who_is_she | The Herald of Andraste, First Draft

The Herald of Andraste, First Draft

Scribbled on a spare piece of parchment, with an obviously shaking hand, some words are misspelled and crossed out or just illegible:

In my twenty-odd years of running a merchant's guild and occasional adventuring, I've come to see that the events you remember tend to fall into two categories: things that break your faith, and things that build it. Things that fall into neither of these categories are easy to forget or overlook, but you never forget the things that upset your very foundations.

There's things I know I'll never forget because they left scars on my faith, things like the feel of betrayal from my first love, or the distant red-tinged look in my brother's eyes as he tried to kill me and my friends. There's the things that kept me going, as well, like watching a man stand for those who could not stand for themselves and finding a valuable friend who you can connect to without speaking.

I know I will never forget the events of today, I know they have shaken my foundations, and I know that my faith has never been as deep and strong as it is in this moment.

I don't mean faith in the Chantry-going sense, I mean it in the most personal, what-you-feel-deep-in-your-heart kind of way. I mean it in what you can believe in, what you hope for, what makes your heart swell with awe and love.

In my time I've been lucky in my friends, counting heroes and would-be villains both among them, but I've never felt so lucky as I did when I realized I'd met my prophet, my beacon, known him and been able to call him friend. To know the person who gave you hope, who helped you believe that there was something special in the world, is both a source of great comfort and great concern. Comfort to know that greatness can come from a being of simple origins, to have proof that heroes of legend were also people, and concern to care so deeply for the price one may pay for such greatness.

I've never counted myself as religious, but today I witnessed a man stand up to a god and emerge victorious, to mend a gaping wound in the world itself and walk away afterwards, and the only words I can think of to describe what I felt in that moment were divine beauty and profound love.

Perhaps I am still not religious, because I still do not have the urge to bow at the feet of my Herald, or ask him to bless me with his divine grace. I do however believe that miraculous things can happen, impossible obstacles can be overcome, and people with selfless compassion can become heroes.

I believe in a man who could stand up and fight for the goodness in this world, be a shining beacon of light who can defeat the darkness creeping up, and set the standard for the kind of pure-hearted goodness we should all aspire to.

~

Varric had scratched down the words the moment he'd been able to, as soon as they'd returned to Skyhold and Jean had collapsed into a sleep that had lasted several days. His heart had been bursting with emotion at the time and he'd needed to get the words rattling around his mind out onto paper before he could rest himself.

That had been weeks ago, and looking over the parchment now Varric is embarrassed at the obvious emotion that had bled into almost every word of it. It was in desperate need of editing, and Varric was sure he'd just copy down the least incriminating pieces of it and then destroy the original or risk it falling into the wrong hands.

He knew he'd written something similar in the days immediately following the attack on the Kirkwall chantry, but even at his most love-struck and flowery he'd never called Hawke beautiful. Or implied that Hawke was the reason he had faith in the world again. No, Jean had always been different--special--and apparently he possessed the ability to make Varric blabber on like a schoolgirl with a crush.

The moment Varric had been able to reread the words with a clear head had been the moment he'd decided he had to leave. It was a heartbreaking realization, but he knew the longer he stayed by Jean's side the chances were higher that Jean would find out about his feelings, and the chances were lower that Varric would ever be able to move on from this.

He knew he wouldn't move on, found it unlikely that he could ever feel so strongly for anyone other than Jean, but staying at Skyhold would be more excruciating than leaving the part of his heart Jean had come to occupy empty.

The party had been yesterday and Varric had finally worked up the nerve to tell Jean about his plans to return to Kirkwall, and today he found himself reading over his own words again, his heart aching with longing as he tried desperately to work up the nerve to start arranging his travel. He set down the parchment and stood, deciding that a quick trip down to the kitchens for a snack would help.

Just after he left the room an errant breeze from the open window blew the parchment right off his desk and several feet across the room, until it landed lightly on the floor just inside the room.

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Jean had stumbled out of bed a few hours ago, looking less than radiant, not bothering to check himself over in the mirror before wandering out into the halls. A few days had passed since the battle against Corypheus had taken place, and the celebration hadn't yet quite fizzled out. He looked around corners warily before rounding them, not in the mood or state of mind to be taken by surprise by any nobles or admirers who might demand his attention. Even the thought of running into Sera, or Dorian, or Josephine, or any of his other friends seemed overwhelming. He found that, right now, there was only one person he really wanted to see.

He snuck past the festivities with care on his way to the dormitories, and when he reached the slightly open door he gave a light knock before pushing it further open and sticking his tired face inside.

"Varric?" he says, keeping his voice low, "You're in here, aren't you?"

Edited 2014-11-29 07:37 (UTC)

By the time Jean was knocking on his door Varric was still down in the kitchens, dawdling (procrastinating) by chatting with one of the cooks. She was a fan of his books, and had often given him valuable insight into his own writing, so sticking around and talking to her instead of going back to his room and writing letters to arrange his travel was almost like working.

It took him at least another ten minutes to finally work his way back to the room, armed with some bread and fresh fruit and still no desire to actually get down to work. When he pushed his way back into his room he was preoccupied with the words buzzing around in his head, and considering getting started on editing the parchment into something less horrible. It took him a moment to realize Jean was there, and when he did notice him he startled slightly.

"Oh, Jean! You startled me," he said, pasting on his usual cheeriness, "Was there something you needed?"

Jean had jumped when he heard footsteps approaching, and knew he couldnt place the parchment on the desk fast enough to avoid suspicion. He quickly folded his hands behind his back and sat down hard on Varric's bed.

"Yes!" he sputters, "Well, no, well. No, I just wanted to see you." The language Varric had used to describe him had turned his face a deep shade of red, and despite his current state of alarm and guilt he still felt as though his body had gone soft. "Listen, I, uh..." he stumbled over his words, debating whether or not to tell him what he had seen, before arriving at the conclusion that he couldn't lie to him and blurting out the truth.

"This...was on the floor," he said, pulling the sheet of paper from behind his back and smoothing it over his knee before handing it over, unable to meet Varric's eyes, "I read it. I didn't mean to, I thought I would just pick it up and return it, but...you write so beautifully, I was curious. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to invade your privacy."

Varric looks curiously over at Jean as he fumbles, noting the bright color on his cheeks and-- oh, Maker, was he about to confess his feelings for one of their companions? Please don't say Dorian, Varric thought desperately, just before Jean revealed the paper and all thought ground to a halt.

Varric's head snapped over to look at the desk, where he knew he'd left the paper, and sure enough it was gone. He took back the parchment with a shaking hand and walked over to the desk to buy himself some time, setting down the paper and the food he'd retrieved.

"It's all right," Varric said, attempting to shrug this off like he'd shrug anything off, wondering if he could still get away with denial. He couldn't, he knew he couldn't, he knew exactly what he'd written down because the feeling was still echoing around in his chest, "It's just... A first draft. Badly needs some editing. Nothing like that will end up published, I assure you," he said, trying and failing to sound unconcerned and just sounding hollow instead. At least now he had a solid reason to pursue securing travel to Kirkwall, because there was no way he could ever look Jean in the eye again after this.

"No, no," Jean said almost immediately, rising up from his spot on the bed quickly and scrubbing his face with his hands. "It's...lovely, I think. It's-"

He looked at him shyly through his fingers before pulling his hands away from his face.

"I didn't know you...thought of me that way," he said finally, clearing his throat. His nerves were eating him, and he knew there was no backing away now. This was going to end in a confession, for better or for worse, and he hoped he was ready for whatever was going to come of it. His heart pounded in his throat, and he does his best to swallow it.

Jean's attempts at reassurance make Varric ache, because even after this--even after reading a statement of Varric's deepest devotions he was still too nice. He kept his back turned towards Jean, unable to face him or move at all, and when Jean spoke again he groaned, miserably.

"Look, it was just..." Varric tried desperately to think of something, some kind of excuse, but came up empty-handed, "It's not important," he said instead, his voice low and hoarse, "It's probably best if you just forget about it. I'll... I'll be back in Kirkwall soon, and we can both forget about it." He turned finally, his shoulders hunched and his expression hidden behind a blank wall, preparing for the inevitable blow.

Jean bit his lip, watching the back of Varric's head intently. He makes his way across the room, to stand closer behind him, and folds his hands in front of him. He looked so small, now; he always seemed much bigger in Jean's mind than he truly was. After a moment he rested an unsteady hand on Varric's shoulder and cleared his throat.

"Varric," he said, "What if I don't want to forget?"

Varric's heart swells at Jean's words and against his better judgement he looks up, frowning as he meets Jean's eyes. It's too much, the color on Jean's cheeks and the earnest, honest look in his eye has panic clamoring up Varric's throat and he steps back, away from Jean's hand.

"Of course you want to forget," Varric says throatily, turning away again and rubbing his face with both hands.

"It's not important," he repeats, placing both hands on his desk and leaning over it.

"No," Jean says, more firmly than before, and he moves to his side, bending over it to meet Varric's eyes again. "I don't. And I take back what I said before, there is something I wanted to talk to you about. You know when all...that," he gestures to the paper in front of them, "was happening, when everyone thought that I was dead, or going to die, I thought I was too. I went into that fight never expecting to come out alive, but...I did. And I'm glad, now, that I did, because...because when I was lying in the wreckage and I could feel my lights starting to go out, I found myself regretting not ever telling you...how I feel. About you. And I'm not letting you get away from me yet without saying it, because if I don't get another chance-"

He kneels beside him so his face is just below Varric's eye level and leans heavily on the table, curling his fingers around Varric's wrist.

Varric stiffens when Jean moves even closer, and tries desperately to keep his eyes on the desk but as Jean speaks he finds he can't help but look. His eyes are wide as he looks over at him, his cheeks flushing at the implications in Jean's words and tone.

"How you feel about me?" Varric repeats, dumbfounded, his voice shaking a little as he looks down at Jean's hand on his wrist. It's deniable, it could just be friendly, but when Varric looks back up into Jean's eyes what he sees there is anything but friendly. He feels his panic, his walls, all his defenses crumbling in the face of Jean's intense, dark eyes, leaving him shaking and vulnerable.

"Andraste's tits," he swears, with feeling.

Jean laughs a little when Varric swears, and he slides his hand down over Varric's, resting his palm over his rough fingers.

"I...love you," he says, unable to keep up the eye contact, looking down at their hands on the table, "I thought maybe you knew, but...now I'm thinking perhaps you didn't." He swallows hard.

"Maker," he mutters, swearing under his breath, "You've no idea how long I've wanted to tell you."

Varric closes his eyes at Jean's admission, an expression almost like pain passing over his face. It was too much, too much of what he'd never let himself hope for, and his heart aches with the prospect of having his feelings return.

"I knew. Since... Since you staggered out of a jail cell, held up your hand and changed the world. I knew right then I was in trouble," Varric says, turning his hand under Jean's so their palms and fingers are wrapped around each other. Varric marvels at the feel of Jean's skin against his.

"It's not supposed to happen like this," Varric says, frowning slightly, "You're supposed to go off, change the world all on your own, find the love of your life and live happily ever after. And I'm supposed to write it all down and capitalize off your success and watch you be happy from a distance. I know. It's not supposed to happen like this."

Jean shakes his head with a soft, trembling laugh, letting his head fall against Varric's shoulder, his face restsd on his chest.

"If that's the story you've written us into," he says, "You might want to start drafting another. I-"

He gives Varric's hand a light squeeze before releasing it, in favor of pulling him into a hug, holding him tight around his thick waist.

"Please, don't leave. Not yet. I could come with you, for a time at least, when you go, the Inquisition could send aid to Kirkwall."

Varric isn't quite sure what to do about the hug, isn't sure what to do with his hands. When Jean mentions Kirkwall Varric feels that ache all over again and he reaches up to stroke his hands over Jean's hair.

"I... I only wanted to go to Kirkwall because it would have been too painful to stay. The truth is, Skyhold and... Being here, with you... I've felt more at home than I ever did in Kirkwall. I'd... Like to stay. If that's all right," Varric said, his hands going down over the back of Jean's head to cup the back of his neck. He felt dazed, like he was in the middle of a dream, like this whole thing hadn't quite sunken in yet.

"Maker's breath, what are we doing?" Varric asked, sounding more confused than panicked, and using his grip on the back of Jean's neck to tilt his head up.

Jean brightens the assurance that Varric will be staying, and his eyes flutter closed. He's in a daze as he cranes his neck upwards, letting his lips touch Varric's lightly before kissing him fully, almost desperately. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around him and locks his hands behind his back.

He only breaks apart long enough to seat himself in Varric's chair, placing him at eye level, before pulling him back in again.

Varric isn't quite expecting the kiss, though after it happens he thinks he should have been. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and pushes closer, wrapping his arms around Jean's neck. He moves in between Jean's knees to continue the kiss, enjoying the rasp of Jean's beard and the soft sweetness of his tongue.

"I love you," Varric whispers, right up against Jean's mouth, his fingers twisting into the longer hair at the back of his neck.

"It worked! I can't believe it worked!" cries a voice and Varric startles, spinning on his heel and throwing his arm out to grab Bianca, who's sitting on his desk. He pauses when he sees Cole has appeared in the corner of the room, and Varric flushes darkly.

"Cole?"

"He was going to leave, and you were going to let him, but I realized he's always more honest when he writes, it's safer on the page," Cole chatters excitedly, bobbing his head as he speaks, "I made it want to be read and it worked!"

Varric gapes, trying to process that with the taste of Jean's mouth still fresh on his tongue and his head still spinning with emotion.

Startled, Jean tips backwards in his chair and quickly tips over, toppling onto the floor with a crash. He rubs his head as he sits up, glancing from Varric, who was now armed, to the corner, where Cole now sat.

"What are you on about, Cole?" he asks, bewildered, licking the wetness from Varric's mouth off his lips with a swipe of his tongue.

Varric looks over when Jean speaks up, worry creasing his brow as he sees him sprawled on the floor.

"Neither of you could see," Cole insists, and Varric sighs and sets Bianca carefully back down onto his desk.

"Cole, are you saying you had something to do with this?" Varric says, aiming for exasperated but somehow he just comes out fond. If that is what Cole means, Varric can't exactly begrudge him for it.

"I thought it was obvious, I thought you would get there on your own but you didn't," Cole says, shaking his head, "The paper wanted to be read and the secret wanted to come out so I helped. And now you're happy." Cole laughs a little, breathlessly, and Varric's heart swells with affection for the kid.

"Thank you, Cole," Varric says, a bright but almost shy smile on his face as he looks back at Jean.

Jean covers half his face with his hand, a smile spreading across his face as Cole spoke, and when he looks up at Varric, he can't help but begin to laugh.

"Yes," he chuckles, "Thank you, Cole." He rolls onto his side and stands up, bringing the chair with him and sitting on it properly again. He reaches out, and takes Varric's hand back into his own.

"We really should have figured it out sooner, shouldn't we?"

"Yes, you should have," Cole says and Varric laughs, squeezing Jean's hand in his own.

"A little privacy, Cole?" Varric asks, and Cole looks shrewdly at them both before disappearing. Varric carefully sets Bianca back down on the desk before moving closer to Jean, cupping his face in his hands and studying him.

"There are no accidents," Varric says with a laugh, leaning in to kiss Jean again.

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The Herald of Andraste, First Draft

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