museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

The world had just turned to ice.

That voice reached through him, taking hold of his heart, threading into his soul, and in less than a moment, he'd gone from wondering at the woman who shared his parents to being unsure exactly where the world was. It was as if he was looking at everything from a distance. Was he going to pass out?

He thought he might.

He didn't even hear what it was that was said. Only that voice that had haunted him for years now, whispering up in his dreams and leaving him with such conflicting reactions that all he could do was drink to make it all fade away while his left wrist burned with the name that he had never been able to excise.

And then she spoke. "I'm sorry it came to this, Leto." And fury ignited. His life, so precariously balanced already, had been upended in one swift move, and she -- she was to blame.

"You led him here!" he growled, shoving into her space, his face inches from hers.

"Now, now, Fenris," came the familiar chiding that had him stepping back out of long-trained reaction, and hating himself afterward. "Don't blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should."

"I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!" Fenris spat, at last putting a name to the man before them all. "But I won't let you kill me to get them."

The man chuckled. Laughed, as if it was all of no consequence. "Oh, how little you know, my pet."

Why couldn't he move. Why couldn't he kill this man?! But beneath it all, he knew why. He knew that there was still a possibility, and Danarius knew it, too, which was why that smile spread over his face and left Fenris feeling defiled and unclean. His left hand flexed. Danarius' eyes began to gleam with certainty.

Leto. Leto.

For his entire life, Varric had been looking at the name Leto on his wrist. Running a gentle thumb over it, memorizing the curves and lines of the lettering, the spelling, everything. When he was young, he used to imagine what 'Leto' would look like- would she be pretty? Would she be a dwarf? Would she have blue eyes, or brown? Or was 'Bianca' his soulmate, instead? Nobody could ever know: some people weren't sure until years after meeting both their wrist-mates.

Then Varric met Bianca, and everything seemed clear. He had his soulmate, despite her being torn from him. Despite her marrying somebody else, they stayed together- they had to. They had to. They were soulmates, after all, and so what if that meant Varric could never move on and never fully heal? He didn't want to heal from losing his soulmate.

Which left Leto the enemy, name hiding secretly under expensive leather gloves and the wrist-guards that were so omnipresent in their society. He had long ago done his research and learned that 'Leto' was Tevinter: therefore, he expected a mage of some kind. Fenris's arrival six years ago had made him wary, lest the fugitive bring in more 'Vints, but nothing came of it.

Then that traitor bitch said Leto and everything Varric thought he knew fell apart at once.

Leto was Fenris? What the- how? Fenris was one of his best friends, he couldn't be his enemy. Everybody knew that the "enemy" name wasn't always straightforward, but... they had shared so much together. He couldn't be his enemy.

Could he?

Then the fucking magister appeared. Varric knew in his bones that this was it: it was now or never. If he didn't act immediately, he would never know the truth. And after all these years, he had to. It almost didn't matter if his best friend was his enemy or- or if he had just wasted fifteen years of his damned life.

Either way, he had to know.

Finally, Varric made his hands move. His sluggish limbs, leaden from shock, whipped into life so quickly that before Hawke could speak, Danarius fell dead with a bolt in his throat and one through his eye. Around them, hired goons started shouting, apparently torn between attack and abandoning the master who couldn't pay them, and Hawke and Fenris both whipped around to stare.

Varric stood there, staring at the crossbow in his hands dazedly, breathing hard.

If it was possible for olive skin to go white, Fenris managed it.

Around him, there was a fight. He could hear it. He could hear Hawke yell and Aveline drew her sword and shield. Even Merrill and Anders joined in, but Fenris--

His thoughts spun into a hurricane of panic. Varric had killed Danarius. He was dead. He was laying there, bleeding from the hole through his neck and the one in his face.

Danarius was dead, and Fenris didn't know what to do. Either his soulmate had just killed his enemy, or his enemy had just killed his soulmate, and he wasn't sure which was true. Years of pain had left him questioning, and this only complicated it all. Years of knowing the love between Varric and Bianca, whomever she was, was inviolable. Years of going over and over everything he could remember about his past, of wondering about his own slavery. The ache in his heart made him want to call Varric his enemy, because what could be more cruel than killing hope? And if that was true...

Oh, Maker, no.

The last mercenary was dead on the ground. Varania was staring at him through the clearing melee.

And Fenris took hold of the door latch that had been pressing into his hip, let himself out of the tavern that had come to be a place of comfort, and took himself to his stolen mansion (if Danarius owned it, was it his now? No, of course not, but it wasn't strictly stolen anymore...) with the longest strides his legs could make, taking no heed of anything around him except the want to be alone and try to decide how perhaps his true enemy was the Maker for letting this happen.

Fenris knew escape. Varric?

Varric knew Kirkwall.

He knew every alley, every nook and hidden cranny, every half-hidden staircase... every shortcut. Every back way or side route.

When Fenris reached the mansion, Varric was already there. Sitting in Fenris's chair by the fire, a bottle of Fenris's wine sitting out. Unopened; he wasn't that rude.

No.

No, no, no, no, no--

His hand shook as he reached behind him, staring at Varric - unable to take his eyes away. He only found the ill-repaired plaster at the door jamb. And through the panic, he found his way to resignation.

And he slowly slumped to the floor. If Varric was his enemy, he was dead. If Varric wasn't, then this was worse than any torment Hadriana had ever put him through. Maybe it was better to get it over with.

Without a word, he unbuckled his gauntlets and stripped off the layer of padding that both kept metal from chafing skin and hid the names that had grown back over the years since Seheron. On the left, there was Danarius De Gallo, written in a flowing, Tevene hand. On the right, in Trade's uniform runic, was Varric Tethras.

And now one of those was dead. Would that name fade now? Leaving the other?

He'd never needed to know before.

Varric had intended to greet him with something incredibly witty, but for once in his life his tongue was slow. Then Fenris started visibly freaking out, and part of Varric sort of wanted to let him finish it first. Maker forbid he interrupt a queen's unfolding #drama. So he sat there and watched with a raised eyebrow as Fenris shook, panicked visibly, then sank to the floor like a fainting heroine.

Off came the gauntlets, and Varric could already tell where this was going. It was more or less his own plan, but Broody, naturally, managed to be entirely Extra about it. Did he think Varric could actually read those little scrawls from over there?

He cleared his throat. "You done, Broody?" His eyes flickered over the elf quizzically. "So much for my witty greeting."

"Just kill me, Varric," he said quietly. "You've already found your soulmate, and I know what that makes me."

He might not know so much of the world as Varric did, but he'd had years of experience by now, watching Varric, hearing his loving praise of Bianca. But never had Varric mentioned Fenris. Not in that way, at least - though now he knew why. His real name was on Varric's wrist. The name even he hadn't known until Varania said it.

"And that makes Danarius my soulmate. I don't want to live with that knowledge, besides. I don't want to live with what that says about me."

Varric's mouth was already open incredulously at that kill me bullshit, but then Fenris says something that makes him lean forward in jaw-dropping shock.

"What did you say?" The dwarf stands and goes to his friend, seizing his wrists to see for himself. There it is: Danarius de Gallo and Varric Tethras.

After an incredibly long moment, he manages a stunned reply. "Sweet Ancestors. I hope this place has smelling salts. I might actually faint."

He'd been so sure that Bianca is his soulmate: it was a truth he'd never doubted for a moment since the day they first said I love you. It was a certainty he'd organized his life around. Only the depth of his friendship with Fenris had brought even a flicker of doubt, but the alternative seemed impossible.

Until now. Because as much as Varric Tethras knew Bianca was his soulmate, he knew with an even deeper conviction that Fenris had to be wrong about this. His soulmate couldn't possibly be the son of a bitch that enslaved him.

It couldn't.

"I won't fight, Varric," he said quietly.

His soulmate was dead. His heart ached. He'd hoped for so long that this wouldn't happen. That he could keep living the pleasant lie of friendship, that the heartbreak was the true enmity between them. The tease of the life he could've had. The life he'd wanted.

But now he kept seeing Danarius bleeding on the floor, Varric's arrows having taken his life, and he knew that the real enmity was caring for the person who killed his soulmate.

There was a lesson to be learned. Fate cannot be escaped, no matter how much effort goes into the running.

"There's a knife at my belt. You can use it."

I won't fight. Those words, more than anything, shook Varric from his reverie. The thought of Fenris ever giving up a fight shocked more than Anders marrying a templar, or Merrill sprouting antlers.

He looked up at the elf, horrified at the resignation in those wide green eyes.

"Shit," he said softly. Living with his own name on his wrist for all those years, obviously convinced that Danarius could be his soulmate, hearing everybody asking about Bianca. Shit, and the one time Fenris asked about Bianca- it hadn't been simple curiosity, he realized sickly. It was a desperate man trying quietly to figure out what kind of life he could have.

No wonder he was broody.

Varric's hold on the elf's wrists gentled. "Shut up, Broody. I'm not gonna kill you." The thought was absolutely baffling, and it showed. "Until we count running up my bar tab as an act of war, you haven't done anything wrong."

You know what we're doing here.

prompt 1, for the kids watching at home

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