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CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Varric

“So, why did you become a bard?”

You set down the tankard of ale you’d been drinking while keeping Varric company during the late night. When Hawke and his party left, it only left the dwarf and Isabela to talk to. Not that you minded, both were fascinating and wonderful people. But this question had taken a seemingly normal night spent between you and Varric and turned it on its head. The tankard clanked against the wooden table as you set it down.

“Why do you want to know?”

Varric tapped two fingers to his chin, seemingly in thought, but you knew he had planned this conversation well in advanced. ‘Tis was his nature.

“As background information,” he answered finally, “for when I tell the story of the voice that enchanted a thousand men.”

“And women.”

“If you so desire.”

You sighed, and began to drain down your ale. You were reluctant to tell him.

“You know,” Varric began after your silence. “I’ve heard that bard is another word for spy in Orlais.”

You nearly choked on your drink laughing. “Me? A?” You laughed some more. The thought was just too funny. “I wouldn’t know the hilt of a sword from the blade.” Nevertheless, you reached across the table and patted his hand. “Now excuse me, my dear, I’d like to keep my job.”

Later that night, you plucked the notes to your final song, a lullaby for the late evening. As its notes resounded through the minds and hearts of those listening, you packed up your belongings and headed to Varric’s room.

“Ah, Songbird,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Ready to go, I see?”

You leaned against the doorway, looking at the ground. “My grandfather taught me how to play.” Varric cracked a smile in victory but you ignored him, mustering memories that were not yours, but as present as your own.

“He had been a traveling minstrel all his life. Maker’s breath, the stories he told, the adventures he’d seen. Fantastical tales. He once told me of a woman, with the eyes of a dragon and words that burned with every breath. She flew across the land, leaving nothing but the mystery of who she was in her wake. But my favorite story he told me was how he met my grandmother, how he presented a song praising her and she scoffed at him! She was a noblewoman. She had courts full of poets and minstrels to pen verses in her name, but she never could get the one song he sang to her out of her mind.

They eloped and saw the world together, from the cold stonework of the Frostback Mountains to the running forests of the Dalish, from Orlais to the Free Marches. It wasn’t until years later that a letter caught up to them. Her father welcomed them home.”

“Just like that?” Varric asked.

“Just like that,” you smiled.

“They were officially married,” you continued, “and had three beautiful baby girls that grew up and married into separate houses. My grandmother died giving birth to her youngest, Esmerelda, but she grew up to be my grandfather’s favorite. Like the rest of her sisters, she grew up to marry a nobleman and live life within the confines of her estate. My grandfather visited her often, but practically lived with them once I was born.”

“Must have been a good life,” Varric said, and you nodded. “So why would you leave it?”

“Why did you come to the surface?” You asked. “For as long as I can remember, he would tell me stories, about women who could fly across the land, and men who ran its lengths, and as I got older, the stories made me sad. I wanted to run. I wanted to fly.

There came a day when I knew all of my grandfather’s stories by heart, and when that day came, I realized there were no more chains. The cage was gone. So I ran and I flew.”

“It couldn’t have been easy, Songbird.”

“By no means,” you shook your head, smiling sadly. “My parents withdrew their support, revoked my family name, disowned me entirely. But my grandfather gave me his lute, and I knew that if it had carried him through all these years, it would carry me as well…” You sighed, lovingly caressing the lute to your chest. “Even today, it continues to be a symbol of hope…”

There was a brief silence between you two as the story settled into its place in your memories. Then you spoke up.

“What about you? What of your story?”

“Oh no, we’re not going to start that.” He stood up and walked to you. “Go to bed, Songbird.” He took your hand and kissed it. “You’ve had a long night.”

You smiled gratefully before turning away from him and leaving for the night.

Consulting all readers of my story!

Would anyone be interested in reading a Merrill lemon? I'm at the apex of the "write it or not write it" mountain and feel like I could slide down either side. Thoughts?

asdfjk; that is such a HUUUUUGE compliment, you have no idea. Okay excuse me while I cry happy tears now. omg omg

<3 I'm a writer too,but I have horrible spelling and I'm extremely self-conscious about EVERYTHING. Like I made a Dalish elf cosplay and have been fighting tooth and nail with myself to send it in to Bioware to possibly get on the FB page >.<

So I support the CRAP out of people who have the courage to post their art online. Plus you are writing the most interesting style of a fan fiction I've ever read and the part of the story you are trying to prevent and JUSTICE fhdsjdfhgjhds;jgfdsg;sdjg; gfds;jgfs;j f and you portray the characters so well like you have no IDEA how many fanfictions I've read of Fenris and he's not BROODING YOU BROOD SO WELL BRO! XD,but in all seriousness I love your work <3

Your welcome-hugs- I kinda don't want to see teh ending of this story I just want it to go on FOREVER 4laugh 3nodding whee

and this FENRIS CHAPTER OMG! A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!!!! you write such a great Fenris!

Omg, you are faaaaar too kind. adsfjkl; I've inspired someone, asdjfkl;