#'this is the only way i can save bartrand this is how i fix things'

[thedragonagelesbian]

narrative choices i did not expect to make me sit there for like fifteen minutes staring deep into the soul of my character trying to come up with a reasonable decision: letting varric keep the damn red lyrium shard or not

[fanfoolishness]

To Tell the Truth (Bartrand & Varric, Bartrand POV)

It’s tough to be the eldest. Especially when your little brother’s name is Varric. 2000+ words.

***

Bartrand lied to Varric about... a lot of things.

Like Orzammar. He didn’t really remember it all that well. How could he? Their father had thrown everything away over lousy rigged Provings, and they’d lost it all when Bartrand was practically an infant.

All he remembered of the city itself was glow, warm golden light of the carefully tamed magma far below their feet, and vast, the nearly endless stone ceilings far above him.

In the Tethras home in the Diamond Quarter, he remembered glimpses of books bound in bronto leather, thick blocky dwarven script marking the pages with neat patterns. He remembered Father in his finery, Mother in angular gold jewelry. Back then he did not remember her drinking. He never knew the smell of mosswine.

Later, he knew wine and whisky all too well.

She started drinking up on the surface. She slurred when she talked, the harsh edges to her words softened by the alcohol, and sometimes she sat on her bed with huge tears in her eyes in yesterday’s clothes. She missed Father, and she missed Orzammar, and the sky dizzied her.

Bartrand felt the same. But Varric -- he barely remembered Father at all, and he’d only ever known the sun.

Bartrand knew his duty, and he tried to teach his brother what he should know. At first it was the things Father had shown him, about how to be clever, how to watch out for things that felt wrong. And it was the things Mother had told him, about counting, about money, about leverage.

But he ran out of those things to tell him soon enough, and Varric filled the space between with his own stories. It made Bartrand uneasy. If he wasn’t careful, Varric would start to make up the wrong things. He felt very deeply, very sternly, that an older brother should not let a younger brother become an idiot.

So Bartrand talked of Orzammar, and he strove to pull stories and legends out of half-remembered glow and vast , out of bronto leather and finery and the stories Mother used to tell him, and he thought that even if he’d made some of it up, he’d done pretty well as an older brother. He thought he’d taught him what mattered. He thought he’d done what his father would have done, should have done.

… Except that Varric was a little shit.

***

Varric only got worse the bigger he got. Once Bartrand had been excited about the idea of a younger brother, someone to share in the Tethras name with him. Instead he discovered younger brothers were an exercise in pure frustration.

Varric teased him when his beard finally came in, snide little comments about old Paragons and making fashion statements. Bartrand’s fingers twisted jerkily at the clumsily woven braids he’d made. At the look in his eyes Varric threw back his head and laughed, then ran as fast as he could when Bartrand raised his fist. Later Bartrand stared at himself in the mirror and undid the little braids, one by one.

Varric ignored him when Bartrand showed him old accounts and ancestors’ names written finely on delicate deepwood parchment, trying to make him understand where they’d come from, filling in the details as best he could remember. Maybe some of it was lies. Just a little, just enough to make his obnoxious brother pay attention. The lies didn’t work, though, and Varric would pull out pages of human-made vellum scribbled on with child-sized handwriting, grinning from ear to ear.

I made it more interesting, he’d laugh, building scaffolds of bigger lies and wild fantasy on top of Bartrand’s dusty foundations. More than once the lessons ended with Bartrand threatening a black eye, and Varric sullen and kicking his chair with his feet.

But then there was the time Varric broke the dish, one of the last from Orzammar that hadn’t broken or been sold off when they’d first come to the surface. At first Varric looked like he would burst into nervous laughter. Before Bartrand could work up the anger to start yelling, Varric crumbled. Fell on his knees, started sweeping up the shattered pieces, said he was sorry, all right, I didn’t mean it, honest.

Bartrand still yelled, but he was strangely gratified when Varric left a glued and scarred plate on the kitchen table for him to find a day later. It broke apart when he touched it, gold filigree forever cracked in half, a useless repair job.

It was the best thing Varric had ever done.

When Varric asked Bartrand if the glue had held, later that night, Bartrand lied to him. Sure it did, brother. You fixed it, in the end.

He wondered what Varric thought when the plate was never displayed again. He wondered, but never asked.

***

Bartrand was fifteen when he entered the meeting house of the Merchants’ Guild for the first time as the head of House Tethras. He’d trained hard the past three years under older members of the Guild, cut his eyeteeth on smaller, safer trades until he started to see the patterns, sense them in a way that was hard to describe and easier to feel. Parchment and coin felt at times like an extension of his hands, a medium he instinctively knew how to manipulate. He wasn’t much for imagination, but when he allowed it a place in his head, he imagined a painter or a sculptor felt much the same way.

He tried to include Varric, ancestors knew he did. It got harder and harder to try and teach him, but he kept it up, gruffly trying to explain the patterns and their intricacies. Especially since Ilsa had grown more and more isolated, keeping to herself in her bedroom, rarely interacting with them.

It was up to Bartrand now. And he could rise to the challenge. So he thought, anyway.

He tried to drag Varric along to meetings at the Guild. He pointed out who was a useful contact, who would stab you in the back, who was broke and pretending he wasn’t, who was drowning in coin and pretending he was broke. He hired bodyguards after the first time Varric insulted a particularly violent house, and temporarily kicked his brother out of the Guild after the third round of insults ended with a knife to Bartrand’s throat, a dead fourth son of a minor family, and an arrow in Varric’s leg. The night was a blur but Bartrand clearly remembered his coinpurse emptying out by half, his brother’s face white and sweating, and his hands sticky with Varric’s blood. Not something he ever wanted to relive.

After that Bartrand broke down and started paying for dueling training for his mouthy little brother. Bastard might as well fight his own fights, if he was going to start them. He showed little promise with daggers or swords, but the tutors said he had a fine eye with a bow.

***

Years on, Bartrand still worried about Varric. Oh, sure, in some ways he was making progress. He’d become downright skilled in archery, both in shortbows and crossbows. He was developing some side proficiencies in setting traps and lockpicking, neither of which was respectable, exactly, but at least they were useful. And he’d started making contacts here and there, working on developing a little spy network of people who didn’t run their mouths off nearly as much as Varric himself. He wasn’t entirely hopeless.

But he still didn’t seem to understand what it was to be a Tethras. Bartrand wondered if he’d gotten too influenced by surfacers and the sun, the way he went on so about novels and publishing and other crap the humans had invented.

He took Varric aside one day, pulling him into the kitchen. Ilsa slumbered in the sitting room, already drunk despite the early morning hour. Bartrand had long since accepted that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach her stupors gave him, but something new was happening, something worse.

“You said you wanted to talk to me, brother?” Varric asked.

Bartrand nodded gruffly, tending the kitchen fire in preparation for breakfast. Bacon and the last of the eggs. He knew he could have hired a scullery maid, but he preferred the money staying in their coffers, and besides, he was a pretty good cook himself. The coals flared, flame dancing merrily above them.

“Mother’s getting worse,” said Bartrand baldly. “I brought a healer in to see her.”

“When was this?” Varric asked.

“You were out. Sources say you were meeting up with a smith? Could be a good alliance.”

“Right,” said Varric, looking away. “It can never hurt to know a good smith. And she’s the best this side of the surface.” He gave Bartrand an uneasy chuckle.

“Anyway, the healer said Mother….” He grimaced. “It’s only a matter of time now, Varric.”

Varric crossed his arms, letting out a deep breath. “But she’s still so young, Bartrand.”

“Maybe so, but she’s poisoned herself. You had to know she couldn’t drink like that for years without it catching up to her.” He stoked the fire, harder than he meant to. The poker sent sparks to the back of the fireplace.

“I guess that’s true.” He sighed. “Does... she know?”

“No. I didn’t see a reason to make it worse for her, understand? The healer thinks months. Maybe a year, if things go well.” He rummaged with the bacon. “But she shouldn’t be alone here anymore. Not all day, like before.” He hesitated. “I was thinking of hiring someone.”

“I can take care of her,” said Varric.

Bartrand closed his eyes, hoping this wasn’t one of Varric’s fancies. “Huh.”

“It makes sense. You’re busy. You have Guild crap, and this venture, and that venture… I can work on my writing while I’m here with her. It’ll save you having to pay for someone,” Varric said. “And Mom never liked surfacers in the house, anyway.” He smiled at Bartrand, but it lacked the usual attempt at charm.

Bartrand nodded, fighting back something unfamiliar. Was it pride? Maybe? He wasn’t sure. “That sounds fine, brother. I think it’s for the best.”

***

Bartrand watched the funeral procession pass, laborer dwarves taking their mother away to be interred in the finest stone he could afford. Steam puffed out from their breath in the cold winter air. Bartrand couldn’t help a sense of relief, knowing she would finally be reunited with their father in a beautiful crypt on the edges of the dwarven quarter.

He turned to see Varric coming out of the front door, his face blotchy, eyelids swollen. Bartrand glanced around worriedly, hoping none of their neighbors would see. Some of the other houses could make use of such a display.

It wasn’t that Bartrand didn’t grieve their mother; she was their last connection to the past, the one who had kept them going after Father died, as best as she could. But Varric still needed to learn the difference between a public face and a private one. Public grief could be showed in careful visits to the crypt, composed and calm and cool. This — the snot glistening at the edge of Varric’s nose, the red cheeks, the puffy eyes — was utterly private.

“I guess that’s what she wanted, isn’t it,” said Varric dully at Bartrand’s side. The wagon passed out of sight, the sound of the wheels faint on the riven stone. “She never got over leaving Orzammar.”

Bartrand swallowed, uncomfortable. He’d never get used to Varric saying out loud the shit that should have stayed quiet. “She was a fine woman. She did what she had to for this family, as best as she could.”

“She shouldn’t have had to,” said Varric. “You ever wonder if it was exile that did it? And not the alcohol?”

Bartrand bristled. “Come on. Let’s get inside,” he muttered. “Walls have ears.”

They sat in the sitting room where Ilsa had spent most of her days in the end, drinking enough to fight off the shakes and the terrors, being sick as a dog when her body started rejecting even that. Bartrand leaned back against the settee, thinking hard.

“Look,” said Bartrand. “Now that Mother’s gone, we’re gonna have different priorities. You’re freed up again. And I’ll be honest, Varric, I think you might finally be getting the hang of being a Tethras. You stepped up, when you had to.”

Varric snorted. “Was that a compliment?”

Bartrand glowered at him. “It was, but I can take it back if you’re going to be smart about it.”

“You know me, brother. I’ve never not been a smartass.”

“That’s true enough,” he grumbled. “But I think you’re figuring it out. A silver tongue can get you out of trouble just as much as it can get you into it, you know.”

“That’s what I hear,” said Varric. He lifted up the blanket from the settee, pulling out a flask of whisky, Mother’s favorite. “Huh. Guess we can get rid of this now, can’t we.” His face crumpled, but he recovered quickly, putting on a twisted smile before he could start crying again.

“Pour a glass,” said Bartrand.

“If you insist.”

“And I do. As eldest, it’s my right.”

“Is that a little sass I detect, brother?”

“It’s been a trying day,” Bartrand admitted. He watched as Varric rustled up some glasses and poured them two large measures of whisky. For a moment, both stared at the amber liquid. He could almost hear Ilsa’s voice again, parchment-thin and rustling by the end, begging for just a little more.

Varric picked up his glass, holding it so that the firelight caught the curves. “To Mom.”

“To Mother,” Bartrand echoed. Their glasses clinked. He took a sip, whisky burning his throat, and swallowed the bitterness down.

Varric took a drink, shuddering. “Burns, doesn’t it.”

“No gains without a little pain.” He stared into the fire.

“It’s rude to call me that, Bartrand.”

Bartrand turned to his brother, raising an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re a bastard for that remark, but technically, I’d be lying.”

“And you’d never lie to your own brother, would you?” Varric asked, nudging him in the shoulder.

Bartrand considered. The Tethras clan, starting to make their way in the world. The Tethras brothers, coming into their own.

“Lie to you?” he said. “No, never.”

[mrstethras]

Feedback Friday

It was our very first Feedback Friday in The Hanged Man on our discord server, and after giving thoughts on other pieces, figured I’d share the little sample I provided here too. From my new project (still unnamed) hawke/varric da2 & onward rewrite. As always, things aren’t always quite as Varric has told them.

"See that woman over there?" 

"The scary blonde one burnin' two holes into your brother's back?" 

"Yes, kid, good eye!”

“Sure -- ”

“Well, that's the one I need you to rob."

They both peered out from the corner of the square, a lanky, ginger urchin alongside a blonde-stubbled dwarf, half-hidden by the shadows cast from the high city walls. Stumbling over each other’s feet -- the dwarf cursing quietly to himself -- the mismatched twosome kept their sights on the bustle of the early morning marketplace. Conspiring, barely. There was a reason for their gathering at least, if Varric's information came through. And so they eyed, from a safe distance, the dwarf’s older brother and the two humans accompanying him, as they stormed the street, addressing their matters hotly. And there she was, in tow.

All things considered, she was pretty damn easy to spot, Varric thought. Long golden hair blazing, skin as pale as Kirkwall’s sun bleached stone. A head taller than the dwarves around her, glaring defiantly, face like thunder, her presence combined with his brother’s, they passed through with ease as they parted the crowd. And her accent, Varric caught as it echoed -- loud, brash and lazy compared to the clipped Kirkwall tongue (and not to mention far more colourful). Well, if this wasn’t the Ferelden refugee turned mercenary madwoman he’d heard so much about, Varric would retire right there on the spot.

This had to be Hawke.

The Hawke.

And giving his brother Bartrand a run for his money -- like any Ferelden -- conveniently ignoring anyone’s sense of self importance. Good for you. Neither of them budging -- their voices growing ever more heated, ringing off the great dwarven statues that loomed above their heads. His brother barked “NO!” for what felt like the fiftieth time, but Hawke refused to take that as an answer, clearly determined to make her case known. Rather you than me, Varric thought idly.

Shrugging his shoulders, satisfied with his find, Varric turned to the kid pressed at his side, flashing a most encouraging smile. “So, how about it?”

The young man’s face had fallen, his sallow cheeks had lost whatever little colour they had, like curdled milk, he swallowed hard. The cogs slowly turned, realising the dwarf’s proposition in full. He glanced down at the heavy pouch of coins Varric was offering, and winced as it gave that nudging clink. 

“And you’re gonna stop me before anythin’ goes bad?” The kid reiterated the basis of the plan, his eyes fixed on Varric’s full palm.

“C’mon, do I look like the kinda guy that’d let anything bad happen?”

The kid appeared to be entirely unconvinced. Shit.

Varric sighed and tried again. “We just need it to look like you robbed her. You make it back here with her coin and I’ll handle the rest. Easy! You get paid, she’ll get her money back, no one has to --”

“Alright...”

He wasn’t buying it. Fine.

Varric couldn’t blame the kid, honestly. Sure, Hawke looked like she could snap your neck with nothing but a glance, what was even more off-putting than some graphic, violent death at the hands of a Red Iron merc, was entering the vicinity of his older brother Bartrand.

Still, Varric was confident enough that this would work. This was a rookie job, at best. Hawke was startlingly Ferelden (and farmland Ferelden, at that) her purse tied to her belt in plain view. Animated as she spoke, her hands pointing fingers at his brother instead of clasped around her coin -- hell, an actual kid could swipe her shit without a problem. “I’ve got you covered,” Varric reassured, stepping back into full cover of shadow. Giving a final thumbs up to the pale urchin, who in turn rolled his eyes, slipping without another word and disappearing into the street.

It didn’t take long. It wasn’t long enough. Varric had barely passed the pillars when he heard the commotion, unhooking Bianca from his back at the signal of disturbance, waiting for the kid to come charging, panting round the corner. Finger on the trigger of his crossbow, eyes fixed on the point of his arrow. 

“YOU!”

She was ferocious. Feral. Her voice so cutting, even Varric was shaken from his concentration. The kid was running alright, practically clawing his away around stone to avoid her -- as she raged after him. Blonde hair billowing behind her like a flag hoisted in the midst of war.  Andraste’s ass, she was pissed! And she was gaining on the urchin, fast. Her armor did little to slow her down, fueled by utter contempt, apparently.

Shit --

Varric had ballsed up his aim -- why did he do that!? -- drawing Bianca up to catch the kid at just the right moment. This was crucial. Bianca could send arrows blasting through him, all the way and out the other side. Concentrate.

“COME BACK,” Hawke was yelling in fury. “LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS!”

She was making it pretty hard to concentrate...

Varric’s finger twitched and he hesitated, spotting the kid and the look of horror plastered on his face. He came racing past, flushed from his neck to his forehead, eyes wide and wired. He’d have to pay him double for this. Raising Bianca again, Varric fired. One swift shot that sliced through the air with a whistle and --

The kid screeched.

Oh, shit.

Pinned by the arrow into the stone at his shoulder, blood was billowing against the urchin’s dirty white shirt. Shit. Shit Shit. Varric hurried to reach him.

And then there was Hawke.

“I’m assuming it -- wasn’t supposed to go -- quite like this?” She stood there, breathing hard, watching the boy squirm, clearly taking the abrupt pause to catch her own breath. Cheeks hot and pink beneath a smattering of freckles. Okay, so she didn’t look terrifying, at least not up close. It was the slightest relief. 

Varric considered his options quickly. Taking immediate note of the staff strapped to her back now that she shared the small space in the alley. It was some sort of make-shift weapon, sanded wood bound in crimson leather, tipped with a sheet of metal and sharpened to a gnarly edge. Fashioned to look something like a lance… A scythe, even? Some nondescript farmers tool, well, of course, that would be it. There was absolutely nothing suspect about that in the walled off, cramped and crumbling city of Kirkwall with not a ear of wheat in sight, or smell of shit for – nevermind, the latter was everywhere.

An unlikely choice for a renowned mercenary under the Red Irons. No matter how Ferelden she was. That is, unless you considered the underground mutterings of thug corpses found in warehouses, alleyways, the dockyards... all having been so curiously burned up and blackened to cinder… In that case, since those rumours appeared to be true then, the unremarkable stab-stick was a smart choice for her indeed. Varric needed this plan to work now more than ever -- let’s hope he wouldn’t make kindling.

And he hesitated, one hand clamped tight around Bianca’s grip, he smiled at her disarmingly, pulling out an arrow to flick between his fingers, ready to bullshit this problem away. Only, it slipped from his gloves and came clattering instead, to the ground, at her feet. 

“Right, then,” was all Hawke said.

Varric was sure he’d just died a little on the inside. 

How had this gone so terribly, shittily, badly in the span of  --

“Is anyone gonna help me!?” The kid bleated, thankfully having only been nicked by the onyx head, and was now struggling profusely where he was stuck. Desperate to tear away from them. At the very least, the sudden whining distracted Hawke long enough for Varric to recover from his mild embarrassment, and he shook it away to make room for a confident smile. 

Hawke, however, made no attempt to move toward them, standing back to watch him work, arms crossed and waiting, her hand outstretched. With some more whining from the kid, and some serious wrist wiggling, Varric was finally able to pull the arrow free of the brickwork. And as the kid flashed one final furious look at them both, he took off down the path hurriedly, clutching his grazed shoulder tight, offering one particularly crass hand gesture as a way of goodbye.

With the young man’s sudden absence, there came a lingering, awkward silence that followed whatever had just happened, until Hawke’s voice piped up -- the fury in her tone had ebbed away, at least. To tiredness, it sounded like. “He still has my money, you know?”

Varric closed his eyes, brows furrowed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know.” And resigning himself, cursing wildly under his breath, Varric reached into his coat to offer her more. He dared not look as he dropped the purse into her pale palm, shaking his head. This one far heavier than the one they had taken from her. “I’ve just paid the same woman I robbed,” he stated, as both of them stared down the empty alley. Well, there was really no use in denying it now.

“You can rob me again, if you like,” Hawke replied, taking the money and patting her pocket, appearing most pleased with the end result.

Despite himself, Varric smiled at that, let go a breathy laugh and glanced up at her. She was still gazing off into the distance. All things considered, she was taking this pretty well. Perhaps he still could save this plan of his. For all it was worth, he’d have to lay on the charm, of course. “I’ve got a better offer if you’re interested, messere?”

The smallest simper flickered at the corner of her mouth. “You’re in luck," she said, "I’m always interested.”

She bit? She bit! He beamed. "Varric Tethras, at your service."

[chmpn--a2]

i’m spending this morning in a hazy, sleepy, numb brain fog after entirely too much sleep, thinking about how much responsibility hawke’s taken on in his life and what he endures. he won’t complain about it. not outright. stepping up, stepping into malcolm’s shoes after he passes away, maybe even a little time before because sick people can’t do shit after a certain point!!, wasn’t too big of a deal. at first. so he works to provide for the family that he loves so much. happily. without a thought for himself. even when leandra lashes out at him. she lost her husband, the father of her children, the love of her life. that’s what garrett tells himself to excuse it. it’s not his fault. he’s doing his best. and not only does he have to keep himself out of the circle, but he has to protect bethany too. cue the blight. canon dialogue has him given credit for the hawkes even getting out of lothering. from a canonical standpoint, which i DO NOT accept (unless it suits my angst needs dlfjdsf I’M SORRY), bethany DIES. and the blame is his. she makes a decision and their mother leads him to believe that he could have prevented it. (”how could you let her charge off like that?!”) it stays with him. that really was his fault, wasn’t it? how could he let her do that? fast forward, skippity skip, kirkwall. he finds out that the only way that his family is getting into the city is if he sells his services to a mercenary group or a smuggling band for a year. THANKS UNCLE GAMLEN. and thanks for telling them that he’s a mage!! they can’t leave. it took too much for them to get there. a place where they were supposed to be nobility. AGAIN, THANKS GAMLEN. he goes with the mercenaries because it’s what seems to please carver the most. he would do anything to ease any of his brother’s suffering after losing his twin. never mind the fact that he’s never killed a human before. he kills friedrich and he nearly blacks out with nausea. he kills for his family’s security now, and he needs to do what he’s been doing for years at this point: step up and shut up. more skipping!! the year passes and his name is a fairly well-known one. his servitude is over, but he’s still being actively sought out by people. no one seems to realize how much he would love to rest. he doesn’t enjoy killing people in the slightest. he had to, to keep his family in kirkwall. it’s another thing that weighs on him. how many of those people deserved it? how many didn’t? catch him in the hanged man most nights, drinking until he stops thinking about it. until he stops thinking about everything. let’s skip some more!

deep roads expedition. he takes carver, because OF COURSE he takes carver. the whole thing with bartrand could have been worse. turns out, though, little brother contracts the blight!! good thing he brought anders, so he can pass off his sibling to a mysterious group of people who can “cure” him!! wait, what do you mean he can’t come home?? hawke loses another member of his family, albeit in a less permanent way. SKIP, but just a little bit. leandra gets fucking... murdered, y’all. the last time that hawke sees his mother, she’s a shambling puzzle of multiple women! super cool, very fun! he holds her as she dies! all of the times that she snapped, lashed out, hurt him. he still loves her. she’s his mother. why couldn’t he save her? he didn’t do enough and now she’s gone. that’s on him. magic fucking sucks!! the chantry is right!! how does he rip this ability away? he doesn’t want it. it hurts and hurts and hurts. he’s in pain. magic is a curse. he stops using it for upwards of two months. he gets very well acquainted with the blade at the end of his staff in combat. it takes him a while to trust his magic again, even though his own has nothing to do with it. the whole ordeal really solidifies his abhorrence of blood magic and necromancy. FAST FORWARD! qunari invasion. time to become the champion of kirkwall! no one else wants to! STEP UP AND SHUT UP, GARRETT HAWKE! IT’S WHAT YOU’RE BEST AT! he fights the arishok and nearly dies from the blood loss. but he survives. champion of kirkwall, yay! he tires of the title and the responsibility that comes with it after two minutes, maybe less. meredith and orsino are at each other’s throats more than usual. another thing to deal with. he’s doing favors for them both, so as not to break the tension. meredith knows that he’s a mage, for certain now (arishok fight!), and he needs to stay out of the gallows. and of course he’s going to assist his fellow mages. blah, blah, blah. chantry explosion. garrett approves of it, even if it leads to him basically becoming a fugitive after the battle with meredith.

he’s in hiding. alone. he has his mabari, but he misses his friends. all scattered to the winds. hawke travels thedas, not staying too long in any place. he’s in ferelden. antiva. rivain. tevinter. the free marches. nevarra. he’s everywhere. not orlais. never orlais. he can’t stop moving for too long. he keeps varric updated, when he dares to settle in a remote place in ferelden. it’s not long before he’s requested at skyhold. varric is his most trusted friend, so he goes. meets the inquisitor. like old times, he investigates. then the fade. he volunteers to stay behind. he’s self-sacrificing like that. all of the things that he’s “done wrong”, corypheus is now at the front of it. he can fix it. just... leave him. let him do something right, or die trying.

[bigasswritingmagnet]

Caught, Cleansed, Cauterized

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: none (gasp! I know) Word Count: 2607 Summary:  The Nightmare forces Hawke to live her worst moments over and over again. It shows her how useless she is, how she failed everyone around her, how nothing she did ever mattered.

AO3 link | I do commissions!

(Special thanks to @thehumantrampoline​ for beta-ing)

---

Hawke cradled her mother in her arms. The world was too sharp and too bright, every detail burning into her mind. The cold from the foundry floor leaching into her skin where bare knees met stone. The stench of rot and fresh blood searing the back of her throat. Her mother's eyes, the wrong color, clouded and grey, holding no love for her eldest.

"Where were you?" she rasped, the necklace of stitches tugging with every breath. "Why didn't you come for me?"

"I did ," Hawke wept, as she did every time. "I did, I tried--"

"I waited," Leandra said, as if Hawke hadn't spoken. "I waited for you to find me."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--"

Leandra's face went slack and her body still. The foundry faded, and Hawke was alone in darkness once again. She pressed her forehead to her knees and hugged herself tightly, trying to find some solace in what she knew would be the briefest of respites.

Every time she thought she had gone numb, every time she thought she had learned to resist the Nightmare's torments, it found whatever place in her mind she was hiding, and dragged her out again.

"Sister, get up!" Carver shouted. "What are you doing? We have to fight!"

Hawke lurched to her feet in time to send a charging darkspawn flying backwards. If she could get to Bethany, she could save her. But she couldn't get to Bethany. Every step she took, another dozen darkspawn would appear in front of her, and no matter how hard she struck, no matter how wide she cast her spells, it was never enough.

The ground shook beneath her feet. Great, twisting horns rose from behind the crest of the hill, and Hawke despaired. Her staff slipped from her fingers, but the darkspawn didn't cut her down. That was not their purpose here.

The ogre wrapped one huge hand around Bethany's waist and wrenched her from the ground. Once, twice it slammed her against the ground. Crack of bone. Soft gasp of her sister's last breath. A corpse tumbling to the ground, limbs splayed like a forgotten doll's.  

It never mattered what she did. She could never make it in time. She tried, every time, but nothing she did mattered. There was no way for her to stop the ogre.

Hawke could never have stopped the ogre.

Nothing she did mattered.

The explosion nearly knocked her off her feet, the blaze of light making her throw up a hand to shield her eyes. Anders stood on the steps, his face almost skeletal in the harsh light of the burning city.  

"You could have stopped me," he said, simply, sadly, exhaustion in every line of his frame. "If you'd payed attention, you could have talked me down from this. Why don't you ever listen?"  

"I could have stopped you," Hawke repeated. "But nothing I did mattered. Nothing I ever did mattered."

Anders looked briefly puzzled.

"You were selfish," he pressed, "too busy with your own problems to really help us. You never cared about this city."

But Hawke wasn't listening.

"Nothing I did ever mattered,” she whispered, more thoughtful than agonized. “but I could have stopped you."

Hawke was in the foundry again, holding her mother. There had been so much going on, so many things to fret and worry over, qunari and templars and what was one more murderer in a city that chewed itself up like a mad rat even on a good day? Maybe if she’d pressed Gaspard harder, maybe if she’d looked into it more, maybe if she’d paid more attention to Anders, maybe, maybe, maybe.

“Where were you?” her mother demanded, but Hawke didn’t hear her. She’d gone through all of this over and over and over again, and no matter what she did, the outcome never changed. And sure, the Nightmare was making sure she couldn’t but...

"But I didn't try to stop you," Hawke said, dropping her startled mother to the ground and standing. "If I had tried, would I have succeeded? Nothing I ever did mattered; does that include the things I didn't try to do?"

Hawke stared down at the lyrium idol in her hand, felt its sibilant hum in her bones.

"If I nothing I did mattered, that means I would have failed no matter what I did. But if I would have failed anyway, then I couldn't have stopped you."

She watched the blight creep up the veins in Carver's neck, black tendrils crawling under his skin. The Nightmare was moving faster than it usually did. Normally it liked to linger, to force her to wallow in the results of her failure. Now it was shuttling through the horrors so quickly Hawke could barely keep up, making it hard for her to follow her train of thought.

But not hard enough.

"You could have saved me," Carver said. "You did this. You did this."

"No," Hawke said. He twisted, shifted, became Bethany, dripping blood from her mouth and eyes and nose.

"You could have saved me."

" No." The word echoed in the darkness, and Bethany broke apart like a reflection in a rippling pond. Hawke was again standing in the burning rubble of what had once been Kirkwall's chantry. The heat of the fire made her skin feel tight and raw, but she barely noticed.

Nothing she did mattered...except for the things she blamed on herself.

Hawke turned her back on Anders and descended the steps to the Chantry square, and kept going. The landscape scrambled to keep up, streets and buildings erupting around her.

"If nothing I do matters, why should it matter to me? If I'm such a failure, everything would have turned out this way anyway. Why should I be to blame for something I couldn't have stopped?"

Her friends stood in the next courtyard, their faces twisted in hate and disgust.

"You ruined everything ," Merrill hissed, words dripping venom. Hawke sidestepped her and kept going.

"But nothing I did mattered. How can I be the one who ruined everything if it would have been ruined no matter what I did? Either I'm to blame for everything, or it all would have fallen apart no matter what I did. It can't be both, can it?"

The Arishok loomed in front of her.

"You could have stopped this," he said. Hawke walked straight through him.

"Could I have? I won't deny that I had a hand in some of the worst things. I released Corypheus. My actions brought the red lyrium to the surface. I helped Anders destroy the Chantry."

"Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify what they've done. In the end, you are always alone with your actions."

Her own voice boomed through the streets, rattling in her skull. When she’d said that to the Inquisitor, she’d believed it, fully. Now, though...

"With your actions ," she repeated. "Not the results , our actions. I've spent the last four years trying to fix things. Those are actions, aren't they?"

The walls of Kirkwall fell away, and became the scorched, twisted scrub of the Kokari Wilds. Darkspawn lined the path, hissing and clawing at her, but her eyes were fixed on the horizon and their hands passed through her like smoke.  

"I wasn't trying to help Corypheus. I didn't make Bartrand betray us, or sell the idol to Meredith. I didn't drive Meredith mad; I didn't give her the sword. I didn't tell Anders to do what he did. I didn't know what he had planned."

The wilds fell away, and Hawke found herself in darkness so complete, she couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed. She stretched out a hand, warily, and felt her fingers brush rough fabric. Before her stood a crowd of people, bruised and bloody and bloated with the corpulence of death, some half-rotted away, some so fresh only a grey pallor betrayed them. Most of them she didn't know, but she recognized enough faces to realize what she was looking at. The Nightmare was showing her every death she had ever caused. Directly or indirectly, they had died, and they were here.

"Little Hawke," the Nightmare taunted in the oozing voice she had come to know so well. "You attempt to delude yourself, as guilty men always do. You see for yourself the results of your actions. You know who is to blame."

The air was thick with the stench of death, blood and decay and worse, but she’d seen it all before. The Nightmare was repeating itself.

"I was willing to die to stop you. That matters. I tried to find a way to get rid of the red lyrium; that matters.” Hawke squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and shoved her way through the crowd.

“I came back to help the Inquisition fight Corypheus; that matters. I stood up to Meredith, I fought the Arishok, I made a deal with the Witch of the Wilds to keep my family safe--”

Hawke knocked her shoulder against Merethari’s, half thinking I didn’t even like you.

“Either none of it matters, or it all matters! I am, in part, responsible for all of this. But I am not at fault."

"There is no difference," the Nightmare snapped and aha, Hawke thought, there was a trace of irritation in its voice. She was getting to it.

Hawke was faced with Bethany again, but barely glanced at her sister's face before shoving past.

"Of course there is! You can't put all the blame on me. I can't blame it all on me either! Other people make choices. I can't control what they do. I can only control what I do, and all I have ever done is the best I can."  

She was moving faster now, the bodies fewer and fewer, and growing more insubstantial. The Nightmare was straining to keep up.

"I am not straining! I am the embodiment of all that men fear!"

The bodies were gone. A stone wall rose before her, so high she couldn't see the top, so wide it stretched beyond the invisible horizon.

"I don't know why I bloody listened to you in the first place,” Hawke said, looking up at the wall. “You're a demon. Just because you're telling me what I'm afraid of is right, doesn't mean you are. What do you know about fault, anyway?”

She slammed her palms and her power against the wall, blowing open a hole as easily as if it were made of paper. As soon as she was through, the wall collapsed behind her.

“You're a parasite, feeding on fear-- fear you don't even make! You just sit back and let the darkspawn and the templars and everything else do all the real work. People need to already be afraid, or you can't do anything!"

"Silence!" the Nightmare roared, the power of it shaking her bones and nearly driving her to her knees. But she grinned like a wolf, teeth and triumph bared. The Nightmare’s frustration tasted sweet on her tongue, and she let loose the vitriol the demon deserved.  

"You coward! You pathetic little thing! Was being Compassion just too hard?" She dug her fingers into the darkness and it broke away like rotten wood. "It's so difficult to help people. It takes so much work, and it never ends, it's never enough! I had every person in Kirkwall come to me with their problems. It was exhausting. Sometimes I wanted to tell everyone to fuck off and deal with it themselves, but I didn't! And do you know why?"

The Nightmare did not answer. Hawke ripped away another chunk of darkness, and found a small crack, shining with bright white light. With renewed vigor, she tore at it, a starving animal at the belly of a beast.

"Because I don't give up! Because I do what needs to be done, no matter the cost! Because I don't run from my mistakes, I fix them!"

The darkness around her cracked, crumbled, fell away. Hawke was in the Fade once more, in the Nightmare's valley, where the Inquisitor and Alistair had left her. Where she had left herself. There was no sign of the mountainous, many-eyed monster that had dragged her into itself.

Before her cowered the Nightmare's true form: a humanoid figure made of wispy white light. Just a spirit. A wraith.

"I am fear," it said.

"Yes," Hawke said, lip curled in contempt. She wrapped her hand around what passed for a neck, and drew the Nightmare towards her, until they were face to face. "And I am not afraid."

Lightning burst through her fingertips, cascading through the Nightmare. It screamed and writhed and, with one last terrified howl, crumbled to ash in her grip.

Hawke stared at her empty hand.

Perhaps this was a new trick. The Nightmare let her think she'd won, then just when she was on the verge of escape, the illusion would crumble.

If that was the plan, it was very poorly thought out, because Hawke's epiphany seemed as true as it had before. She believed every word she'd said.

No, this was no trick. She had stood in the Nightmare's own realm and talked her way out. What a very Varric thing for her to have done. The thought made her smile. It felt strange. How long had it been since she'd last smiled, really truly smiled, without exhaustion or worry making it hurt? She used to smile all the time. She used to tell jokes. She used to be fun.

Hawke resolved to try and smile more often. She’d forgotten how nice it felt to be happy.

"Not that it hasn't been fun," she told the Fade at large, "but I really must be going."

The Inquisitor had closed the rift at the top of the stairs, but Hawke trudged up them anyway. When she reached the top, she held out both hands, palms forward, and wiggled her fingers experimentally. Yes, she had a feel for the Fade now. She could sense the push and pull of it, the way it was woven together. The Inquisitor had sealed the rift, but it had left behind a seam. Hawke wiggled her fingers again, and slid tendrils of magic in between the stitches. She tugged, and felt it give. Excellent.

A little wisp floated by and bumped against her hand, curiously. It was the same shade of silvery-white that the Nightmare had been. Hawke wondered if this was what was left of it. She wondered if it remembered her.

"Shoo," she told it, waving her hand gently at it. "You won't like this next bit."

As slow and directionless as a dandelion fluff, the wisp floated away and out of sight. Perhaps it would gather strength and the Nightmare would return anew. Or it might return as Compassion. Maybe it would become a completely different kind of spirit. She liked that idea. A second chance for everyone.

Hawke tore open the fabric of the fade with one vicious pull, unraveling the Inquisitor's work. She resolved not to feel too badly about it. It wasn't exactly hard to close a rift. All the Inquisitor had to do was wave a hand.

Hawke stared into the swirling green portal. On the other side, she could see the courtyard of Adamant Fortress, and Inquisition soldiers scrambling to arm themselves.

Won't Varric be surprised, Hawke thought, and this time she laughed, the sound echoing in the empty space where the Nightmare had once been. Her heart lighter than it had been in over a decade, Hawke stepped through the rift, and went home.

[dareactions]

The companions reacting to holding a young, terrified inquisitor as they die in their arms with no health potions left? (I'm so sorry you are feeling down I hope things get better for you =( you deserve only good things and I am sending good vibes to you!!!

Thank you so much, luckily writing is a good way to get across my emotions

‘‘Am I going to die?’‘ Choked back, distressed words and a nervous laughter as young eyes meet theirs. ‘‘Oh my god I am going to die.’‘ They are so cold, aren’t they? The Inquisitor looks up at them ‘‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t fix everything. Please don’t cry’‘

Cassandra: She holds them, shaking words of encouragement to not close their eyes, to stay with her. ‘’You are not dying, you hear me?’’ She didn’t even notice she was crying, she was actually surprised to hear them say that. Cassandra knows thought, that they are dying. No healing magic could heal this wound, it’s too deep and too far gone. All she can do is hold the Inquisitor’s body as they bleed out, humming a soft tune from when she was a child; making sure they know, they were amazing. They did everything right and they shouldn’t say sorry. They didn’t die alone, they died in the arms of a friend. 

Solas: He gives them a pained expression, because he knows that if he hadn’t planned such a brutal plan, a young life would have been saved, if only for a bit longer. He can’t heal this- Solas knows that. But he tries, desperately for some time before he gives up. Whispering about how great they did, how hard they worked despite everything. ‘’You did great, Inquisitor. You did amazingly.’’ As the Inquisitor gives him one last, tired smile he feels himself freeze. Falon’Din enasal enaste.

Dorian: He curses at first, telling them to stop speaking such nonsense. But he realizes shortly after them that; they are right. They are dying. Nothing can stop this and it hurts him. He tries to hold the tears as he holds the young Inquisitor, shaking his dead. ‘’You did great, you hear me?’’ He whispers this as he starts shaking, their body goes limp in his hands and he feels the tears falling. This war has taken too many people from him.

Sera: ‘’Yer not dying, ya hear me?’’ She hisses when she presses her hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. She fucking knows they are dying, but she won’t accept that. Hell now. She will sit with them, telling them to wait for reinforcements. She knows they will come too late; she knows this too well. So when the Inquisitor mutters how tired they are, she keeps talking. About the pranks they will do as they get back to Skyhold and how priceless the looks on those nobs faces will be. Even as their body goes limp, does she keep talking. She starts crying without realizing. 

Blackwall: He takes it the best, he has seen young soldiers die in war way before their time. He holds the Inquisitor tightly, and talks with them. About their favorite foods and colors, what their favorite flower is and if they like sunny better than rainy. When they beg for him to forgive them he chuckles, regret in his face as he shakes his head. ‘’It’s you who should forgive me.’’ When they go limp, he just sits there. He won’t move, not yet. He needs some time, tears falling from his face as he bites his lips and starts shaking. Forgive him, forgive him for not saving them.

Iron Bull: Bull Holds their small frame in his hands, krem is there too. Krem is always there lately; and they all three just talk and joke. When the Inquisitor asks for forgiveness; Krem breaks. Damn Bull almost does so as well. The kid did so good, why won’t they realize that? When their body goes limp, Bull softly puts them down. And hugs Krem, the chargers mourn that night; because they lost a family member. They lost a charger to this fucked up world who does nothing but takes and takes. Bull will never forgive himself; for not checking their back when out on that patrol. It’ll haunt him forever.

Vivienne: This has to be the first time the Inquisitor sees her cry, the mage muttering about how things aren’t over yet and they can’t give up. She knows however, she saw this in Bastien. And for a split moment all she can do is cry, hugging the small fragile Inquisitor as they pass away. She will never forgive herself for this; they were just a child.

Varric: He can’t do much, he doesn’t know what to do. For the first time in forever he feels helpess. This young person who had their entire life ahead of them, is now dying in his arms. He lets out a shaky breath, is this how Hawke felt? Varric knows how it is to loose someone; but never someone you feel the need to protect. He never had to protect Bartrand in the way he did the Inquisitor. Is this how it felt for Hawke watching Carver/Bethany die? He asks this, as he tells the kid stories; watching the life leave their body.

Cole: He looks at them in his arm, and for the first time realizes how small the Inquisitor actually was. He asks if they want him to take the pain away, and they say yes. For the first time in his life; Cole cries as he helps the Inquisitor. He won’t make people forget them, they did so many good things. But he is so unsure, just why is his body shaking? Maybe- just maybe it’s the fact that he will never get to see them smiling at him, explaining why they won’t tell people of their worries and how they want to help. Maybe that’s why.