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...
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Along the endless hills, running across every bridge, line up people of every race from every country, chasing her down, waving their hands, and screaming to get her attention. The closer he gets to her, the more he trudges through arms, avoiding elbows to the face, and catching himself before he trips over feet. Scattered villagers pleading for help become a rushing river of demanders from nobility. They wear fineries and stand taller than the rest, but no one can measure to the mobile giant hill of Hawke. Not once does she look toward them; she's enjoying wading through the clouds as they swirl and change design by the slightest pressure. She smiles, embracing the sun.
Varric runs across the bridges, in between groups massing towards her.
"My daughter! She is sick and could die any day! Please!"
"Hawke! Seneschal Bran sent word that you are needing at the keep. Please return to Kirkwall!"
"My second cousin's niece faces Templar persecution! Don't you know who I am? You must assist me!"
The endless cycle rings even after he pushes through the group closest to her—she's stopped to bask, the back of her head meters away, the edge to bottomless fall only centimeters. Varric grips onto nobles who barely notice him. They yell in his ear, mouse squeaks to Hawke. The shampoo she used at her estate lingers, a sweet vanilla blend with orange oil. She bought it and several other luxuries when he took her to the Sunday market. (The Chantry's way of collecting donations with mutual benefit. They make these candles that change color...anyway.) The noble on his left bellows the falsehood that Hawke left his son to die during the Qunari assault—the sunflared ears return to a pale opaqueness as she turns. Her nose could be a child's slide, her rosy cheeks a double king sized bed for Varric. When she faces them, her bright irises stare straight across—not at the nobles, and definitely not at the villagers.
"Varric?" she says.
Hawke whips her head back with a hiss, like something bit her, then forward with a yelp, and she reaches down.
"Hawke?" he cries, and he cries her name again when she screams, and disappears under the clouds.
He wants to help but every part surging with blood orders him to do something—anything but jump.
"She's worthless. She stubs her toe and ignores me! Me!"
Varric sees Me on the ground, holding his nose, looking up in shock, close to tears; Varric shakes the sting from his knuckles, and the relief of defending honor. An ache in his shoulder subsides but any discomfort dies when Hawke's hand shoots up, and slaps the cliff's edge, crushing the ants—he jumps out of her forefinger's way, falling on his back, cursing.
The hill cracks in front of his boots.
Hawke yells in pain, deafening the royal beggars scrambling for their lives. They swarm the bridge, trying to run across, running over the tripped ones, The suspensions snap—a choir of screams fade indefinitely. Varric looks back where the other bridge used to be—
