undwarfy | Open post

[It's not locked. It's never locked. Not even today, the lowest day of Varric's life.

The answering call is dull and tired.]

Here, Blondie.

[He's sitting in his chair staring at the fire, paperwork for various Tethras businesses spread out in front of him. In the midst of the fire, gleaming from the dancing light, is a dagger- a small, nondescript thing, still crusted with blood.]

[ He shouldn't be surprised, but some small part of him still is. Of course, even an open door doesn't necessarily mean Varric's welcoming visitors with open arms.

Anders shuts it behind him, accordingly, shutting out a portion of the noise from just below their feet, as he steps cautiously inside. For all he keeps his footsteps and his demeanor as careful and quiet as possible, as he approaches the table, he still cuts right to the chase. ]

...For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I couldn't do more.

[ To help him, is the unspoken tail end to that thought. He doubts he needs to clarify, though. ]

[He takes a very careful, very measured breath in.]

You did more than anyone else. I got to say a real goodbye.

[True, he never got to ask him why, or get answers, or demand retribution or apology or explanation for that fucking betrayal, but... at least they had one sane conversation before the end.

It was more than anybody else could give.]

[ It still doesn't feel like much - but Anders isn't trying to make this any more about him. So instead of trying to make some other pointless, fruitless argument, he pulls out a chair, leaning his staff against the next one down as he sits.

And for a little while, he simply says nothing. Nothing really seems right, though. Even if he knows some measure of what Varric is going through.

In his very casual attempts to look anywhere but at his friend (he doesn't want to stare, like there's something more expected - there isn't), his gaze eventually lands on the fire. And the knife, tarnishing and blackening in the heart of it. ]

You did do the right thing, you know. I know that it feels more like another burden you have to carry, now, but it was a mercy in more ways than one.

[Muttered-] Mercy.

[He knocks back the rest of his ale and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Unusually, he doesn't give a shit about getting his gloves dirty.]

Nug-humping duster didn't deserve mercy. He deserved painful revenge and my foot up his ass.

[But he didn't get that. Varric didn't get that. What they got instead was a twisted shell, ruin turned to ash in their mouths. Varric picks up the empty tankard and considers throwing it. It might feel good to see it shatter.

He puts it down again. Pushes it away.]

[ Anders is quiet for another moment, perhaps waiting to see if Varric really will give in and throw that mug after all. ]

Then why didn't you let him live?

[ A knot of wood pops in the fire, and Anders shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. ]

Surely nothing you could have done would have been more painful than simply allowing your brother to rot away in his madness.

[Truth be told, his first impulse was to throw the mug at Anders's stupid fucking head. The sound of his voice was suddenly so grating that he thought he might actually kill the mage if he spoke another goddamn word.

Heroically, neither of those things came close to happening. All that happened was Varric's sullen, surly stare into the fire, into the paperwork mess, into the twisting, tarnishing dagger.

When the answer came, it came quietly. Bitterly.]

Because I'm a better brother than he deserved.

[This wasn't how their story was supposed to end. It wasn't a satisfying revenge tale, or a tragic drama- it was just a shitty fucking mess of blood and horror. It rang hollow in his chest, in that deep place where the singing echoed.]

[ If Varric wants to take it out on him, Anders supposes that's all right - the anger's not going to do anything else but simmer, otherwise. He's almost a little surprised when he doesn't, to be honest, after so deliberately provoking a reaction from him.

But he doesn't press further, picking up Varric's discarded mug, himself. There's always a pitcher or a bottle (or a few) at the end of the table, and tonight is no exception. In spite of the oppressive mood that fills the room, otherwise, everything is as it always is.

Except for Varric. Except for that knife he's burning to a twisted, black chunk of wasted metal.

Anders pushes back his chair and stands, leaving for the other end of the table long enough to refill Varric's mug. He's careful of the documents spread around, when he sets it back down in front of him, before resuming his own seat, quietly.

He hasn't got anything better to offer, except condolences Varric doesn't want. ]

[Varric takes the mug immediately, offering no comment or look. Gratitude is there, but not expressed. It's too dimly-felt and distant to get a toe-hold.

It's a long time, another ale, and a worldless offer of drink to the mage, before he speaks again.]

Dipped in molten gold and erected as a statue in Hightown. That's what we decided.

[They made a game out of imagining Bartrand's death. The thought turns his stomach now.]

Never added "mercy-killed to avoid the voices in his head" to the list. Not once.

[He leans into his hands, elbows on the table, and rubs at his temples in stress. There's tension everywhere, knotted like roots in his back, his neck, his shoulders, the pit of his stomach.]

Never even got to ask him why.

[Why everything. Why gold was more important than family. Why he tried to murder his own brother, the kid he raised when Mother was too drunk. Why- just... why.]

[ That stings a little, but it's not at all undeserved. Anders might turn down his drink (Varric needs it more, anyway), but he can't deny his part in this, what it is Varric's going through, now.

He doesn't think either of them ever actually imagined it would come to this, if he's honest. He certainly never would have made light of things, if he had. But none of that makes a whit of difference, now.

Cautiously, Anders ventures: ] I don't know if he would've had an answer, even if he'd still been in his right mind.

[ And that does as little to help them, really.

Anders' hands are folded together in front of him, but he pulls them apart, now, almost reaching for Varric - he's wound so tightly he looks ready to snap. But he stops well short. That would be overstepping far more than he already has. ]

[Varric sees the gesture and shows no reaction. Not even a little grimace, or a face of "what was that", or a side-eye. Nothing. In this mindset, it's pretty much as good as it gets.]

You're probably right. Nug-fucking son of a bitch.

[The old fire, the old heat that used to infuse those words- is gone. They sound almost obligatory. Routine. Like he's forgotten any other way of talking about his brother.]

[ All the more reason to keep that ill-advised impulse in check. Varric's more clearly than ever not in his right mind. ]

He wasn't always... such a right bastard, was he?

[ He's honestly asking. What he actually knew of Bartrand couldn't fill a page, let alone a book. ]

When we were kids.

[If anything, the tension winds tighter. Talking about Bartrand as an actual person- it's something he's forgotten how to do. That ability died in the Deep Roads.]

Before he got obsessed with the Tethras name.

[His hands thread into his hair, fisting tightly. It's an anchor, but not a soothing one.]

[ Anders' tone is a little lighter, when he speaks again. Not trying for humor, just yet, but maybe hoping just to loosen the hold that bone-deep tension has on Varric. ]

It's hard to imagine either of you as children.

[ Especially Varric, if he's honest. ]

He used to yell at me for playing out in the garden. Got jumpy from going outside.

[Imagine little Varric running through the small garden of a Kirkwall house, with Bartrand just inside, yelling for him to get back in here. The memory does little to ease his tension, just reminds him of everything he's lost.]

Told me stories about Orzammar when Mother was too drunk.

[He's never talked about his mother. Only that she's dead, and that whenever someone jokes about becoming their parents, Varric gets a look on his face like he just smelled something nasty.]

That's... [ Really cute. Sorry, Varric.

Anders - perhaps wisely - holds back the smile that wants to spring unbidden to his lips, suddenly. He's not making things better, already. No need to actively make them worse.

Instead, he just very intently contemplates his hands, for a moment. Maybe longer than he should, when Varric mentions his mother - but what can he possibly say to that? Both a startling revelation and a starkly unpleasant footnote, it only highlights another clear imbalance in their friendship. ]

You know so much about all of us, [ more than he should, probably ] but we hardly know anything about you. I'm sorry for that, too, Varric.

But I know how it feels to be... tossed aside by someone you should have been able to trust. And how it feels to know you'll never even get any closure for it, either. If there's anything I can do for you, I will.

[He turns that over in his mind. The apology, the hand extended in friendship, the kindness. The commiserating.]

Tell me about them. This ex-person of yours.

[Someone from the Circle, maybe, or estranged family that abandoned their little boy for his magic. Varric has seen more than one child dragged through the streets behind a screaming mother, or away from silent, stone-faced parents.]

[ It's not what he expects (actually, what he expects is probably that mug to the head, after all). But it's not an unreasonable request, either.

Anders' mouth works, his lips twitching as if they can't quite settle into just one expression, and he sits back in his seat, pulling his hands back into his lap. ]

My father?

[ Right on the second count. ]

He wasn't exactly what you'd call a kind man. Though he wasn't precisely cruel, either. Just... hard. He liked things a certain way, and - you know the rest.

[ Anders shrugs a shoulder, almost wishing he had taken that drink after all, if only for a way to break up the flow of talk. ]

Needless to say, when I turned twelve and burned down the barn by accident, he couldn't sell me out to the Templars fast enough.

[After a long silence (where usually Varric would interject witty commentary or surprising insight) he gets up and pours a drink, putting it in front of Anders without comment.]

Makes you wonder if they ever gave a shit at all.

[It's not a question. It's a commiseration, delivered bluntly.]

[ Anders doesn't like to wonder about that. He doesn't know which he would prefer.

So he just accepts his drink, instead, after a brief, silent moment of simply staring into it. It's a waste, either way, but at least it gives him an excuse to shut up. The mug's half empty when he sets it back down. ]

[Varric puts an entire jug in front of Anders, not wanting to have to keep getting up- and figuring Justice could use a frothy mug of shut-the-fuck-up, just this once. Then he returns to his chair, visibly wincing at a tweak of muscle that goes wrong.]

You know, they said alcohol is supposed to be relaxing. I don't feel fucking relaxed.

[ Anders scoffs, from where he's slouched over his mug. ]

You'd need to drink half the Waking Sea in whiskey to loosen up, the way you look. You know, I could help with that far more than the liquor will, right?

Oh really?

[He looks the mage over, something less dark than usual flitting over his face. On another day, it would have been a smile.]

So you weren't just yanking my chain with that massage stuff?

[ Anders, for his part, is quite sincere. ]

I wasn't. It's actually quite beneficial, when dealing with old wounds that magic alone won't soothe. But it works equally well as a cure for dreadfully long days.

[He regards Anders for a long moment, thinking about their weird game, and how good those bits of magic felt against his scalp. How nice it would be to feel anything even remotely good.]

Alright.

[He starts untying his hair.]

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