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its_likealchemy) wrote2015-03-07 05:15 pm
its_likealchemy) wrote2015-03-07 05:15 pm
feels like we're given so little time ❧ rp for dramatic_timing
As far as beginnings go, its starts innocuously enough.
Two-thirds of the way up the mountain on their trek to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to join the Conclave, Hawke stops, turns and squints into the treeline that frames the road behind them. He stops, too, plants one foot on a rock at the edge of the cobble, pushing up onto his toes, and follows her gaze. When he sees nothing of interest, he looks up at her, frowning as she does. "Why do I feel like I'm missing the punchline of a really bad joke?"
"Well, they do usually go over your head," she responds absently, still staring, fingers twitching at her side as if she means to reach for her dagger. She stops, they both do, when Cassandra calls for them somewhere further down the road.
Letting out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, Varric glances back at her before nudging Hawke's elbow with his. She looks back at him, if only for an instant, before turning her attentions back to the woods. He tries again, this time without the prodding -- it helps that, just before he starts, Cassandra bellows for them again. "I don't know if you heard our illustrious slave driver, but we might want to think about catching up before she starts getting stab happy again."
She looks back at him, plants one hand on the top of his head and twists lightly, as if to turn him around, back to Cassandra. Despite how short he is, it doesn't really work, but he gets the meaning all the same. "You'd best be off, then."
"I'm pretty sure she called for both of us."
"I'll catch up," she counters. "Tell her -- tell her I had to make a detour to the little rogue's privy."
Varric just continues to frown at her. "Should I even ask what your elven eyes see out there?"
"Probably nothing." She shrugs, reaches again for her dagger, this time pulling it free of its sheath on her back and takes a handful of steps back the way they came.
Stepping down off his perch, he turns but makes no motion to follow her. He trusts Hawke to take care of herself, knows that, if she does see something shady, she'll be able to get to it and stop it more effectively, more quietly without him and Bianca, but, "You get that those are kind of famous last words, right?"
"Oh, relax, Varric. What's the worst that could happen?"
Running into a horde of angry Templars springs to mind. As does the thought of blood mages, demons and / or the errant hungry bear, considering how far out of the city, any city they are, right now. He doesn't get to spout any of that off, however, if only because she's gone in all but the blink of an eye, disappearing off into the tress in only the briefest flashes of red and black. He exhales heavily, shakes his head and turns himself, already trying to decide what he's going to tell Cassandra when he catches up with her. He hopes Hawke realizes how much he loves her, considering how absolutely shitless the Seeker scares him.
---
What scares him more is what happens next.
They're almost to the camp just outside the Temple when the whole thing goes up in flames, green flames that knock him and Cassandra both square on their asses and suck all the air right out of the mountains, if only for an instant. When he gets his breath back and as he's staggering to his feet, he swears he hears a scream echo over their heads and a weird sort of dread settles over him. The fact that there's a giant hole in the sky, now, or the fact that he's pretty sure no one could have survived that probably doesn't help, but -- but in that instant, he thinks of Hawke.
She still hasn't caught up with them. What if whoever or whatever she was following got to the Temple before they did? What if she was at ground zero for whatever the hell that was? What if.
He glances to Cassandra, back on her feet now and one hand on her sword like its a medallion of Andraste, like it will somehow save her, and she looks back, her face pale, eyes haunted. He knows, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, that on top of everything else, she's had the same thought. He can see it on her face. He wishes he hadn't.
Dropping his eyes, turning his head, he stares off to one side for a long moment, his breathing heavy, hard, the Siege of Kirkwall reenacting itself in his chest. It takes him a moment to catch his breath and not lose his very bland, very beerless breakfast all over his boots, but when he does, he mutters a prayer to the Maker under his breath, steels his jaw and starts towards the Temple otherwise wordless. His distantly aware of Cassandra falling into step behind him. They don't talk but the memory of screaming rings in his ears.
---
"He says he can help."
"Songbird, unless he's the Maker Himself, I don't think a little bit of healing's going to fix this."
The words taste like poison on his lips, with Hawke's unconscious head bowed on his knees, he can't help but think this is it. The fact that she doesn't seem bruised or broken or bleeding helps; the fact that he can't get her to wake up even with the salts he's pulled out of his belt pouch, the fact that her breathing is shallow and broken, and her hand's glowing like a fucking torchlight, like the hole in the sky doesn't. He reaches for her fingers carefully and he, a dwarf, normally immune to such things, can feel it burning under her gloves before he even laces their fingers together. He gives up on the gesture, clencing his eyes shut tightly, a ward against the stinging there.
"If you would just let him -- " Leliana starts again. She stops when he shoots her a sudden, murderous look. Or when the elf steps forward. He's not really sure which it is and, quite honestly, he doesn't really care.
"Master Tethras, is it?" Baldy starts. He's a little hard pressed to come up with a better nickname, right now, not with his heart dying in his lap. He grunts in response, regardless, his attentions still set on Hawke. "Master Tethras, please. I have studied the old magics of the Fade in painful detail, so if anyone here is any position to help her, it would likely be me. At very least, it cannot hurt to try and I will not hurt her in doing so. You have my word."
"If she dies ... " If she dies, he'll bribe or threaten or -- whatever whoever he needs to to make sure the elf ends up on the wrong end of a headsman's axe. If him trying to help only kills her faster, he'll put a dozen explosive arrows through his head himself and watch him blow up like a bird grown fat on rice. The look he gives him when he finally raises his eyes reflects that and the elf doesn't falter. Instead, he just holds his gaze for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly, and then lowers himself to Hawke's side.
He lets him take her, pushing shakily to his feet. He wants to be here, be at her side, for better or worse, as the elf works on her, but his feet carry him away of their own volition.
"I need some air," he grumbles to no one in particular. Never mind the fact that they're already outside. Cassandra and her men, ringing the space around them, part to let him pass.
---
"If I were to tell you she was completely out of the woods, I would be lying," Solas starts from behind him. He actually thought to ask the mage's name at some point, last night, after they'd moved Hawke back to the Chantry at Haven. "But she is stable and, I would think, gaining strength. She dreams, now, no longer merely unconscious, and her breathing has righted itself."
"Does Cassandra have any idea who did this, yet?" he asks lowly, as if raising his voice might wake Hawke up. Even if Solas' assessment bringing him some measure of hope, he doubts it. She may not be completely out of it, anymore, but she still hasn't woken up for anything. Just thrashed around a lot, worryingly, for what he's seen so far.
"No, but we may have more immediate concerns. What Seeker Pentagast and her associates have named the Breach -- "
"Can wait until I find out who did this and put an arrow in his eye."
Solas falls silent at that, apparently contenting himself to watching the both of them.
---
On the morning of the third day, an angry mob, pitchforks and all, show up at the doors of the Chantry, where Varric has been sitting, dismissed from Hawke's side by Solas while he furthers his attempts at bringing her around. Sons and daughters of the men and women lost at the Conclave, they hold Hawke responsible, the "Champion" of Kirkwall behind another act of terrorism, and demand retribution. He pulls Bianca from his lap, where she's been resting as he cleaned her gears idly, picks up a bolt and with a casual flourish, loads it in.
He fires a single shot at the feet of the horde, a challenge, a dare. They disperse in an instant, flailing in all directions, not having expected any actual resistance. They don't come back.
---
That night, as the day sinks into felfire-green twilight and fires begin to spring up around the camp, Cassandra finds him. He's half-expecting tables to be flipped, books to be skewered, something, anything, in response to him having all but openly attacked the locals. Much to his surprise, however, she simply sits down across the doorway from him and pulls her knees up to her chest so she can rest her elbows on them.
She's silent for a long time, albeit not uncomfortably so, before, "Solas tells me Hawke will be awake by tomorrow."
Less than a dozen words, and he feels all the anger he's been carrying around, all the terror, unravel, the knot that's been winding around and around in his heart and head both gone in an instant. He closes his eyes, fingers steepling in front of his mouth in a gesture of prayer as he silently thanks the Maker. He lets out a shuddering, half-frozen breath between them before he drops his hands. "Guess I should stop sitting out here on my ass, then, huh?"
"I do not think she would be terribly happy with me if I allowed her dwarf to freeze to death," she says by way of agreement.
He exhales a hysterical sigh of a laugh, relief, albeit cautious relief, making him giddy. "So you do have a sense of humor."
"On occasion." She flashes him a brief, thin smile, watching him get to his feet before she begins again. "There will be many questions she will have to answer, when she wakes up, and much for us to do beyond, but Varric, I wanted to say ... " He looks to her, expectantly, and she falters for an instant as she tries to untangle her words. "For your sake, I am glad she will be alright."
"So am I, Seeker," he breathes, turning to head inside. "So am I."
Two-thirds of the way up the mountain on their trek to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to join the Conclave, Hawke stops, turns and squints into the treeline that frames the road behind them. He stops, too, plants one foot on a rock at the edge of the cobble, pushing up onto his toes, and follows her gaze. When he sees nothing of interest, he looks up at her, frowning as she does. "Why do I feel like I'm missing the punchline of a really bad joke?"
"Well, they do usually go over your head," she responds absently, still staring, fingers twitching at her side as if she means to reach for her dagger. She stops, they both do, when Cassandra calls for them somewhere further down the road.
Letting out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, Varric glances back at her before nudging Hawke's elbow with his. She looks back at him, if only for an instant, before turning her attentions back to the woods. He tries again, this time without the prodding -- it helps that, just before he starts, Cassandra bellows for them again. "I don't know if you heard our illustrious slave driver, but we might want to think about catching up before she starts getting stab happy again."
She looks back at him, plants one hand on the top of his head and twists lightly, as if to turn him around, back to Cassandra. Despite how short he is, it doesn't really work, but he gets the meaning all the same. "You'd best be off, then."
"I'm pretty sure she called for both of us."
"I'll catch up," she counters. "Tell her -- tell her I had to make a detour to the little rogue's privy."
Varric just continues to frown at her. "Should I even ask what your elven eyes see out there?"
"Probably nothing." She shrugs, reaches again for her dagger, this time pulling it free of its sheath on her back and takes a handful of steps back the way they came.
Stepping down off his perch, he turns but makes no motion to follow her. He trusts Hawke to take care of herself, knows that, if she does see something shady, she'll be able to get to it and stop it more effectively, more quietly without him and Bianca, but, "You get that those are kind of famous last words, right?"
"Oh, relax, Varric. What's the worst that could happen?"
Running into a horde of angry Templars springs to mind. As does the thought of blood mages, demons and / or the errant hungry bear, considering how far out of the city, any city they are, right now. He doesn't get to spout any of that off, however, if only because she's gone in all but the blink of an eye, disappearing off into the tress in only the briefest flashes of red and black. He exhales heavily, shakes his head and turns himself, already trying to decide what he's going to tell Cassandra when he catches up with her. He hopes Hawke realizes how much he loves her, considering how absolutely shitless the Seeker scares him.
What scares him more is what happens next.
They're almost to the camp just outside the Temple when the whole thing goes up in flames, green flames that knock him and Cassandra both square on their asses and suck all the air right out of the mountains, if only for an instant. When he gets his breath back and as he's staggering to his feet, he swears he hears a scream echo over their heads and a weird sort of dread settles over him. The fact that there's a giant hole in the sky, now, or the fact that he's pretty sure no one could have survived that probably doesn't help, but -- but in that instant, he thinks of Hawke.
She still hasn't caught up with them. What if whoever or whatever she was following got to the Temple before they did? What if she was at ground zero for whatever the hell that was? What if.
He glances to Cassandra, back on her feet now and one hand on her sword like its a medallion of Andraste, like it will somehow save her, and she looks back, her face pale, eyes haunted. He knows, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, that on top of everything else, she's had the same thought. He can see it on her face. He wishes he hadn't.
Dropping his eyes, turning his head, he stares off to one side for a long moment, his breathing heavy, hard, the Siege of Kirkwall reenacting itself in his chest. It takes him a moment to catch his breath and not lose his very bland, very beerless breakfast all over his boots, but when he does, he mutters a prayer to the Maker under his breath, steels his jaw and starts towards the Temple otherwise wordless. His distantly aware of Cassandra falling into step behind him. They don't talk but the memory of screaming rings in his ears.
"He says he can help."
"Songbird, unless he's the Maker Himself, I don't think a little bit of healing's going to fix this."
The words taste like poison on his lips, with Hawke's unconscious head bowed on his knees, he can't help but think this is it. The fact that she doesn't seem bruised or broken or bleeding helps; the fact that he can't get her to wake up even with the salts he's pulled out of his belt pouch, the fact that her breathing is shallow and broken, and her hand's glowing like a fucking torchlight, like the hole in the sky doesn't. He reaches for her fingers carefully and he, a dwarf, normally immune to such things, can feel it burning under her gloves before he even laces their fingers together. He gives up on the gesture, clencing his eyes shut tightly, a ward against the stinging there.
"If you would just let him -- " Leliana starts again. She stops when he shoots her a sudden, murderous look. Or when the elf steps forward. He's not really sure which it is and, quite honestly, he doesn't really care.
"Master Tethras, is it?" Baldy starts. He's a little hard pressed to come up with a better nickname, right now, not with his heart dying in his lap. He grunts in response, regardless, his attentions still set on Hawke. "Master Tethras, please. I have studied the old magics of the Fade in painful detail, so if anyone here is any position to help her, it would likely be me. At very least, it cannot hurt to try and I will not hurt her in doing so. You have my word."
"If she dies ... " If she dies, he'll bribe or threaten or -- whatever whoever he needs to to make sure the elf ends up on the wrong end of a headsman's axe. If him trying to help only kills her faster, he'll put a dozen explosive arrows through his head himself and watch him blow up like a bird grown fat on rice. The look he gives him when he finally raises his eyes reflects that and the elf doesn't falter. Instead, he just holds his gaze for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly, and then lowers himself to Hawke's side.
He lets him take her, pushing shakily to his feet. He wants to be here, be at her side, for better or worse, as the elf works on her, but his feet carry him away of their own volition.
"I need some air," he grumbles to no one in particular. Never mind the fact that they're already outside. Cassandra and her men, ringing the space around them, part to let him pass.
"If I were to tell you she was completely out of the woods, I would be lying," Solas starts from behind him. He actually thought to ask the mage's name at some point, last night, after they'd moved Hawke back to the Chantry at Haven. "But she is stable and, I would think, gaining strength. She dreams, now, no longer merely unconscious, and her breathing has righted itself."
"Does Cassandra have any idea who did this, yet?" he asks lowly, as if raising his voice might wake Hawke up. Even if Solas' assessment bringing him some measure of hope, he doubts it. She may not be completely out of it, anymore, but she still hasn't woken up for anything. Just thrashed around a lot, worryingly, for what he's seen so far.
"No, but we may have more immediate concerns. What Seeker Pentagast and her associates have named the Breach -- "
"Can wait until I find out who did this and put an arrow in his eye."
Solas falls silent at that, apparently contenting himself to watching the both of them.
On the morning of the third day, an angry mob, pitchforks and all, show up at the doors of the Chantry, where Varric has been sitting, dismissed from Hawke's side by Solas while he furthers his attempts at bringing her around. Sons and daughters of the men and women lost at the Conclave, they hold Hawke responsible, the "Champion" of Kirkwall behind another act of terrorism, and demand retribution. He pulls Bianca from his lap, where she's been resting as he cleaned her gears idly, picks up a bolt and with a casual flourish, loads it in.
He fires a single shot at the feet of the horde, a challenge, a dare. They disperse in an instant, flailing in all directions, not having expected any actual resistance. They don't come back.
That night, as the day sinks into felfire-green twilight and fires begin to spring up around the camp, Cassandra finds him. He's half-expecting tables to be flipped, books to be skewered, something, anything, in response to him having all but openly attacked the locals. Much to his surprise, however, she simply sits down across the doorway from him and pulls her knees up to her chest so she can rest her elbows on them.
She's silent for a long time, albeit not uncomfortably so, before, "Solas tells me Hawke will be awake by tomorrow."
Less than a dozen words, and he feels all the anger he's been carrying around, all the terror, unravel, the knot that's been winding around and around in his heart and head both gone in an instant. He closes his eyes, fingers steepling in front of his mouth in a gesture of prayer as he silently thanks the Maker. He lets out a shuddering, half-frozen breath between them before he drops his hands. "Guess I should stop sitting out here on my ass, then, huh?"
"I do not think she would be terribly happy with me if I allowed her dwarf to freeze to death," she says by way of agreement.
He exhales a hysterical sigh of a laugh, relief, albeit cautious relief, making him giddy. "So you do have a sense of humor."
"On occasion." She flashes him a brief, thin smile, watching him get to his feet before she begins again. "There will be many questions she will have to answer, when she wakes up, and much for us to do beyond, but Varric, I wanted to say ... " He looks to her, expectantly, and she falters for an instant as she tries to untangle her words. "For your sake, I am glad she will be alright."
"So am I, Seeker," he breathes, turning to head inside. "So am I."
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