22 – 30 Solace 9:40
Varric sighed, inhaling the familiar, bittersweet aroma of The Hanged Man. The mingling scents of stale ale, wood smoke, and that perpetually questionable stew hit him like a ghost from his past. Three years since he’d left Kirkwall, and the tavern was exactly as he remembered it.
It didn’t feel like home anymore.
The quiet hum of dice rolling and muffled laughter filled the room, the kind of noise that always made the Hanged Man feel alive. But tonight, even that seemed subdued, as though the city’s unrest had seeped into its very bones. Varric’s eyes swept across the room, catching glimpses of familiar faces. Some offered him brief, acknowledging nods; others quickly turned back to their drinks.
He pushed past a few patrons, his boots clicking softly against the well-worn floorboards as he approached the bar.
“Corff,” Varric greeted, a grin tugging at his lips as he hoisted himself onto a barstool.
The barkeep glanced up, his brows lifting in surprise before his face split into a knowing smirk. “Well, well. Thought we’d seen the last of you, Tethras. Figured you’d traded us for Antivan sunsets and Orlesian wine.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Varric quipped, leaning an elbow on the bar. “But you know me—I can’t stay away from bad ale and worse company.”
Corff barked a laugh, reaching for a tankard. “You’re lucky this place hasn’t changed much. Even the rats refused to leave.” He poured a drink and slid it over. “What brings you back? Thought Kirkwall wasn’t exactly your favorite place to be anymore.”
Varric shrugged, taking a long sip. “Got tired of Antivan sunsets,” he said dryly, his gaze drifting toward the tavern’s shadowy corners. “Figured I’d see if Kirkwall’s grown a sense of humor in my absence.”
Corff snorted. “You won’t find much of that around here. Place has been dead quiet since you left.”
“That so?” Varric murmured, though he wasn’t surprised. Kirkwall had never been the same after the Gallows fell. He let Corff fill him in on the city’s goings-on—Cullen’s rise to provisional Knight-Commander, the continued tension between mages and Templars, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding.
Through it all, Varric nodded, offered the occasional quip, and sipped his drink. But his mind kept drifting, thoughts pulling him back to Ferelden. To Ariana. He had sent her letters when he could, but it wasn’t the same. The guilt gnawed at him, though he reassured himself she was fine. She has to be.
His musings were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots against wood. He stiffened slightly, his grip tightening around his tankard.
“Are you Varric Tethras?” The voice was sharp, cutting through the tavern’s low hum like a knife.
Varric didn’t turn right away, schooling his features before twisting around to face the two armored figures looming behind him. Templars. Of course.
“Depends who’s asking,” he said, flashing them a disarming smile.
The taller of the two stepped forward, his expression unreadable behind the gleam of his helmet. “You’re coming with us.”
“Is that right?” Varric leaned back, his tone light despite the unease curling in his gut. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I just got back. Can’t a guy enjoy a drink before getting hauled off to Maker-knows-where?”
Neither Templar flinched, their stony silence more unnerving than any threat.
The taller one reached for something at his belt, and Varric’s instincts flared. “Now, wait just a—”
Before he could finish, a cloth was pulled tightly over his head, muffling his voice and plunging him into darkness.
“Hey!” he barked, struggling against the iron grip that clamped onto his arms. “I’ve got rights, you know! Not to mention a damn good lawyer!”
The Templars didn’t respond. They dragged him backward, his boots scuffing against the floor as the voices of the tavern’s patrons rose in protest.
“What the bloody void are you doing?” Corff’s voice rang out. “You can’t just—”
The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off Corff mid-sentence.
The sounds of the Hanged Man faded into the distance, replaced by the echoing clang of their footsteps against cobblestones. Varric’s mind raced, heart pounding as he tried to piece together what the hell he’d walked into.
Guess Kirkwall missed me more than I thought.
~~~
The room was dim, its flickering torchlight barely illuminating the rough stone walls. The damp chill of the Gallows seeped into the air, making the metal shackles around Varric’s wrists feel even colder. He sat slouched in the rickety wooden chair, his posture a study in nonchalance despite the weight of his bindings.
Across from him, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast loomed like a storm cloud, her arms crossed over her armored chest. Her sharp eyes narrowed at him, glinting with frustration and suspicion.
“You are going to tell me everything,” Cassandra said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “No embellishments. No clever quips. Just the truth. Where is the Champion of Kirkwall?”
Varric exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle. “We’ve been through this, Seeker,” he said, his tone light but tinged with weariness. “Hawke left Kirkwall the night it all went to the Void. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Then where did she go?” Cassandra demanded, her fingers tightening over the hilt of her blade.
Varric shrugged, the movement limited by his restraints. “Haven’t got a clue. South, maybe. West. She always liked the coast.” He flashed her a disarming grin. “You know, fresh air, nice sunsets.”
Cassandra’s patience snapped. Her hands slammed onto the table, rattling the chains that bound him. “Enough of your evasions!” she barked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “You were with her when she fled Kirkwall. You know where she is, and you will tell me.”
Varric leaned forward slightly, his smirk unfaltering. “Do I look like a mapmaker to you? I told you, I don’t know where she went. And if I did, I’d think twice before handing her over to someone with such a charming disposition.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed further, her fury barely contained. “Why do you protect her? Do you not see the damage she left in her wake? The rebellion she incited?”
Varric’s smirk faded, replaced by a steely glint in his eyes. “Careful, Seeker,” he said, his voice low and cold. “You’re talking about my friend. And you’re wrong if you think she wanted any of this. Hawke didn’t start the rebellion—Meredith did. She forced people’s hands, drove them to desperation. Hawke just did what she always does: tried to help.”
“Help?” Cassandra scoffed. “By defying the Templars? By standing with the mages? She made her choice, and the consequences speak for themselves.”
“And what would you have done?” Varric shot back, his voice rising for the first time. “Let Meredith slaughter every mage in the Gallows? Stand by while people burned for crimes they didn’t commit? Yeah, Hawke made a choice, but she chose to fight for the people who couldn’t fight for themselves. You can hate her for it, but don’t pretend you wouldn’t have done the same if you had any spine.”
The room fell into tense silence, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance.
Cassandra straightened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re a skilled liar, Varric Tethras,” she said coolly. “The Tale of the Champion is a masterpiece of half-truths and omissions. But I will find the truth. And I will find Hawke.”
Varric chuckled softly, leaning back again. “Good luck with that,” he said. “But let me give you some advice, Seeker. When you do find her, you might want to ask yourself if you’re ready for the answers you’ll get.”
Cassandra turned sharply, her cape swirling behind her as she strode toward the door. She paused in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder. “You’re holding something back,” she said, her voice firm. “And I will find out what it is.”
Varric didn’t respond, his expression unreadable as he watched her leave.
The door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the torch. Varric sighed, tilting his head back against the cold stone wall. If only you knew, Seeker. Some truths are better left buried.
~~~
Later that evening, the door to his cell creaked open. Varric didn’t bother looking up until he heard familiar footsteps approaching. When he finally glanced over, his smirk softened into something closer to genuine surprise.
“Cullen,” he greeted, leaning back against the wall. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Cullen stepped closer, his expression conflicted, as though waging an internal war. “I need to know where Ariana is,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual authority. “Please.”
Varric raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Well, well. It seems the good Knight-Commander still has a heart after all.”
“This isn’t a game, Varric,” Cullen said, his tone almost pleading. “I need to find her. If you know where she is, just tell me. I know she’s in Ferelden, and I know Bann Teagan knows where she is. But he wouldn’t tell me either.”
The dwarf studied him for a moment before shaking his head. “You know, I told her you’d forgiven her years ago. Looks like I was right.”
Cullen’s expression tightened, guilt flashing across his face. “You don’t understand—”
“No,” Varric interrupted, his tone unusually serious. “You don’t understand. Do you think I wouldn’t want to help? Maker’s breath, if I know her she’s practically waiting for you to come through the door, hoping for that romance tale happy ending. But if you’re here, working with Seeker Pentaghast, I can’t take that risk. I won’t.”
Cullen’s shoulders sagged slightly, and he stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying anything about her, Varric. I wouldn’t. But if I don’t know where she is, I can’t—”
“Exactly,” Varric said, cutting him off again. “You can’t. Not right now. Not while the Seeker’s sniffing around. If she doesn’t already know about the White Wolf, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
Cullen clenched his fists at his sides, frustration and helplessness etched across his face. “If you hear from her…”
“I’ll think about it,” Varric replied, his tone softer now. “But you’ve got your own problems to deal with, Knight-Commander. Focus on fixing this mess before you go chasing after her. Trust me—she has enough on her plate. Let’s make sure a Seeker bent on finding an scapegoat isn’t one of them.”
The silence that followed was heavy, both men weighed down by the past and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Cullen nodded once, reluctantly, before turning to leave.
Varric watched him go, his smirk fading as the door closed behind Cullen. “Stubborn as ever,” he muttered to himself, leaning back against the wall. But for the first time since his return to Kirkwall, there was a flicker of hope in his chest—hope that, somehow, everything might still turn out alright.
Varric stared at the closed door for a moment, his thoughts churning. He knew Cullen’s request had come from a place of genuine regret and longing, but it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was. Ariana’s safety depended on staying hidden, and while Varric trusted Cullen more than most, trust wasn’t enough—not with a Seeker like Cassandra poking around.
Still, Cullen’s face had been hard to read, a mix of guilt, pain, and love so raw that even Varric, who often joked his heart was made of stone and gold, felt the weight of it. He could see the cracks in Cullen’s armor, the way his shoulders slumped as if carrying a burden he couldn’t set down. The man wasn’t just asking for information; he was asking for redemption.
“Dammit, pup,” Varric muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You always pick the complicated ones.”
He thought back to Ferelden, to those quiet moments by the fire when Ariana had let down her guard, her fingers brushing the ring around her neck. She didn’t talk much about Cullen, but when she did, there was a tenderness in her voice, a wistfulness that even Varric couldn’t tease her about without feeling like he was intruding. She missed him. That much was obvious. But she also believed they were too far apart now, their choices leading them down paths that couldn’t intersect.
And now here was Cullen, practically begging for a chance to prove her wrong.
Varric sighed, folding his arms across his chest. He couldn’t tell Cullen anything—not yet, not while the Seeker was watching—but the part of him that cared for Ariana like a daughter, like family, wanted to help. He just didn’t know how to do it without putting her at risk. He’d seen the way Cassandra interrogated people, the relentless pursuit of her version of the truth. If she even suspected Ariana’s involvement in Kirkwall, there’d be no end to it.
“One wrong word,” Varric muttered, “and everything comes crashing down.”
Still, he couldn’t shake the look in Cullen’s eyes. For all his faults, the Knight-Commander was a good man, and Varric believed he’d fight to protect Ariana just as fiercely as she had fought for him. But trust was a fragile thing, especially now, when the world felt like it was held together by little more than whispers and lies.
Varric ran a hand through his hair and let out a low, humorless laugh. “She always did have a flair for drama,” he said to the empty room. “Now I’m stuck playing the cautious storyteller while you two dance around each other like a couple of star-crossed fools.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at the wall. “Cullen, if you’re as serious as you looked, you’ll figure it out,” he murmured. “And if not… well, let’s hope the stars have something else planned.”
For now, all he could do was wait—and hope that when the time came, he’d know the right story to tell.
~~~
The office Cullen had claimed in the Gallows was sparsely decorated, its walls and desk barren save for a few maps, reports, and an inkpot with a single quill. He leaned over the desk, scanning the latest reports from the Knight-Enchanters’ fractured Circle uprisings. The words blurred together, his mind too preoccupied to focus. Every line seemed to repeat the same grim refrain: The Order was crumbling, the world along with it.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened, squaring his shoulders as Cassandra Pentaghast stepped into the room, her presence commanding despite her simple leather armor. Behind her stood Leliana, silent and watchful, her gaze sharp as ever.
“Knight-Commander,” Cassandra greeted, inclining her head.
“Seeker Pentaghast,” Cullen replied, nodding curtly. “What can I do for you?”
Cassandra crossed the room, her steps deliberate. “We have exhausted every lead. There is no sign of the Champion of Kirkwall. If she lives, she does so in secrecy—something she is evidently adept at.”
Cullen’s chest tightened at her words, though he kept his expression neutral. Of course, there was no sign of Hawke. Or Ariana. They were shadows, just like they had become that night when everything fell apart.
“Then you’re leaving Kirkwall,” he said, his tone even, though the statement was more observation than question.
Cassandra nodded. “We are. Divine Justinia has called for a Conclave, a final effort to mend the divide between the mages and the Templars. We are to prepare for what comes next. We’ll be heading to Haven, to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”
Leliana stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “The Divine has entrusted Cassandra with a mission to restore the Inquisition. A force to stand apart from both the mages and the Templars. To bring order to chaos.”
Cullen’s eyes flickered with recognition, the words stirring something deep within him. He remembered the long-ago night in the Circle library in Ferelden, when he had pulled an old book, a history of the Inquisition from the shelves for Ariana. It had been her birthday. He had chosen that book, partly for its cover, the Visus constellation painted on it. The one she always follows…
He could still see her then, sitting among the ruins by Lake Calenhad, her eyes alight with curiosity as she turned the pages. “They followed no one’s rules but their own,” she had said, half in awe and half in jest. “It’s kind of inspiring, in a chaotic, world-upending sort of way.”
That memory, so vivid and sharp, cut through him now. It felt like a sign. Like fate.
“The Inquisition,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It hasn’t existed for centuries.”
“Which is precisely why we need it now,” Cassandra said, her voice resolute. “The Order has failed. The Circles have failed. The Chantry itself teeters on the brink of collapse. If we do not act, there will be nothing left to save.”
Her words cut through him, and for a moment, he said nothing. She was right, of course. The Order had failed. It had been failing for years, long before Kirkwall fell into chaos. And yet, he had stayed. He had fought for it, believing in its purpose even as he questioned its methods. But now… now he wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore.
“And what does this have to do with me?” he asked, though the answer already tugged at the edges of his mind.
Cassandra met his gaze, unwavering. “You are an accomplished commander, Cullen. You have led Templars through some of the most challenging conflicts Thedas has seen. And despite everything, you have retained your honor. Your sense of justice.”
Cullen shook his head slightly. “The Templar Order needs leadership more than ever.”
“The Order,” Cassandra said sharply, her tone cutting through his words, “is broken. Its leadership clings to outdated principles that have driven us to this brink. You know this. You have seen it.”
Her words struck a chord, and Cullen’s jaw tightened as he looked away. The truth of her statement was undeniable, but admitting it felt like a betrayal of everything he had once believed in. Still, his belief in the Order had been eroding for years. Perhaps it was already gone.
“And if I leave?” he asked, his voice quiet. “What then?”
“Then you will have the chance to fight for something that matters,” Cassandra said, her tone softening. “You want to protect people, to restore order. You cannot do that within the Order—not anymore.”
Her words hung in the air, and then, unbidden, another voice echoed in his mind: “But I’m asking you now, again, do the right thing. Protect those who can’t protect themselves”
Ariana’s voice. Her plea.
Cullen’s breath hitched, his mind racing. He had spent years trying to search for her, years caught between anger and guilt, hope and despair. But maybe this was his chance. If he went to Haven, to Ferelden, maybe… maybe he could find her. And even if he couldn’t, perhaps he could finally do what she had asked of him. What he had failed to do before.
Cassandra continued, unaware of the storm within him. “Join us. Help us build something better.”
Cullen looked up at her, his decision forming like a blade tempered in fire. The Inquisition. Ariana’s words. The memory of her turning the pages of that old book, her eyes filled with hope and wonder. It was as if the Maker himself were guiding him to this moment.
“I’ll join you,” he said finally, his voice steady. “For the Inquisition.”
Cassandra nodded, satisfaction flickering across her face. “You have made the right choice… Commander.”
As she and Leliana left the room, Cullen leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as the sound of Cassandra and Leliana’s footsteps faded into the Gallows’ cold corridors. The weight of his decision settled over him like a heavy cloak, though for the first time in months, it didn’t feel suffocating.
The Inquisition. The word felt strange on his tongue, heavy with centuries of history and meaning. Yet, the idea of it, of something new and untethered by the failures of the past, kindled a faint spark of hope in his chest.
His eyes drifted to the corner of his desk, where the letters from Charles and Frederick lay. They had become a kind of talisman over the past year, grounding him when everything else felt uncertain. Ariana’s presence lingered in those words, a connection he couldn’t let go of.
He reached for the letter from Charles, his fingers brushing over the worn parchment. She holds no anger toward you… You meant, and I believe still mean, a great deal to her.
The words echoed in his mind, both a comfort and a torment. He had clung to the belief that if he could find her, he might mend what had been broken. But now, he wasn’t so sure. Ariana was fierce, independent, a force of nature that even Kirkwall couldn’t contain. She had chosen her path, just as he had chosen his.
And yet…
He thought of the ring. The way she had still worn it that day, even as the Gallows fell around them. He had seen it, faintly glinting beneath her glove, and it had given him hope. Despite everything, she hadn’t let go.
“Maybe this is where I find you,” he murmured again, the words quiet but resolute.
The Conclave was a chance to rebuild, to create something better than the crumbling Order. And perhaps, it was a way to find her—not through duty, but through the principles she had fought for, the ones she had tried to show him before he’d been too blind to see.
The world was falling apart, but for the first time in years, Cullen felt as though he could see a path forward.
He stood, his hands bracing against the edge of the desk as he looked out over the Gallows courtyard. The torches flickered against the darkness, their light casting long shadows across the stone.
“Wait for me, Ari,” he whispered. “I’ll find you. I promise.”
The words hung in the stillness of the room, a quiet vow carried on the cold night air.