museyboxy | Soulmate AUs

"Hey, it's your angst-fueled makeover, not mine." He examined his nails nonchalantly. "I'll be too busy growing a beard and getting Legion tattoos."

Because Varric's version of rebellion could only be something dwarfy.

"Festis bei umo canavarum - you really would run me into exile doing that," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'd have to go traipse around Thedas with the damned Dalish, pretending I believed a word they said. Following a mage."

"What, all to escape the horror of my beardface?" he snarked, his grin all too shit-eating for the occasion.

It was really too easy to fall into self-aggrandizing flirtation with these people. Isabela, Hawke, Fenris, Anders- they all fed into it, all under the assumption that he was untouchable.

"Seeing you praise the Creators would be pretty damn funny. Especially if you insisted to Hawke that it's not a phase, dad, it's who I am."

A thought came to him. A distraction. Because this was too simple, too easy, and Varric's smile reminded him of what he was trying to forget.

And so he said it: "Do you think I could convince them that I'm the reincarnation of Fen'Harel?"

Something had to work. Because things couldn't be like this now, could they?

Or could they?

Could he have been wrong? Could there be such a thing as a soulmate being platonic? He'd never heard of such a thing, no matter the stories. Tevinter had tales of slaves' soulmates being their masters. The rest of Thedas didn't match, but every story of soulmates ended in either death or sweeping love, and...

And he wouldn't have either, but...

Maker, he needed time to adjust. To mourn. Not Danarius, but the end of a possibility. A mourning he'd been putting off for... for years now. But here he was, talking to Varric as if everything was the same. And to Varric, he supposed it was. He was the one who had to change.

Varric felt something in the air change between them. Shit, it was happening already. Things were shifting, splitting, drifting away.

Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age, but Varric didn't want that. He really didn't want that. Acknowledging this shitshow meant dealing with the possibility of being wrong about Bianca, and just the idea made him a little panicky.

Still, Fenris deserved more than that. He was more than just a friend- he was scriba, the written. One of the names that would follow Varric until he died.

"I bet you could convince them of anything," he sighed, then pushed away from the wall and slid back into his chair.

He gave Fenris a deadly serious lok. "I want to tell you a story, elf. The only story I promised never to tell."

"Please don't." Fenris closed his eyes, arm resting on the mantel above his head. This close, the fire was almost prohibitively warm, but even that didn't seem to touch the chill that had settled into his bones. "I know you mean well, Varric. To make some point, to illustrate some situation that I'm likely not aware of, but I don't think I can stand to hear the story of Bianca." His shoulders fell. "I don't want to hate her more than I already do."

And he did. He hated her, wanted to take her by the shoulders and hiss at her what a fool she was for being able to leave Varric behind, no matter what it was that had separated them. A crossbow that bore her name wasn't a warm pair of arms to sleep in at night - a thought that nearly made him ill even as he thought it, but the truth remained.

He detested Bianca. How dare she treat Varric this way. And that Varric was still so devoted while she... did whatever she did...

"You love her," Fenris said, not looking away from the dancing flames. "I already hold enough animosity toward her for that."

"I..."

Hesitation. That alone shocked him. Actual hesitation, when thinking about Bianca. True, there had been dark thoughts and private doubts over the years: cold nights when his bed was empty and he knew hers wasn't, or bright mornings with a coffee and a rare letter from her, laced with enough love to hurt his heart and enough details about her life to inflame his jealousy.

Maybe there had been doubts. Maybe he had them still.

"I should just tell you. Maybe when you hear the story, you'll understand why I'm not jumping to conclusions."

About Fenris. About anything.

If he was going to do that...

"I hate her," Fenris said bluntly. "Whatever life she leads, she's left you - you, of all people - with a weapon and a memory. You hold that memory as close to your heart as a magister holds his station, in the most remarkable show of devotion I have ever seen. You say her name every day, and come back to a bed that she could welcome you into, but doesn't.

"I hate her, Varric. Because she has what I've thought about since a day in Nevarra when I saw the name on my wrist on a book at a bookseller's stand," he spat. "Because for years, I've lived in hope, and now I know better.

"So I beg your pardon if I don't want to hear how you gave your heart to someone who has thrown away the most remarkable gift I could imagine having."

He didn't know how his markings glowed or how white his knuckles had gone until the wine bottle gave a quiet crack of protest, not shattering but showing a lovely spiderweb where his hand had clenched - a cue to set it aside before he injured himself more than his words already had.

"My apologies," he muttered once the bottle was safely out of his grasp. "It seems I'm having issues with my self-control."

"Don't mention it," came the uneasy reply.

Varric was, frankly, astonished. It was only just hitting him what Fenris had actually gone through: living close to someone who might be his soulmate, watching that person's love for someone else, for six years. It was almost as exquisite a torment as fate had designed for him and Bianca.

Fenris loved him, or at least felt strongly for him. That much was obvious.

Still.

"I'll skip to the end," he said drily. "Where her family didn't drop their arranged marriage plans, and after years of promises and pretty words like 'always,' she gave up on me and married someone else." He sat back in his chair, trying and failing to look nonchalant. "She still sends letters. Oh, not many- just enough to make sure I don't forget about her."

It was enough reason, enough abandonment, enough callousness, enough self-interest, to make him wonder about her sometimes. To wonder, even as he nurtured the hope of the universe bringing them back to each other.

Reason enough to withhold judgment on Fenris. To want to wait and see- to see how things played out, and reevaluate with an open mind.

Reason to doubt.

He pressed a fingertip to the bridge of his nose, rubbing up and down, his eyes closed as he tried to puzzle out his own reaction. If Varric had been trying to somehow mitigate his hatred toward Bianca, it hadn't worked. Quite the opposite, in fact. But he knew that hadn't been the goal.

The question still remained: what was the goal?

Was Varric really trying to talk him into--

Bitterness flared and he spoke, anger borne of loss informing his actions more than rationality. "So now you do the same to me? Ask me to wait and hold on? To play you in this version of your tale of estrangement, to give my devotion to someone devoted to someone else? Better to give it to the dead magister in the tavern. At least then I could let go in time."

Varric let Fenris rant and rage, understanding perfectly why he was so hateful. It wasn't really hate at all: everyone, from Orzammar to Par Vollen, dreamed about their scriba, and the day they'd meet their soulmate. Every child looked forward to the day they would see names emblazoned on their skin, and every teenager obsessed over them, inventing stories and faces and futures and children- or betrayals and dangers and losses, for the enemy.

The loss of a soulmate... well. Many people went their whole lives never finding them. Many people settled with someone they knew was wrong, simply because they had to, or because they were getting on in years and didn't want to be alone.

But losing your soulmate entirely? Or having them in your grasp for years, yet out of reach? Varric couldn't begrudge him some anger.

When the elf fell quiet, Varric spoke softly.

"I'm not asking anything. I just wanted you to know. You think I have any shitting idea of what to do?"

"No." Honesty, if painful. "I only know what I intend to do."

He lifted the cracked bottle, swirled the liquid inside - and when he heard no jingle of glass shards inside, he turned it up and drank the remainder before tossing it into the fire with finality. It felt good to destroy something. Something he didn't care about. Even if he was rather sure something else was about to break as well.

"I am going," he said quietly, "to let go. I am going to be alone. I have hurt enough, and I have no want to keep hurting. And since you won't kill me, and since I can't kill myself, I'll let go. In time, I will heal and I'll hate everyone slightly less."

Something about it made Varric sad, but he couldn't argue. It was the only sensible thing, really. Move on, let go. Let go of something- shit, if he were Fenris, he wouldn't wait on himself. Varric wasn't exactly projecting 'single and ready to mingle.' And there was still Bianca.

And yet. There was a still, small voice deep inside him that said Fenris deserved more than this. That Danarius couldn't have been his soulmate. Even with Bianca- even with.

He nodded, unable to conscionably to anything else. "I'm sorry, Broody."

"I know."

And from there, it started. Unless called upon by Hawke, Fenris didn't leave his mansion for a number of weeks.

After that, he began to wander through the city again. He tipped the guards off to another slave ring operating out of Darktown. He collected the bounty on a set of bandits. He even joined a foray into the blasted Bone Pit at Hawke's behest and got chewed on by a dragon.

That night was the first one he came back to the Hanged Man, taking a seat near Sebastian and Aveline rather than his usual place at Varric's side. In fact, he rarely looked at Varric through the night unless it was unavoidable. His gauntlets were hiding his wrists once more - and, more importantly, the bandages underneath. Something he didn't bother to mention that night or any of the following.

If Varric seemed unconcerned with what went on, it was an absolute fucking farce. He had his little birdies keeping an eye on Fenris, as he did for everyone in their little group. They told him when Fenris left, when Fenris hid, and what Fenris did. It was how he knew when the elf started to rejoin society, and how he knew that he'd paid a visit to Blondie's clinic one night.

There was nothing to say. He didn't treat Fenris any differently, even to avoid him: he acted exactly as he had before he knew, because that was when they had simply been friends. It was all he wanted anymore, to return to that close, easy friendship.

He knew it wasn't possible. That friendship, he now knew, only existed because Fenris had wanted something out of him. Now that Fenris had lost the hope behind his ulterior motive, apparently there was no longer any reason for them to have a friendship. Varric tried not to let bitterness color his vision, but it was difficult.

Still, they persevered. He kept treating Fenris warmly, as he always had, but with a touch more distance. If he noticed Fenris flirting with Isabela or Sebastian, he said nothing.

He hadn't only flirted. There was no such thing, he'd learned, as flirting with Isabela without more following - and with the sheer amount of wine he was consuming, some things were simply inevitable.

But once was enough. The pleasure had been fine, but little more than that. It seemed he was still too bruised to really feel what he wanted. And that was why, despite lingering glances and a few languid touches, the fling between Fenris and Isabela came to a halt.

Just in time for everything else to ignite.

What he'd expected from a confrontation of Orsino and Meredith, he wasn't sure. A battle, a fight between mage and Templar - certainly. But when the Chantry burst into searing light and flying stone, and Anders was the cause of it, it was all he could do to stare, fists clenching on nothing, feet moving as if through molasses. Meredith was quantifiably insane, but she hadn't made a building full of innocents explode.

And when Hawke took his stand with Orsino, Fenris drew his blade at Meredith's side.

Edited 2018-04-16 10:24 (UTC)

They all saw how it went down: Sebastian freaking out over Anders, Varric urging Hawke to kill him. How all the warmth left Varric's eyes whenever he looked at Anders. A friendship that had once been close and caring was now empty and crumbling to ash, and it burned whenever he looked at the mage. Varric hadn't been this angry and betrayed in a very long time- he wasn't that adept at hiding it, either.

Still. He stood with Hawke, no matter what. Which is why Fenris's choice made his heart clench and stomach lurch.

"Fenris- no!" he protested, shoving past their fearless leader before anybody could say anything stupid.

"You expect me to fight on the side of a mage?" he spat, eyes narrowed, jaw set. "A mage who would murder hundreds in a petulant fit?"

The emotion was in his eyes. It was true, then. Varric was his enemy after all. The murderer of his soulmate. And he had--

No, he would not so much as think it. His markings flickered as his grip shifted on his sword, readying for the inevitable combat. "What reason do I have to stand with any of you now? Everything I have said about mages all these years has just come true, and not a one of you listened!"

Varric saw it writ large on his face: conviction of some twisted, horrible truth, belief that they were enemies, determination to make it so.

His own conflict and emotion bled into his expression as he pleaded. Begged. "Don't do this, Broody. Don't make us fight you, please. You know Hawke always wins. Don't."

It wasn't about belief or siding with mages. But Varric couldn't bring himself to fight Fenris, not when there was a more-than-incidental chance that the elf was his soulmate. Maybe they were on opposite sides of the war right now, maybe Fenris was about to force the issue. Who knew. Maybe the next fight would fell Hawke, or Varric himself, and the question would be answered.

All he knew was that he had to do what felt right. He had to follow his instincts, and his instincts said that Fenris couldn't die here.

Edited 2018-04-16 10:49 (UTC)

There was a touch on his arm. When he looked up and saw Meredith, his eyes narrowed. But her voice was calm as she said, "Here, they may win. But my Templars wait at the Gallows. Their small force against all of my men... We will succeed, elf."

And what did it mean, Fenris thought, when insanity began to make sense.

Choice made, he stood to his full height instead of a battle-ready crouch, slid his sword into its place at his back, and turned to leave at the side of his new allies.

It broke Varric's heart a little to watch Fenris walk away, but it was all he could ask for. Fenris turned away and they turned away, and that was that... until the Gallows.

Until Meredith's nug-fucking insanity reared its entire head, and even the curly one turned against her. Until Fenris too turned his sword on the Knight-Commander.

When all was said and done, Fenris was driven out with the rest of Hawke's companions. They left Kirkwall together, purely because they only had one ship that would take them. Nobody was happy with what happened, and Aveline didn't come with them, but they left.

As they stood on the deck of the ship watching Kirkwall shrink away, Varric looked sideways at the elf. "Good to see you in one piece, Broody."

"You should go back," he said quietly. "That place is in your blood. More than it is to any of us."

Hawke, Anders, Isabela, Merrill, the absent Sebastian, and himself - all of them had been immigrants. Varric was a native. He had a home there. A network of people who would notice his absence.

Fenris, meanwhile, had been toying with the idea of leaving the place behind for months now, and found himself wishing he had. Walking away before the Chantry explosion would have made his life so much simpler. But now he was on a boat with his two greatest enemies, none of the belongings he'd gathered in the last few years, and a sense of loss that he didn't want.

"Vishante kaffas."

"Eh, me and Kirkwall will be alright. Nothing can keep us apart for too long."

He said it lazily, flicking a bitten-off nail over the ship's rail. As hard as walking away from his home was, Varric knew that any of them being in the city would only make things harder when the chickens came home to roost. Consequences were coming, and Exalted Marches (probably), and they needed to not be there. Any known associates of Anders or the Champion...

No, they needed to be gone. As angry as he was at Anders for blowing his beloved city half to hell, he accepted the need to leave with an odd zen.

Fenris was a different story. The discontent and dissatisfaction rolling off the elf made Varric's teeth hurt.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

Probably ill-advised.

"I'm thinking I should be traveling overland to Starkhaven instead of on a ship full of people who would stand against me," he said, quiet and blunt at once. And, maybe worst, honest - at least so far as he could tell. He had been content to stand alongside the Templars, but the new Knight-Commander had had a point: he had spent too long in the company of Hawke and Anders to be considered innocent, even if he had fought alongside the Chantry at the end.

He didn't doubt Sebastian's offer of Starkhaven still stood. The man was good for his word. And that made the choice easier. "I'll make my way there when we put into port. But until then, at least there's some reason for you to keep me alive."

One hand lifted toward the bow of the ship. "We're headed to the east. If we continue east and north, we pass Rivain and enter the waters of Par Vollen. I am the only one of us who speaks Qunlat."

Varric sighed deeply. So this was how it was gonna be.

"Tell me something, elf- have you ever had a friendship that didn't have an ulterior motive?"

If the question sounded a touch accusatory, it was.

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