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forthelulzy · 5 years

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Heaven By Violence: Chapter 3

Such are promises! All lies and jests Still a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest — “The Boxer”, Simon & Garfunkel

“Varric Tethras. I knew I had heard that name.”

The dwarf in question glances up from the fire, gesturing with his flagon. “Really, Stormy? You didn’t recognize me immediately? You wound me.”

The bags under Irene’s eyes could carry an Orlesian’s powder kit, he sees, but at least she’s still standing. Her hands are on her hips, and she’s blinking at him, clearly taken aback by his jest. She’s been cloistered in with the advisors too much of late, he supposes. Today, two meetings. The rumor is they’re trying to figure out a way to get Chantry support in the wake of Roderick’s denouncement of the Inquisition. It’s all above Varric’s pay grade, but he is curious how it will turn out. He’s already taking notes, after all.

“I don’t read a lot of fiction,” she says at last.

“Okay, most of my stuff is fiction, yeah. But Tale of the Champion? All true! Mostly true.”

“Tale of the Champion…” she repeats, rolling the title around in her mouth. Varric is tempted to joke about her literacy, but that would probably be a bad idea. “That was the one about Hawke, right? Cassandra mentioned something about him.”

“Yep. Seeker was looking for him before the Conclave, wanted him to lead this Inquisition. Until I said I had no idea where he was, and then you fell out of the sky.” He would go into more detail about Cassandra’s rough treatment, but there will be plenty of opportunities for that.

Irene’s eyes narrow. “Until you said you had no idea where he was.”

“Shit, Stormy! Not you too!” he deflects. He reminds himself that though Irene looks like nothing but a thug, he still needs to be careful. “Look, even if I did know where he was, I’d rather have you than him any day. I respected the man, sure, but he and I weren’t exactly the best of friends. He got shit done, but he left a lot of bodies in his wake. Allies’ bodies.” Varric still doesn’t know why Cassandra was so eager to find Hawke; it was all in the book. He spared no one, and Hawke had — has — a lot to answer for.

“He killed his own allies?”

Varric sighs, gulps the rest of his ale. “Not directly, but yes. He sold an escaped slave back to his magister master, after leading him on for years. I thought they had a nice romance going on, right up until the betrayal. He did a lot of backstabbing, towards the end. The only person he didn’t stab — literally, or figuratively — was the guy who blew up the Chantry.” The sick smile on Hawke’s face as it had all unraveled… Practically congratulating a resigned Anders, encouraging him to run. No one had seen it coming. Meredith wasn’t the only lunatic in Kirkwall, she was just worse at hiding it.

Irene’s face has gone through an interesting array of emotions while he’s been talking: disbelief, surprise, anger, disgust. He’s grateful she’s so bad at hiding them. “I can’t… Why?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, but he can only shrug and look down into his empty flagon. “I’ll need a lot more ale to even begin to speculate. Join me if you like?”

She twitches, like he’s just suggested drinking literal dragon piss, says her goodbyes quietly and continues on her way down to her cabin. Varric shakes his head. Irene Trevelyan may be unstable, especially with so much pressure on her, but she is no Garrett Hawke and for that, he could almost thank the Maker.

~o~O~o~

The Hinterlands are huge and strangely boring for a battlefield. Varric wants nothing more than to get what they need — Mother Giselle — and go, but Irene rallies further as the days pass, and he can’t complain about her wanting to help people. Solas complains, mentions the Breach and Val Royeaux more frequently as they linger. He’s only slightly mollified with the discovery of some artifact that is supposed to measure the Veil.

Then he is back to complaining.

Varric thought he had Irene figured out — that she would argue with Solas over her leading them up and down and around the countryside while the Breach was still visible in the distance — but she mostly ignores the elf. She is, for once, in a good mood, though sometimes he catches her staring off into the distance with that expression. The one when she remembers something both fondly and with crushing grief. That one. He thinks about how to describe it in his book, but it will never suffice when compared to seeing it with his own eyes. Such is the nature of writing from life.

(There were some things he left out of Hawke’s tale, for the sake of the story. Things that may better explain how he should never be a choice for leader of anything. One day, maybe, he will write them down. Sod the plot. Sod the flow.)

~o~O~o~

He leaves the tent in the middle of night, Solas still breathing deeply and undoubtedly doing… something Fade-related, to find Irene still sitting alone by the embers of their campfire. He shakes his head at her pensive profile, and wanders off into the woods.

When he comes back some minutes later, she is, unsurprisingly, still there. He sits down next to her. “If you don’t mind me asking, Stormy, isn’t it time you woke up Cassandra?”

“Yes,” she replies. It is a simple statement of fact; she doesn’t sound remotely guilty. She breathes deep and keeps her eyes on the horizon.

“Right. If you, again, don’t mind me asking, is there something you’ve been avoiding? Something important?”

He means sleep, but she turns her head sharply and says, “I am not avoiding meeting with the Mothers! I need to help these people, and time to… Time to… Bullocks.” She turns away again, hands clenching. The mark flares in her left fist, and she hisses and punches the ground.

All right then. “It’ll be fine. Look, you may not be the sweet-talking negotiator Ruffles wanted, or the steady leader Curly wanted… or really, who any of us expected.” She scowls at him, but he shrugs and keeps talking. This is, for once, what he’s good at. “But you are far from incapable. Like she said,” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the Crossroads, though Mother Giselle is probably in Haven by now, “you don’t need them to agree with you. What you need is doubt. They think you murdered the Divine. Show them you want justice for her real killer. Just… try not to let them under your skin. They win that way.”

Something in her posture loosens at his words: she lets out a long breath and leans back on her hands, looking up at the stars. She studies them, that expression creeping back across her face. Varric lets her think. He’s said all he wanted to say, and though he could say more, no more is needed.

“Thank you,” she says when the embers have long become cold ashes. “You… remind me of someone. I haven’t seen him in years, but… I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re friends with another handsome dwarf with irresistible charm and impressive chest hair? What a coincidence.”

She barks a surprised laugh, wiping at her eyes. “No! I’m afraid you’re the only one I know quite like you. He’s almost twice your height, for one.”

“My dear Herald, was that a joke?”

Her smile cracks a bit at the title, but her voice is still teasing when she says, “No joke. He’s taller than me. Only by a fingerwidth, but still. He’s my… my brother. Half brother. One of my father’s many bastards. But he was the only one who let me be myself, when we were young.”

“Sounds like a good brother.” He does not mention that he wishes he had a brother now. It would ruin the mood, and it is not about him, besides.

“He will be so worried that I haven’t written. Everything has happened so fast. I don’t have the last letter from before… before the Conclave, anymore. I don’t remember where he was.”

“Don’t worry.” He pats her arm. “If anyone can find him, it’s our Sister Nightingale.”

He helps her with the first draft that night, and the next day Irene finally turns back toward the Crossroads to ask Corporal Vale if there is anything more that can be done.

He stares at her like she’s bloody Andraste come from on high.

And that is the day she looks back at them, exhausted, blistered, and smelly from days out on the road, and says, “Well then. Suppose it’s time to go.”

~o~O~o~

Brother,

I don’t know how much you’ve heard, wherever you are. Everything has been happening so fast, I can barely keep up myself most days.

And I’m in the thick of it. I was at the Conclave. I’m the only survivor — Colm is dead. I’m the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste, brother. Symbol of the reborn Inquisition, closer of the rifts, a bloody Chosen One. I’m having enough trouble just trying to stay sane in all this, I can’t begin to live up to their dreams. I can’t begin to live up to my own.

I am going to Val Royeaux. My advisors — I have advisors! — insist that I need to get the support of the Chantry, or at least divide and conquer. I hope you don’t believe their stories about me. I didn’t kill the Divine.

I miss you.

Irene

~o~O~o~

Irene’s mood does not sour as they near Val Royeaux, but she does grow tense. The four of them haven’t stopped in Haven for more than a day to rest before they are out on the road again with the advisors’ blessings. Whatever they’d said in that war room, Irene holds herself like a giant is pressing down on her shoulders.

Her mood does sour when they enter Val Royeaux. A Mother grandstands in the square, decrying the Inquisition for all to hear. Worse, she recognizes their party immediately, and confronts Irene. She, however, dregs up the past she seems determined to escape — daughter of a Bann — for the confrontation, and remains surprisingly tactful. Varric wouldn’t blame her, really, if she got into a shouting match with anyone and everyone who still thinks her a murderer. But they have not seen what he, what the whole Inquisition, has seen. The Mother isn’t anywhere close to doubting, but the Sisters nearby are, and the templar with them wears it openly on his face. Herald of Andraste.

Then the other templars arrive and it all goes to shit.

She lives up to her nickname on the ride home — though only Solas and Cassandra seem truly comfortable on a horse, they are pressed for time after gallivanting around the Hinterlands for weeks — quietly building up a storm. The other elf they’ve picked up, Sera, keeps sending the rest of them quizzical looks, but she doesn’t leave, at least. Irene found someone else, ‘the First Enchanter of the last loyal mages’ (that part is said with contempt), but he hasn’t met this Lady Vivienne yet. He is told she needs to wrap up unfinished business before joining them in Haven. Probably involving an entourage and about seventy-three suitcases, if she’s a true Orlesian.

He chats with Sera, trying to distract her from poking at the Herald literally and figuratively. She is… an odd duck, but she’s funny at least. He’s glad she hasn’t run screaming into the hills yet.

They reach the valley without incident, and arrive at Haven to find the Commander waiting for them. He is tenser than usual. No wonder; Cassandra has sent word ahead.

“Herald!” he calls as Irene swings off her horse with all the grace of a druffalo. “I heard… that is… are you all right?”

She stumbles getting off, but bats his hands away when he reaches to steady her. Interesting. She brings her shoulders back, and though they are of similar height he seems so much smaller in the moment. “Fine, Commander. I’m fine. Val Royeaux won’t be. I did get approached by Grand Enchanter Fiona, though. Seems we have a better alternative to your precious templars,” she snarls.

He reels back as if struck. Varric winces. It’s a low blow, and the long road between Orlais’ capital and Haven has done nothing to soften her fury. A crowd is gathering, too, whispering among themselves.

Irene huffs and shoulders past him, heading for the gates, but stops short when Leliana, waiting on the steps, speaks.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she says calmly, voice ringing. She produces a folded paper. A report? “Your letter bore fruit. We have received a reply. You should read it before deciding.” She saunters back inside.

Irene takes a deep breath, then sprints after her.

~o~O~o~

Sister,

I believe a lot of things, true enough, but I could never believe that you would harm a hair on Colm’s head. He was a good man and I am sorry.

We hear very little, but what gets through is worrying. The rumors are vicious and I fear the Lord Seeker has done his best to promote them. What goes on outside fills me with dread, but what is happening here is worse. It is a thousand times worse. I do not wish to alarm you, but it is difficult to overplay the situation.

I am at Therinfal Redoubt, sister, with the remaining templars. The loyal templars, as we called ourselves at the start of the war. Oh, how arrogant we were. Our loyalty has been twisted. I don’t know what’s happening, but something stalks these halls.

I am sorry.

Julien

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