who_is_she | fine dwarven crafts

fine dwarven crafts

It was a quiet day in Skyhold, which really only meant that no dragons, gods, demons or miscellany had attacked (so far). Varric had decided to deviate from his usual haunt (the main hall of the castle, which meant he was always the first to hear news or gossip and jot it down in a nearby journal) to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet, of course, meant the tinny clash of sword and shield as Curly wrangled some recruits; cries of joy or outrage with a tinkling of music beneath it from the direction of the tavern; and of course the ever-present whistle of the sharp mountain winds.

It was downright poetic, and Varric was nothing if not an appreciator of poetry.

He walked for a while and found himself on the top of one of the castle walls, because there was a place where the wall hadn't been repaired yet and it was just the perfect size for a dwarf to lean against and appreciate the scenery.

He thought briefly of the Inquisitor, who Varric had seen several times today already as he ran between the war room, library, rookery, and even down to the barracks. He hoped the Inquisitor would get a chance to appreciate such a beautiful day, but no doubt being the Herald of Andraste took up all the time that could usually be afforded for view appreciation.

Varric's heart ached at the tragedy implied in that sentence; the Herald could save the world, but he didn't have time to appreciate it. He sighed and looked back at the castle, more distracted by the thought of bringing the Inquisitor the joy of this beautiful day than actually enjoying it himself either.

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It was harder for Cole to approach people now than it used to be. Before, he could simply appear to a person, say what needed to be said, and vanish without a trace, taking the memory of his visit with him. Now, it was different, and though he thinks he is happier being real -- realer -- it was taking some time to adjust. He could see Varric, his friend, standing there, could feel the slight pang of Varric's sadness in his own chest as Varric's thoughts travelled to Jean, as they so often did.

He wanted to do something to ease it for him, so he could enjoy what few fleeting moments of calm they were allowed, and though his steps are faltering, he slowly closes the gap between them, and stands silently behind him for a spell before he speaks.

"He heaves a half-hearted sigh," he says, "bearing the brunt, the work thankless and the people thoughtless. It drains him. This hurts you. I feel it."

Cole's voice is a surprise, but a pleasant one, and though Varric can't stifle how he jerks, when he turns to face the kid he's smiling. He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms, puzzling through the riddle of Cole's words for a moment.

"You mean the Inquisitor?" Varric asks, after putting his previous thoughts together with the kid's cryptic description, "Yeah, that's true enough. I wish he had time to appreciate the finer things. Hell, that goes for all of us, really." Varric shrugged, tilting his head back up to look at the sky, "I think he deserves it more than anyone else, though." Normally, he'd keep a thought like that inside his head where it belonged, or maybe add it in as an emotional punch where needed if he was writing it down, but with Cole there was no such thing as a secret.

It was kind of a relief, really, to have someone to talk to who was literally impervious to lies. Not to mention the kid's good heart and gentle nature, it had surprised Varric how quickly he'd come to be fond of Cole.

Cole sits on the ground in front of him, picking up a nearby stick and scratching at the dirt with it, tracing over the shape of a circle again and again as he speaks.

"I know Jean is special. You've felt this way before," he says, still scratching at the ground, "For someone else. You pretended, tried pushing past, but the thoughts pestered you persistently. His hand holds another's, as does hers. You don't want this to happen again. Not again." He stops grinding the stick into the dirt and looks up, not meeting Varric's eyes, but fixing his gaze on his knees instead.

"You hide in stories where you observe and occur, rather than shake and shape, but you do so much more. You mean more this time, I know it."

Varric freezes, his eyes going wide and his heart thumping at his most protected secrets dumped out in front of him unceremoniously. If it were anyone else Varric would have denied it, laughed it off, pretended that such a thing would be downright impossible not to mention ridiculous.

But Cole never would have said it if it hadn't been happening right inside Varric's head, and the only way to make it not true was to... Well, not have a type. Varric sighs, reaching up with one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"You know, kid, sometimes people don't say things out loud because thoughts are a lot easier to ignore than words," Varric says, his voice gruff but gentle. The ache in his chest only grows at Cole's eloquent and insightful summation of his romantic history.

With Bianca, at least, he had the excuse of being young and naive--he'd been desperate for excitement and distraction from a life of dull nobility, and she'd been a bright spark in the darkness. She was smart and interesting and funny--and when they talked about the tedious and difficult task of stringing a bow she'd built him a prototype. They'd kissed with both their hands joined together on the butt of the crossbow. Varric had followed her spark up to the surface, and she'd turned back around and sunk back into the darkness, leaving Varric with a priceless weapon and a lot of sour memories.

With Hawke, he had no such excuses. He was old enough to know better and he'd still spotted the Lothering refugee with a staff strapped to his back and been unable to stop his feet from crossing the courtyard over to him. If Bianca was a spark, Hawke had been a beacon; incandescently bright and a genius with a staff and a funny habit of getting himself into horrible situations. Varric had still been smarting from Bianca, even years later, and he hadn't even realized the extent of his feelings until all hope was lost. Hawke had staggered into The Hanged Man late at night and drank an entire bottle of wine before he'd reluctantly admitted that he and Fenris had been intimate, and it was already over. Hawke had been so devastated (and so had Fenris, for that matter) that Varric knew his chance was over, if he'd ever even had one in the first place.

None of that had been helped by the fact that he couldn't actually bring himself to dislike Hawke or Fenris in the slightest. The love they eventually got around to sharing had been pure and beautiful, and Varric had been honestly joyful that Fenris especially had found such happiness after knowing such pain. That didn't mean he hadn't ached to see them together.

And Jean... Well, at least now Varric knows he has a type: dashing, heroic, and miles out of his league. At least Jean has the distinction of stirring some long-dormant belief in a higher power, though whether that's a sign of good or ill Varric couldn't say.

Cole's reassurances fall on deaf ears as Varric loses himself within the depths of his regrets and he raises both hands to scrub at his face.

Cole feels Varric's unrest immediately, and though Varric's voice is calm and collected, the weight of his hopelessness sends him into something of a panic, and he begins to rock himself back and forth. In the past, he would have simply vanished, taking Varric's memory of this exchange with him, but now it was too late.

"I said the wrong thing," he says, sadly, "I can't make you forget anymore, I can't try again. It doesn't work anymore. I'm...so sorry."

He pauses a while, staring down at the tracks he's drawn in the dirt, rubbing his hands up and down his arms as he sways.

"He thinks about you all the time," he says, finally, "He held onto hope through his hardest times because of the stories you spin. A trepid boy locked in a tower with tales of heroes he never once hoped to be, but has become, now, despite what he may believe. He now comes to the storyteller with his heaviest burdens, his greatest griefs, knowing he'll understand. He's begun to feel some things he thinks he can't tell him about."

At Cole's panicked words Varric looks up, startled from his morose reflections. He moves closer to Cole, kneeling down next to him without touching him or entering his personal space.

"No, Cole, it's not your fault, I'm sorry," Varric says, gently, resisting the urge to reach out and put a comforting hand on Cole's shoulder. When Cole speaks again Varric pauses, his heart thumping as something warm and hopeful takes up residence inside his chest.

"That's reassuring," he says finally, when he can speak through the lump in his throat, "I'm glad I can help him. Thank you, Cole." He pauses to gather his thoughts before speaking again, "I've... Become so much of a spectator to my own life that I'm not quite sure how to live it anymore. With Hawke I was so preoccupied thinking about what a great story it would be, when it was all over, that I didn't stop to think about what I had. What I was giving up."

"I know what it's like," Cole says, pulling his knees up to rest his chin on them, "To watch people, without letting yourself really be one of them. It is...hard. And it's lonely. I'm getting better, though. I have friends again, and you do, too. I-"

Cole's reflections are interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming down the hall, approaching quickly. Josephine and Commander Cullen come round the corner, arguing loudly, with Jean trailing behind them, an almost frantic look on his face.

"I must insist once again that we cannot use physical force now," Josephine says, flourishing her pen furiously, "This is a delicate operation that must be handled with the proper care. If we march in there now it will look like an attack. I have contacts in Val Royeux who can persuade the-"

"Yes, yes, I know all about your contacts," Cullen interrupts her, throwing his hands up in exhasperation, "But we're running out of time. We simply cannot afford diplomacy, now, if these people are to make it out of there alive. We need to deploy a group of soldiers to escort the refugees to safer lodgings within the next week. Inquisitor, please, you must understand that-"

"I understand," Jean says, cutting him off by raising a finger to each of them. He speaks calmly, for all the stress in his expression, "That we are all a little stressed. It's been a rough day for all of us, and we've been working and working nonstop for a long time now. What I need both of you to do is take a little time off, and meet me back in the war room in two hours. I need some time to think this through as well."

"But-" they both interject,

"Two hours," says Jean, "please, for your own sakes. We'll get right back to this, I promise. Don't make me 'order' you to do this, you know I hate that."

The two nod, Josephine's heels clacking as she returns to her office and Cullen shuffling off towards his quarters on the wall. Jean smiles a little when he sees Varric and Cole sitting on the ground just outside, and he makes his way towards them, scrubbing at his face.

"I suppose the two of you saw all that," he sighs, slumping over and sitting cross-legged against the wall near them.

"Hello," says Cole, with a smile.

"Hi, Cole," says Jean, nodding, "Varric."

Varric looks up at the commotion, distracted from his morose thoughts and the serious conversation. Honestly, Jean's exchange with Ruffles and Curly doesn't seem much better than the exchange he'd been having with Cole. No, it was worse, because Cole had never and would never be as abrasive as the others.

A brief, sad shadow passes over Varric's expression as he watches Jean approach, mourning for the weight on Jean's shoulders. By the time Jean is close enough to see his face Varric has packed up all that emotion into the deepest parts of his heart, where they belong, and replaced his frown with a rogueish smile.

"Trouble with your subjects, your Inquisitorialness?" Varric asks with a laugh in his voice, "Cole and I were just enjoying this poetically gorgeous day," He said with a flourishing gesture towards the sky, "I'm starting to get used to this cold, soon enough I'll never be comfortable in Kirkwall's heat."

"What? Oh, yeah, it is nice out isn't it?" Jean says, still sounding a bit distracted as he takes in the view around them for the first time. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, scratching thoughtfully at his chin.

"We were talking about you," Cole says, his voice bright and oblivious, "Varric was very worried about you. I tried to make it better. I'm not sure if I did." Jean looks startled at first, before turning to smile slightly at Varric, a hint of redness rising in his cheeks.

"You needn't worry," he sighs, with a hint of sadness in his voice, "Please, you've all enough troubles of your own without fretting over me."

Varric closes his eyes briefly when Cole speaks up, making a mental note to have a nice, long talk with the kid about a little thing called tact. He suppresses any other outward signs of his embarrassment and just laughs, though his laughter is a bit strained.

"I just thought it was a shame," says Varric, shrugging, and thinking very loudly about how much he would like it if Cole didn't spill his secrets everywhere, "How you were all cooped up in your tower when it's such a beautiful day and all. But hey, here you are, miracles really do happen." Varric eased back into his usual lazy smile, trying not to look at the abashed expression on Jean's face without actually looking like he wasn't looking.

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fine dwarven crafts

direct from orzammar

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get that warrior

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Re: get that warrior