At Your Side (A Dragon Age fanfiction)

Year One: Wicked Grace

"And then the farmer said, 'A nug like that, you don't eat all at once!'" The mage didn't look up, and Varric cleared his throat. "Blondie, you're not listening. That joke's all the rage in the Merchants' District."

"What?" Anders looked up from the parchment he was scribbling on.

"Haven't you finished that manifesto yet? At least let me look it over. I'm sure I can punch it up." Varric gave up when it became clear that Anders wasn't listening. The mage stared off into space for a moment before writing something else down, in a tiny cramped hand that was barely legible even with a magnifying glass. "Or give it up for a few hours and come to work with us. The fresh air and exercise will be good for you." Although there weren't many jobs these days. Hawke having become Champion of Kirkwall had been nothing more than a ticket to drudgery, as far as Varric could tell. His friend was expected to attend all sorts of mind-numbing meetings talking about political issues, and those who might really need her help seemed to view her as out of their reach. Most days Varric wished Hawke had waited for Meredith and let the Knight-Commander kill the Arishok. It would have been easier. He took his feet off the edge of Anders's desk and got up. "Come on, Blondie, Wicked Grace night. You used to be the best."

"That was before the elf started playing all the time," Anders groused. The broody elf's abilities as a card-player were fearsome, and it had just given the two men one more rivalry.

"You can't stay down here writing all the time," Varric said, looking at the bent blond head. "You have to get out into the rest of Kirkwall sometimes—how else will you find material to write about?"

"You don't think centuries of oppression by the Chantry is enough material?" Anders snapped. Then he sighed. "I'll get up if someone needs my healing. Otherwise ... this has to be finished. Everyone has to know, Varric."

"If you insist." Varric shook his head. Of all the stubborn mages. "Remember, if you or the clinic need anything—"

"You're just a messenger away," Anders finished.

"Right." Varric started to walk away but paused when Anders called his name. He turned to look at the mage, eyebrows raised in question.

"Thank you. For trying."

"Anytime." Just when Varric was about to give up on him, the man he'd first befriended would appear in the mage's brown eyes and convince him there was something still in there that was worth saving. It happened with less and less frequency these days.

He took a back route up from Darktown, detouring by Hawke's house. Bodahn informed him that she wasn't there—apparently she'd gone to dinner with the young Templar, Keran, whom they'd saved from blood mages several years ago. Varric was a bit surprised. He wouldn't have thought Keran was Hawke's type. But then, maybe that was the point.

On his way to the Hanged Man, Varric passed another young Templar, Trevor, pacing in a courtyard. Terrien had taken his young ward away to Orlais, and Trevor's haunted, sunken eyes were an eloquent expression of how he was taking his loss. The old woman with her voluminous rags was there, too, hunched in a corner, watching Trevor with alternating sympathy and irritation. The two of them made a picturesque tableau, but the overall mood of sadness and desolation in the courtyard made Varric shiver, and he hurried on.

He could hear the raucousness of the Hanged Man on Wicked Grace night from several blocks away, and it warmed his heart. So many things in Kirkwall changed, but the Hanged Man was always the same. He hoped it always would be. There were a few scorch marks on the stucco walls now, from where the Qunari had tried to burn out the refugees who had fled there, but they had all banded together and driven the Qunari away with some well-thrown Antivan cocktails. Varric had cheered their ingenuity, while regretting the loss of several very nice bottles of Antivan brandy.