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rose_in_winter2017-09-11 09:21 pm
lassarina) wrote in rose_in_winter2017-09-11 09:21 pm
[Dragon Age II] Aftermath
Characters: Fenris/female Hawke
Rating: G
Contains: Spoilers for "All that Remains"
Wordcount: 782
Notes: written forgenprompt_bingo for the prompt "tragedy"
Betas: N/A
Summary: In the aftermath of All that Remains, Fenris seeks Varric's advice.
The Hanged Man is as raucous as ever, people shouting and drinking and gaming as though nothing has happened. For them, perhaps, nothing has. It is just another night, another drink, another wager.
Except that Varric's table sits empty, and despite the crowd, no one has tried to encroach on his territory.
Fenris slides easily through the bar—no one wants to stop a man carrying a sword as tall as he is—and makes his way to the stairs. If Varric is not holding court below, he must be in his rooms above. Fenris likes it better this way; for Hawke's sake he would have endured Isabela's teasing as he asked, but if he can get what he needs without that, so much the better.
He knocks on the door, and Varric wrenches it open with a half-slurred "Rivaini, I told you—Oh. Elf."
Fenris can only stare. Varric's shirt is more undone than usual, he has only one boot, and his hair is a mess.
"Well, don't just stand there," Varric says, and wobbles as he turns back into his room.
Fenris does not want to know how much drink it took to incapacitate a dwarf who spends most of his evenings drinking. He follows Varric in and closes the door behind him.
Bianca hangs on the wall, the tidiest thing in the room. Hours ago, a bolt from that crossbow killed Gascard DuPuis. It's not that Fenris didn't want him dead for what he did to Leandra—to Hawke—but he wishes it had been slower.
He wishes he had done it.
"What do you want, Broody?" Varric asks tiredly. He is leaning against the bed, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Hawke," Fenris says.
"She isn't here."
"I know." He struggles for the words. "I don't know how to help her."
Varric gives a short, bitter laugh. "Elf, if I knew how to help her, I'd be there, not here." He downs the whiskey. "Why aren't you with her?"
Fenris paces the room like the caged animal he might as well be. "You're good at words," he says. "What do I say?"
Varric sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "There aren't words for this," he says. "I could write a dozen novels and there wouldn't be words for this in them." He looks at Bianca and sighs again. "Just go to her. Be there. You don't have to know what to say, but she needs you right now."
"Sorry to interrupt," Fenris says.
Varric waves a hand. "I'm not the one who needs comfort," he says, but from the redness in his eyes and the way he throws back more whiskey, Fenris thinks that's a lie.
He goes anyway.
He still feels out of place going to the front door of the manor, but Bodhan admits him without comment. His eyes are red, as well.
Fenris leaves his sword in the rack by the door by Hawke's staff—it doesn't seem right, to come to this armed—and turns to Bodahn. "She's upstairs," the dwarf says, and his voice is ragged and hoarse. Fenris doesn't trust his own, so he nods and climbs the stairs. The silence in the house is absolute. Usually there is something—Leandra humming to herself as she embroiders, the clatter when Carver comes to visit, the sounds of the servants who make the place run, Anders grumbling in the library or Isabela teasing everyone—but this is more like his house, except with better furnishings.
Hawke's bedroom door is closed. He hesitates, then pulls the latch and pushes it open.
She is sitting in front of the cold fireplace. He approaches on silent bare feet and sees that she is weeping. She doesn't seem to notice him, even when he kneels next to her and lays a hand awkwardly on her shoulder; she stares into the dead embers of last night's fire and clenches her hands spasmodically on the hem of her robes.
He expected sobs, or fury, but he sees now that her grief is too great for the confines of sound. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches his arm around her, and pulls her close to him. She goes passively, still staring at nothing, not even bothering to brush away the tears in the quick, angry gesture she uses on the rare occasions when she does cry, as though she is irritated with herself for a leaky basin.
Now he knows why Varric said there were no words. He doesn't need them. He only needs to be here.
He sits on the floor with her, in the aftermath, and says nothing.
Rating: G
Contains: Spoilers for "All that Remains"
Wordcount: 782
Notes: written for
genprompt_bingo for the prompt "tragedy"Betas: N/A
Summary: In the aftermath of All that Remains, Fenris seeks Varric's advice.
The Hanged Man is as raucous as ever, people shouting and drinking and gaming as though nothing has happened. For them, perhaps, nothing has. It is just another night, another drink, another wager.
Except that Varric's table sits empty, and despite the crowd, no one has tried to encroach on his territory.
Fenris slides easily through the bar—no one wants to stop a man carrying a sword as tall as he is—and makes his way to the stairs. If Varric is not holding court below, he must be in his rooms above. Fenris likes it better this way; for Hawke's sake he would have endured Isabela's teasing as he asked, but if he can get what he needs without that, so much the better.
He knocks on the door, and Varric wrenches it open with a half-slurred "Rivaini, I told you—Oh. Elf."
Fenris can only stare. Varric's shirt is more undone than usual, he has only one boot, and his hair is a mess.
"Well, don't just stand there," Varric says, and wobbles as he turns back into his room.
Fenris does not want to know how much drink it took to incapacitate a dwarf who spends most of his evenings drinking. He follows Varric in and closes the door behind him.
Bianca hangs on the wall, the tidiest thing in the room. Hours ago, a bolt from that crossbow killed Gascard DuPuis. It's not that Fenris didn't want him dead for what he did to Leandra—to Hawke—but he wishes it had been slower.
He wishes he had done it.
"What do you want, Broody?" Varric asks tiredly. He is leaning against the bed, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Hawke," Fenris says.
"She isn't here."
"I know." He struggles for the words. "I don't know how to help her."
Varric gives a short, bitter laugh. "Elf, if I knew how to help her, I'd be there, not here." He downs the whiskey. "Why aren't you with her?"
Fenris paces the room like the caged animal he might as well be. "You're good at words," he says. "What do I say?"
Varric sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "There aren't words for this," he says. "I could write a dozen novels and there wouldn't be words for this in them." He looks at Bianca and sighs again. "Just go to her. Be there. You don't have to know what to say, but she needs you right now."
"Sorry to interrupt," Fenris says.
Varric waves a hand. "I'm not the one who needs comfort," he says, but from the redness in his eyes and the way he throws back more whiskey, Fenris thinks that's a lie.
He goes anyway.
He still feels out of place going to the front door of the manor, but Bodhan admits him without comment. His eyes are red, as well.
Fenris leaves his sword in the rack by the door by Hawke's staff—it doesn't seem right, to come to this armed—and turns to Bodahn. "She's upstairs," the dwarf says, and his voice is ragged and hoarse. Fenris doesn't trust his own, so he nods and climbs the stairs. The silence in the house is absolute. Usually there is something—Leandra humming to herself as she embroiders, the clatter when Carver comes to visit, the sounds of the servants who make the place run, Anders grumbling in the library or Isabela teasing everyone—but this is more like his house, except with better furnishings.
Hawke's bedroom door is closed. He hesitates, then pulls the latch and pushes it open.
She is sitting in front of the cold fireplace. He approaches on silent bare feet and sees that she is weeping. She doesn't seem to notice him, even when he kneels next to her and lays a hand awkwardly on her shoulder; she stares into the dead embers of last night's fire and clenches her hands spasmodically on the hem of her robes.
He expected sobs, or fury, but he sees now that her grief is too great for the confines of sound. Slowly, cautiously, he reaches his arm around her, and pulls her close to him. She goes passively, still staring at nothing, not even bothering to brush away the tears in the quick, angry gesture she uses on the rare occasions when she does cry, as though she is irritated with herself for a leaky basin.
Now he knows why Varric said there were no words. He doesn't need them. He only needs to be here.
He sits on the floor with her, in the aftermath, and says nothing.