, and you know where the Carta keeps its stashes, and which of the Merchants have secure enough townhouses to just be waiting it out, which might be willing to take in some of their displaced neighbors. You know who in town might share their coin, who has men to spare, who has coin they wouldn’t spare but would be easy enough to get at, and you can’t, you just can’t…

There’s a clatter of boots on wood, piers at last, the Gallows only shadows behind you.

“Here we go,” Isabela’s voice is rough, and soft, and sad, and a tangle of things you don’t know how to name, but it sounds just like you feel, and she glances over at you, the glint in her eyes darker than usual because she knows.

She always knows.

“You have to stay,” she whispers.

Daisy’s eyes go wide and Hawke’s head shakes and Broody’s shoulders are too tight, but you spread your hands and pretend you remember how to smile before any of them manage to say a thing. “You have to go.”

Her grip is strong as she pulls on your coat, bending down as you reach up and it’s the worst kiss of your life because it’s the best you could ever imagine and it’s good-bye, good-bye with your heart in your throat and all your words gone, gone, nothing to say that means more than her fingers curling against your chest and the press of her mouth and the fleeing soft brush of her breath against your lips as she pulls away, just a little, just enough to whisper again. “But only for a little while.”

You don’t know if you believe her, but you want to, so you manage to lift your hand to brush her cheek, to look into her eyes and let your smile soften. “I’ll be here.”

[8]

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] 

(AO3: lip-stained shotglasses and ink spattered fingers. a varribela piece for @tarysande and @w0rdinista, long on hiatus, but not completely gone <3)

isabela

You’re free.

It wouldn’t be hard to leave, you know. A ship, a wind, a chance … the sea. 

Once that was all you needed, all you dreamed, all you could ever desire.

Twice, thrice, an eternity of escapes, the shift of the waves, salt on your lips, sun in your eyes, the weight of steel at your hip, on your back, down your boot; promise and threat.

But sometimes that wasn’t enough, and you came back to land.

To blood and regret and the weight of your choices settling across your shoulders.

Back to Kirkwall. Not that you gave two figs about Kirkwall, but Kitten? Hawke and Fenris and Lady Shield-Wall, even Anders and Sebastian.

And Tethras, of course.

Varric. You can’t even fool yourself in your memories, he’s not just Tethras, never was, not five seconds after you met him, and you saw him wink. Plus there was all that shooting and stabbing and saving each other’s lives.

That seemed to be a theme for Kirkwall.

Shit of a town, but it had such people. 

So you came back.

So you stayed.

And you could leave, you knew, even if your ship was no more, even if Hawke had made you be responsible. (Sort of.) The asshat in the way was gone, after all.

(Not that there hadn’t been ways around and around him, as well, if you’d been willing to take them. Willing to be someone else, someone without a Hawke. You remember being her. You’re not sure when you left her behind, not sure when you stopped thinking you’d lost something, rather than found another.)

There were always more ships, more jobs, more coin, more cons.

More people who had heard of the Queen of the Eastern Seas, and would help out of greed, or fear, or a little bit of both. (Maybe a lot of both. You had quite the reputation for booty. Both kinds. You smile at yourself, and sigh, because at least you know you’re funny, even if it’s here, and now, alone on the roof of a cheap tavern, smelling drink and piss and vomit from Lowtown’s alleys and yet, still, beyond it all, always the hint of the sea, soft and sharp and too far away to see by starlight.)

You shivered, though it wasn’t cold, tried not to imagine The Hanged Man drowned in a hurricane, Hightown crumbling and falling as waves ate away the cliffs that held it up. The ocean was a harsh mistress, and She could devour you all and not even notice the difference, but you couldn’t be afraid of Her. There were worse ways to go.

There were worse things to be afraid of. Things you couldn’t name, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, things that filled the sky, ‘til even the bright blue of spring seemed ominous. Something worse than any storm was here, was waiting. Couldn’t everyone tell, even the Divine so far away, sending her Nightingale to taste the winds, to hide in shadows and whisper behind closed doors? Every Captain in the Port could tell, selling and leaving twice as fast as usual, frowns on their faces as their fingers twitched and their shoulders rolled and you ought to be doing the same …

Kirkwall was a shit town, and it could slide into the sea and no one would miss it.

But it was Varric’s home. Hawke’s perch and Kitten’s Tree and on and on and you wanted to call yourself an idiot for even thinking something could be more important than a stiff wind and a full sail, and yet.

And yet even you weren’t that good a liar.

Even you knew that sometimes you had to weather the storm instead of trying to race ahead of it. Sometimes it was worth the anchor’s weight pulling you down, holding you still. Sometimes you had to stay.

At least for a little while.

THIS IS SO LOVELY

AND SO PERFECT

AND WAS SUCH A SURPRISE

AND <3

PERFECTION FROM BEGINNING TO END.