Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
With practice, he's sure he can tell the truth. Writing it down is easier, but saying it out loud—that'll take effort. But after a few times it shouldn't be so bad; it'll be something less cliche than a piece of cake. Chunk of cheese. Sounds good. Now. Start small. One, tiny little lie. Here goes:
I can't really spin arrows between my fingers.
Great. Now all he has to do is say it.
Out loud.
Varric stares up at the Eluvian in the room Morrigan took over. Sunlight blasts him in the eye from the windows, right before a cloud hides it. If only the sun knew he glares back. Dust particles float helplessly in the breaths among the master mages arguing—Logan, Dorian, Solas, Morrigan, and Vivienne. Cullen enters with Josephine and Leliana. Guards march in formation and line the walls with shields, spears, and swords. Their clanking armor irritates Varric's ears. Even the musty plumes from everyone kicking up generations of dust screeches in the air.
Far into the dead surface of the mirror, he sees the impossible stretch of road—a web of infinite roads leading everywhere but to where he wants to go. If the spider's there, it could put him out of his misery. Bad idea. Hawke's father's with the dead. How could he talk to him about his daughter if he jumped ship too soon? What would her mother think? Would Carver piss on his burnt remains if he ever found the body? He seems like a piss-on kinda guy. Then again, if he died in the Eluvian, a demon would possess his body.
Heat rises to his face but sickness drains the color. He swallows. His throat is dry. Scratchy. If he talked, they'll know. Know that he has second thoughts. Know that he's got frog feet—cold feet. The term is cold feet. Why cold when they're burning up in his clunky boots? He wiggles his toes but it fans the fire in his socks.
Varric adjusts his gloves where the stitching dips between his fingers. If he doesn't do this before a fight, sport, or other big events (killing giants included), after a while, the gloves shift along his skin, and chafe after a few skirmishes.
One time he had to bandage both hands after they fought the Hinterlands dragon because he sweated so bad the leather rubbed and gave him a nasty rash.
Hey! He told another truth!
Crap. Still wasn't out loud.
Mages have it easy. But their egos balance the physical pains.
Speaking of loud. And mages.
Morrigan snips, "T'would benefit the Inquisition more if it would cease wasting time and go after Corypheus instead of wallowing on choices once made."
Ah this again. Not exactly ringing with good news.
Varric's good news is he stitched in more pockets for his jacket the other day, before this entire mess with the Fade and Wardens happened. He can put extra secret stuff, like grenades, flasks, clips of arrows, his travel journal, and a tiny box.
