Chapter IV
I ate all of my meals in the tavern.
It was close, convenient, and Cabot didn’t charge me. He let me eat in the storeroom, where it was quiet, and I could sit alone with my thoughts while Iowen managed the patrons—in her own way.
“The mirror,” I said, when Varric visited me one morning when the bar was still empty. It was several days since Hawke’s funeral, and we hadn’t spoken much since. Maybe he was embarrassed, I thought, or… maybe he was just avoiding me. “Was that you?”
The bags under his eyes were startlingly dark, and despite the bald healer’s insistence, he sipped from a tankard of potent Marcher ale. His other hand was busy caressing the feathers of a fancy, expensive quill. He was still wearing all black, and if not for his hair and jewellery, he would appear very dull.
“Mirror?”
I rubbed at a stubborn, suspicious stain that was embedded into the countertop. It hadn’t been there last night. I hoped Cabot wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t get it out.
“The one in my room.”
His ears turned a stark shade of red. He looked away, clutching the quill tighter, stray hands of hair falling over his eyes.
“Bumped into it,” he rasped, and tucked the hair back behind his ear. I couldn’t judge him for the lie, nor for his shame as he refused to look at me.
There was a brief silence, which he broke with a sharp inhale. “That blanket. Hawke gave it to you?”
I caressed the fabric draped over my shoulders. The warmth it gave me, the weight of it on my body, was the only true comfort I’d ever had.
“It was a cold night.” It hailed the next morning, and I woke to wet hair and blue fingers. “If he hadn’t…”
Would mother have grieved me, if I died out there in the cold?
I shook the thoughts from my head, and with it, the memory. “What are you writing?” I asked instead, and Varric glared at his parchment.
“Same damn thing I was writing a week ago. Blondie needs to know about…” He breathed through his nose and didn’t finish his sentence.
“And is he… who is he?”
Varric discarded his quill to the counter and leaned back in his seat. He hadn’t written a thing since he arrived, and the ink had dried on the tip. “You haven’t read my book, have you?”
I supposed being world famous did things to one’s ego. I didn’t know any one human, elf, or dwarf who hadn’t at least skimmed the damned thing—except me, whose heart lurched at the very prospect. How much did I know? Naught. Nothing.
“I was forbidden,” I said.
He grumbled. “You can’t ‘forbid’ someone from reading a book, that’s ridiculous.”
You could. I’d seen it reflected in mother’s eyes, rage, fear, and abandonment as his pages kindled the fire. “Regardless…”
Varric sighed.
“Blondie—Anders. Him and Hawke eloped after Kirkwall went to shit. I missed the ceremony.” His expression soured. “It’s a recurring theme.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a long drink.
“Nevermind. How’s, uh… working with Cabot?”
I glanced around the empty room. One patron had come in through the door some minutes ago to sit by the fire, but that was all. “Quieter than I expected. I thought the soldiers might be… more.”
“Curly’s got a wrangle on ‘em. Used to be a lot worse. They mellowed out after Haven and… uh, you know.’
Haven. How different the Inquisition must have been then. “Were you in Haven?”
“When it was attacked, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Varric made a noise somewhere between a grumble and a sigh, then picked up his quill again. “Wasn’t on the front lines, but sure, I was there.”
It was difficult to picture. The roar of dragon fire in his eyes. “Were you scared?”
His entire body became suddenly rigid. He opened and shut his mouth, blinked, then grinned. “Nah. I was piss-drunk. Chuckles, though—”
“He’s bullshitting you.”
I jumped. Varric didn’t. The low, guttural voice came from above; Varric grinned at it in a sly, mischievous way, and the qunari, leaning over the railing that overlooked the bar, sent an identical one back, his one eye shrouded by the dark, but his teeth glinting.
“Tiny!” Varric exclaimed, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Jader, or… wherever it was?”
“Soon. Boys and I are waiting on the go-ahead from the boss. How’s your head?”
“It’s ‘ouch’. Hey, have you two met?”
I backed away. The qunari descended to the bar. Each step was a sharp, heavy stomp that made the stairs shake with his weight. At the bottom, he stopped, and leaned against a post.
“Nah.”
“Well. Now you have. Kid, you should join us for Wicked Grace sometime.”
The qunari’s eye gleamed like a campfire in the desert at night. I hid my shaking hands behind my back.
Not qunari. Not qunari. Tal-Vashoth! Right?
“I don’t gamble,” I squeaked.
“Doesn’t need to be for coin!”
What else could you play for? Clothes?! I shook my head. The qunari pushed off the post.
“Don’t let him scam you,” he said.
“I—I don’t scam people!” Varric splayed his hand across his chest. “I’m a liar, not a fraud!”
“Uh-huh. Hey, how about giving me back my nice, fancy eyepatch? The one from Orlais? How’s that looking?”
“You lost it fair and square, Tiny.”
“Agh! You don’t even need it!”
“Yet! The operative word here is ‘yet’.”
The qunari grumbled under his breath and made for the door. “Whatever you say. Dwarf.”
“Have fun in Jader!”
The door slammed shut behind him. I released my breath through my teeth, and used the counter to steady my hands. Whatever he was doing in Jader, at least he wouldn’t be here, for a time.
Varric, as clueless to me now as he was to most things, physically deflated as he gazed back at his parchment. Then, with a heavy sigh, folded it into his pocket.
“I should probably get going. Before it gets busy.”
“Right.”
“Say hi to Cabot for me.”
“Yes.”
He pushed past a group of women that had just come in. I hopped onto the crate behind the bar, ready to serve them, watching Varric leave me behind.
Emelin du Luson, Revered Mother of the Chantry of Kirkwall, to Serah Isana Mercar, Master of her House, and Daughter to the late Serah Javarel Mercar, greetings.
After careful and thorough considerations, it is with the utmost remorse that we must dismiss your appeal for a Dwarven funeral service, and the cremation of the late Serah Javarel Mercar will proceed, as in accordance with Chantry Doctrine, on Solace 15th, 9:41 Dragon, forthwith.
Go with the Maker’s Blessing and the Grace of our Most Holy Andraste, Maker’s Bride.
Written on the fifteenth day of Bloomingtide on the confines of Hightown, Kirkwall, in the forty-first year of The Dragon Age.
The splattered stain of wine slowly spread down the front of my dress. The offending glass lay in shattered fragments at my feet. The storeroom was cold. My fists shook at my sides.
Iowen reached out, then withdrew. She knelt and gathered the biggest shards into a sack; they scraped against the floor, an ear-piercing screech as her unsteady hands struggled to pick them up. When done, she stood.
Words lived then died on her tongue.
“I won’t tell Cabot,” she finally whispered.
I blinked away the hot tears that stung my eyes. I wouldn’t let them fall, I wouldn’t cry here. Iowen reached out again, and I withdrew.
Her voice rasped from disuse. “What happened?”
I unclenched a fist, finger by finger, and dragged my hands over my ruined dress. In my other, I clutched the scrunched-up, floral-scented, Maker-forsaken bastard of a letter in a white-knuckled, aching grip.
I should never have left.
I couldn’t be satisfied with what I had and what I had been given. Mother died for that stupidity, and now her soul would die, too. I had a home, I had security, I had a man who loved me, even when I was fundamentally unlovable, and when it wasn’t enough… it was never enough. Right?
I straightened my spine. “Please tell Cabot that I’m ill.”
It was nearly hurricane season in Kirkwall now. I had to leave immediately, or risk being caught adrift in The Waking Sea. It was a week from here to Jader, and then after that… three days by boat, less if the winds were strong.
Could I hire a pony? Did I have enough silver? I counted what I had as I left the tavern, Iowen watching me go with sad eyes. I had nearly two sovereigns, so accounting for travel expenses, that was—
“Kid! Leaving early?”
I clenched a fist around my coinpurse.
Varric, breathless, struggled to keep up with me. “What’s that on your dress?”
Red like mother’s blood in the grout. “Wine.”
“Did one of the soldiers—?”
It didn’t matter how much he claimed to care now. He didn’t protect us, never provided for us, and after two decades surviving off Lowtown scraps, mother was dead, and he was still rich.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Kid. If someone’s—”
I shoved him, then shoved him again, and he stumbled, mouth open, inhaling sharply.
“Stop pretending to care!”
I ran to the tower, feet thudding beneath me. I burst into my quarters with my heart in my throat and my pulse in my ears. I ripped off my corset and my kirtle, throwing them to the floor. Damn Varric! Damn the Chantry! Damn fucking Kirkwall!
I changed into my old clothes. I shoved everything into my pack. I tied it up, threw it over my shoulder, and glared up at the spider dangling above the chest of drawers.
“You didn’t even catch any fucking flies.”
It didn’t reply, just like it didn’t before, and with burning eyes, I threw my door open.
THUNK.
Varric cried out. His hand flew to where a fresh, door-shaped mark slowly spread across his forehead. “What is it with you and concussions?!”
“What do you want?”
“I—” His eyes, squinted in pain, fixated on my pack. In the hand at his side, he clutched the chipped, empty vase from his quarters. “What’re you—?”
“I’m leaving.”
He breathed in and out for a few silent moments, unmoving, his brow deeply furrowed. “What, Skyhold?”
“I’m going back to Kirkwall.”
“You… you can’t.”
As if a man like him could tell me what I could and could not do. I moved to leave; he blocked the doorway.
“ Varric. ”
He breathed again, in and out. A child outside threw a tantrum in the mud. Clenching his jaw, he held out the vase by its neck.
“Came to give this to you.”
Slowly, delicately, I took it. His fingers dragged along its body before it left his grasp. “Why?”
“You kept looking at it. Figured you liked it.”
I did. I really did, flowers or no flowers, daisies or no daisies. I put it on my window sill next to an empty, dusty candle-holder, and stared at it in the sun as Varric stepped in and closed the door behind.
There was a click, as he locked it.
“I—I’ll get a response from my contact soon, I promise. I’ll figure something out.”
I stared past him. “I can’t…”
“There’s a spot just outside Skyhold, uh, this shallow cave. We’ll meet him there, and have a chat, and then you can—”
“I can’t.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Stop it!” I snatched the candle-holder and threw, hard as I could—”Stop pretending to care!”—He ducked, and it missed him by inches, slamming into the door—”You didn’t before, you don’t now, and you never fucking will!”
“Didn’t ‘before’? Kid—!”
“Shut up!”
“I didn’t know about—”
“ Bullshit! ” I threw my pack against the floor. Birds scattered from the roof above. “She wrote letters, I saw them!”
So many, so many! As if she could ever stop at just fucking one! And how many times had he dared to grace his bastard daughter with the barest acknowledgement? He couldn’t even say sorry when I told him my mother was dead. The corners of his lips lifted just enough to bare the faintest glint of his teeth.
“I never got any damn letters.”
“Liar.”
His eyes narrowed, his mouth still parted. A long quiet stretched out for ten seconds, then ten more, as he eyed the vase on the windowsill.
He jutted his chin and blew out a breath. “You don’t believe me. Fine, I’m used to it. But before you go running off, tell me why. I’m owed that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything.
“Kid. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I don’t care!”
Something like faint recognition played behind his eyes, and abruptly he looked away, reaching up to tug on his golden necklace. His voice was measured.
“I gotta check in with the reconstruction efforts anyway, so…” He let go of it, and it fell against his chest. “Guess I’m going with you.”
A bird flew past my window. In a voice quieter than I thought possible, I asked,
“What?”
“Someone’s gotta stop you getting killed. I”ll have to have someone take my mail, maybe forward it to Kirkwall, but…”
“But… but, why—?”
“Fuck’s sake,” he hissed, “you really think I don’t care?! No, whatever, believe what you want. But tell me what’s going on!”
I shuffled my feet. My boots squeaked against the floorboards. My pack mocked me from where I threw it, motionless judgement.
Why did I do that?
My cheeks burned as I dug the letter from my pocket. Varric took and un-scrunched it.
“The Revered Mother…?”
“She was always kind to me in the Chantry. And the Sisters would give me warm bread, and…” and in the end, it all meant nothing. I was nothing. Mother was nothing.
When he finished reading, he stared out the window.
My voice warbled. “I need to convince her. Maybe she doesn’t understand.”
He ran a hand over his hair. “You want a dwarf funeral?”
“Yes, she needs to be returned to the Stone. I researched the rites, and the proper words, and all.”
His expression was indescribable and indiscernible. “I don’t really get it, but—”
“ ‘Get it’?”
“—if that’s what you want, then yeah. Sure. Let’s convince her.”
“What do you mean, you don’t get it?”
Something settled deep in my chest that was somewhere between disappointment and anger. I couldn’t tell which it was. They tangled together, like thick knots I was too clumsy to tug loose. How could he not get it? He was a dwarf, too.
Suddenly tired, I collapsed onto my bed, pack forgotten. “Your family… are all surfacers, then?” I tried. Mother was an exile from Orzammar. Somehow, I imagined he might’ve been too, but thinking on it…
“My family? Sure, now they are, I guess.” He joined me on the bed, sighing as he sank into the mattress. “My brother was from Orzammar, but me? Kirkwall, born and bred.”
Brother? Did I have an uncle? “Why did they leave?”
“Had to flee. Our father was fixing Provings. But, hey, turned out fine in the end! For me, anyway.”
I kicked my feet against the bed frame. He copied me, and for a minute, it was just the sounds of boots hitting wood.
“And for your brother?”
He opened and shut his mouth. “...You know what? Ask me another time, kid.”
“It’s a week to the nearest port.” Varric tapped his quill against a page of fresh parchment. The main hall’s fireplace dwindled into a spark, waiting for fresh fuel. He’d convinced me to stay another day, but I was… antsy. “Give or take. You’re fine with sleeping on the road?”
“I did it before.”
“Sure, with a bunch of refugees to bundle up with. It’ll be a lot colder without ‘em, and two lonely dwarves in the mountains…”
“Is it possible we’ll be attacked?”
“Skip possible and go straight to likely. We should bring someone else with us, another dwarf, maybe? We could probably pass as merchants.”
Harding entered through the large door that entered into the hall, a bow over her shoulder, and beelined to hover over the table. “The Inquisitor said you were leaving!”
I leaned back into the chair. Varric waved his hand in dismissal.
“Merchant Guild business in Kirkwall.” The lie rolled off his tongue with an uncanny, practised ease. Is that what he told the Inquisitor, too? “We’ll be back before you miss us, don’t worry.”
“So that’s where you know each other from, huh?”
“Oh, uh—”
“Yes,” I said.
They both looked at me; Harding with surprise, and Varric with his mouth in a line. Why was he annoyed?! He started it!
“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “We’re tryna bolster our numbers a bit, avoid getting attacked on the road. Any suggestions?”
“Hmmm.” She cocked one hip and contemplatively crossed her arms. “Port’s in Jader, right? Aren’t the Chargers heading that way?”
“Us with the Chargers?” He chuckled. “I think the kid here would have an aneurysm. We need something nondescript, but…”
I squinted up at Harding. The light behind her was a bit blinding. “You’re a scout, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
If it had to be anyone, anyone at all, in the whole of Skyhold… might as well be someone I actually knew. I looked to Varric, who instantly understood.
“Hey, Harding,” he said, “can I ask a favour?”