Chapter Text
The ravens have flown. The banners unfurled. Proclamations have been sent to every corner of Thedas.
The Inquisition is reborn.
Leliana longs for some sense of victory, of pride in carrying out Most Holy’s will even after her death, of hope for what they might now achieve in Justinia’s memory. She wishes she could feel it, the faith she sees blazing in the eyes of the people who now arrive at Haven every day, seeking confirmation of the miracles they have heard whispers of, the woman that might mean their salvation.
The Herald of Andraste. And what is it, exactly, that she heralds? Leliana can’t help but wonder, but the scarred, wrinkled old dwarf, who looks more like somebody’s grandmother than a holy prophet, has no answers. Etta Cadash is as confused as anyone at finding herself at the centre of this storm. Perhaps that is for the best; Leliana remembers what it felt like, to truly believe oneself chosen by the Maker, to be filled with purpose, absolute certainty. She’d felt it when she first came to Haven all those years ago, alongside the Hero of Fereldan, seeking the ashes of Andraste herself. It seems incredible now that she could ever have been that young, that naïve.
Today, Leliana finds herself thinking of little but the work yet to be done. And of what it has cost them to get here.
Walking through Haven, the little village hums with activity, but Leliana’s eye is caught by another person who does not quite share the same enthusiastic zeal, a stillness amongst the bustle. Varric is standing by a fire that has been lit in the centre of the village, warming his hands vaguely. He is looking up at the Breach. Most everyone else is trying to avoid it, as if even looking directly at the thing might suck them in, but its presence looms over everything, inescapable. Leliana isn’t sure what makes her stop and walk up to stand by the fire beside him – perhaps only that Varric, in this moment, looks as alone as she feels.
“How’s it going, Nightingale?” he asks, as she puts her own hands out briefly to capture the warmth of the flames. “Thought I’d get some quality brooding in before things got busy again. You’re welcome to join me.”
“You’re thinking of your friend Anders,” Leliana says.
Varric drags his eyes from the Breach to stare at her. “Can you actually read minds then? Because if so, I owe Quartermaster Threnn five silvers.”
Leliana laughs, the first time she has done so in many days. It feels good. “No. But it is simple enough to see. I have read your Tale of the Champion too, you know.” A holy place destroyed in an explosion, innocents dead. For all his good humour, Varric has more experience in such tragedy than most. Leliana softens her voice. “You could not have prevented what he did. For better or worse, his actions were his own.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure of that,” says Varric. “Makes me wonder about whoever did this though,” he gestures at the Breach. “What were they hoping to get out of it? More chaos? We already had plenty to start with.”
“Perhaps they wanted exactly what they got,” says Leliana.
Varric is more perceptive than most, and hears the bitter edge to her voice, the pain.
“I’m sorry about the Divine,” he says gently. “I know she was your friend.”
It’s like a dagger under her ribs, one that keeps finding her at unexpected times. Friend. Is that what Justinia was? The word seems flimsy, inadequate for the void she has left in Leliana’s heart.
“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next,” she quotes softly. The words come easily as breathing to her lips. “The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”
But that isn’t true; she knows that now. There had been no shield for the Divine, nor for the faithful that died at the Conclave, who gathered in the hope for peace and were butchered for it like animals herded to the slaughterhouse. Leliana heard the voices in the Temple, the echoes from the Fade. Justinia died alone and afraid.
She feels Varric’s sympathetic eyes on her, and wonders how much of her thoughts he can guess.
“Look, if you ever want to talk about it…” he says.
“I do not,” says Leliana. “But thank you.” She pushes her grief away, packs it tightly into a corner of her heart, in a way she has learned to do from long practice. Varric’s kindness invites confidences, and that is a vulnerability she cannot afford, going forward. “What about you?” she says, instead. “You must miss your friends in Kirkwall.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Haven is a long way from home. Kirkwall needs them more than I do, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been a solo act. Kinda got used to having them around, warts and all.”
“They sound like good people,” says Leliana. “I wish I could have met them, while we were there.” She remembers something. “Though I did meet Isabela once, you know.”
“You’re kidding. She never said.”
“Mmm, it was a long time ago now, and only briefly. We met in a brothel in Denerim.”
“Ok, now you really are just messing with me.”
“Not on business,” replies Leliana, smiling. “At least, not of that sort.”
“Well, small world, I guess,” says Varric. He sighs, his eyes on the horizon again. “Doesn’t always feel like it.”
“You could go back to Kirkwall today, if you wished,” Leliana says. “You are free to go, you know that? Cassandra will not stop you.”
“Ha.” Varric’s voice is suddenly acid-tipped. “So she says.”
That is a strange thing, his attitude towards Cassandra. There is resentment there that Leliana doesn’t fully understand, a sharp quality of feeling that seems incongruous to what she now knows of Varric, who seems to be able to get along fine with just about everyone else. He’s unexpectedly boorish when it comes to Cassandra, nursing an outsized grudge for the Seeker’s treatment of him in Kirkwall. Cassandra in turn finds him intensely annoying, that much Leliana knows, but was also convinced enough of his worth that she insisted on bringing him back across the Waking Sea with them, to meet with Justinia personally. She had even suggested that Varric might join the Inquisition, if Most Holy’s plans went ahead – that spoke to a level of genuine respect for Varric Tethras that Leliana knows is hard won from Cassandra, and it is surprising that it seems to be almost entirely unreciprocated.
What happened in that interrogation? Leliana almost wishes she had been there, a fly on the wall, instead of simply hearing Cassandra’s abbreviated version afterwards. Varric may be good at getting under Cassandra’s skin – frankly, that is not hard to do – but what’s more surprising is that Cassandra seems to have gotten under Varric’s skin too.
“Varric, may I ask you a question?” says Leliana.
“You sure you don’t want to threaten me at sword-point first?” says Varric, his mind clearly still on Cassandra.
“Why do you blame her, and not me?”
Varric looks taken aback, genuinely confused. “Come again?”
“Both left and right hands of the Divine came to Kirkwall to seek out the Champion,” says Leliana. “I may not have carried out the interrogation myself, but I am as much to blame as Cassandra for what happened to you.”
“You didn’t stab my book in front of me,” says Varric. “I take that kind of thing personally. No author likes a critic.”
And that’s Varric all over – a glib reply for everything, an easy deflection. He’ll ingratiate himself with everyone around him, from nobles to servants, and have their life stories out of them in minutes, but he doesn’t like talking about himself. Perhaps that is all there is to his resentment of Cassandra, after all; the simple fear of having revealed too much of himself to someone. That, at least, Leliana can understand.
“I am sorry, Varric,” she says, “for treating you like the enemy, for bringing you here as we did. It was badly done. And I know Cassandra regrets it too. She was under a great deal of pressure, at the time.”
“And there my life was going so well,” says Varric sarcastically.
“Mmm.” Leliana allows herself a smile. “You two have a lot in common.”
“Oh no,” says Varric. “Nice try, Nightingale. But the Seeker and I are not going to be friends.”
“A shame,” says Leliana. “Truly.” She does not mention the fact that Cassandra has, to her knowledge, read The Tale of the Champion at least three times, and currently has Sword and Shields, an extremely trashy romance series penned by one Varric Tethras, secreted under her mattress. Leliana has become fond of Varric, over the past few weeks, but she will not give him more ammunition, if that is how he is determined to proceed.
“So you will stay with the Inquisition, then?” she asks. “In spite of Cassandra?”
“I’m here anyway,” shrugs Varric. “Might as well stay and see how the whole thing shakes out. The Seeker can like it or lump it.”
“She will be pleased,” says Leliana. “As am I. I’m glad you are with us, Varric.”
She leaves him then to his brooding, walking away through the snow dusted streets of Haven feeling lighter than before. She was not lying – she is genuinely pleased that Varric has decided to stay. She is also a little surprised at it. Leliana had counted on Varric as an ally of the Inquisition, certainly, but as a well-placed contact across the Waking Sea in Kirkwall, no more. For him to stay here, far from home and right in the centre of the chaos, to agree to help, even putting his life further at risk…it speaks to…
Faith. Perhaps not the kind one might expect, but faith, nonetheless.
Leliana smiles to herself. It is strange that, in spite of everything, it is Cassandra who was right about Varric after all. Who’d have thought?