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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Are you ready?"
Redcliffe rests at the feet of Lake Calenhad, where fishermen work with a cool breeze in their face and painted trees to see them off. Rumors say it used to be lusterless. It's the anchor of the Hinterlands that harbored the mages, the stomping grounds of the king, and the conception of the Inquisitor's friendship with Dorian. Redcliffe once stood at the brunt of the Fifth Blight, taking on hundreds of Darkspawn, and endured a curse lifted by the Grey Wardens, namely, the Hero of Ferelden. Many stories lie in this village. He wants to add just one more.
When they arrived later that day, Josephine shepherded the cats into Team Hawke and Team Varric. With everyone scrambling around, and Varric being his stature, he hadn't seen Hawke since he awoke. He had tried, but Logan was there to conveniently distract him. "Is this a thing you Andrastians do?" he had said. "I just wanna know if she's okay."
She's fine, according to everyone he's asked since they shoved him into the inn to get dressed. It only took five minutes to change but people loved knocking when he was trying to put on his pants. The last interruption almost made him answer the door with a punch to someone's gut, but then Cassandra's voice bellowed through the hall, then a stampede, then one set of footsteps, a shadow in the creak of the door frame, and silence. He had peeked through a door crack—the Seeker sigil peeked back. He opened the door slightly to say thank you and she winked.
Winked.
After a cup of Antivan coffee, handed to him by who he thought was Cullen, but he was gone when he looked in the mass of guests, Cassandra had escorted him to a bridge between the waterwheel and a vista that he has been soaking in for the last half hour. The afternoon sun eases the chill of fall with not a cloud in sight, although he wishes for some, as he's beginning to sweat in this silk. He thinks it's silk; Dorian wears stuff like this all the time, though not nearly as dark, and so closed off at the neck.
Someone clears their throat. "Are you ready?"
Varric turns after digging a finger between him and his collar. "Sorry, Mother Giselle."
"It is good of you to look modest. An unwrapped gift is not thoughtful, nor anticipated, nor treasured."
"They could have made breathing holes. But thank you. I think."
She nods. "I am honored to be here." Mother Giselle is probably the one mother who would be. "Not many would have accepted this role. But not many understand that it is the Maker, not man, who grants us love, a love so powerful we cannot stop it when our hearts and minds are set. I hope this ceremony shows there is freedom in marriage, not bonds of convenience."
"That's great that you're sticking your neck out for us, but I'm just here for the girl."
"Laughter is also a gift."
Guests fill the ground, behind him on his side with the castle in the backdrop, and the other with the trees and village. Mother Giselle nudges him to back off the bridge, where she takes his place at the center, facing the smaller group passing through, concealing all but a crown of black hair.
