opensummer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
opensummer) wrote2018-12-15 01:00 am
opensummer) wrote2018-12-15 01:00 am
Entry tags:
bitter is sorrow, ate raw and often
Ok but- mage!Hawke as Andraste reborn-
“I’m rather sick of husbands.” She says.
+
Hawke, because she is always Hawke these days, never Marian, never Andraste, laughs herself sick at the first book Varric publishes of her exploits.
He presents her with a copy at their weekly game of wicked grace and she takes it home and devours it over the course of the night. It’s a good story and an excellent read even though she knows the ending already- her brother taking up a grey wardens calling and a quip on her lips. She is far enough removed now that doesn’t sting the way it could, one of her greatest failures laid out in print. You would think she would be used to that by now, what with the Chant.
Three days later, Hawke’s crew is flushed with success, having completed a very profitable raid on some slavers up the coastline, with coin in their pockets and a cask of something better than the usual swill they drink cracked in Varrics rooms. He looks nervous when he asked if she liked it. She is very drunk when she leans across the table and reassures him that she loved it. Even drunker two hours later when bleary eyed she watches him drape a blanket over Merrill, who is napping under the table. Isabella disappeared hours ago with a conquest, Aveline shook her head at the lot of them and begged off early, and Anders never appeared at all. Fenris is sleeping too, head on the table but Varric hilariously does not give him the courtesy of a blanket.
“I could used you, on my first go round.” Hawke tells him earnestly and he leans over and moves her glass out of reach. “A storyteller.”
Varric laughs, a low pleasant sound. “And Bianca helps too?”
“And Bianca!” She says going to toast him and his fine weapon and blinking at the space where her glass was, before looking back at him. “But if you’d been there to write it they would have told it the right way.”
“Another story for me, Hawke? You shouldn’t have.” But his eyes are gleaming.
“Best story in the world.” She mumbles and lets him guide her over to the spare bed, reassured when he throws a blanket over her.
“I’ll tell you soon.” Hawke says and lets sleep take her.
“I’m rather sick of husbands.” She says.
+
Hawke, because she is always Hawke these days, never Marian, never Andraste, laughs herself sick at the first book Varric publishes of her exploits.
He presents her with a copy at their weekly game of wicked grace and she takes it home and devours it over the course of the night. It’s a good story and an excellent read even though she knows the ending already- her brother taking up a grey wardens calling and a quip on her lips. She is far enough removed now that doesn’t sting the way it could, one of her greatest failures laid out in print. You would think she would be used to that by now, what with the Chant.
Three days later, Hawke’s crew is flushed with success, having completed a very profitable raid on some slavers up the coastline, with coin in their pockets and a cask of something better than the usual swill they drink cracked in Varrics rooms. He looks nervous when he asked if she liked it. She is very drunk when she leans across the table and reassures him that she loved it. Even drunker two hours later when bleary eyed she watches him drape a blanket over Merrill, who is napping under the table. Isabella disappeared hours ago with a conquest, Aveline shook her head at the lot of them and begged off early, and Anders never appeared at all. Fenris is sleeping too, head on the table but Varric hilariously does not give him the courtesy of a blanket.
“I could used you, on my first go round.” Hawke tells him earnestly and he leans over and moves her glass out of reach. “A storyteller.”
Varric laughs, a low pleasant sound. “And Bianca helps too?”
“And Bianca!” She says going to toast him and his fine weapon and blinking at the space where her glass was, before looking back at him. “But if you’d been there to write it they would have told it the right way.”
“Another story for me, Hawke? You shouldn’t have.” But his eyes are gleaming.
“Best story in the world.” She mumbles and lets him guide her over to the spare bed, reassured when he throws a blanket over her.
“I’ll tell you soon.” Hawke says and lets sleep take her.
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