bakerstreet | The Slave Auction Meme

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The Slave Auction Meme

* Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any.
* Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
* Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

Warning: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

Snagged from here.

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Three. Years.

It'd been three Makerfucking years since Varric disappeared. Hawke didn't even know for the first year of it. She'd known something was wrong, that his letters weren't arriving, but there could have been other reasons and she'd tried hard not to fret about it. The Inquisition was busy stopping Corypheus, they had a lot to juggle.

And then one of Leliana's most trusted, most discreet people had met her outside of Weisshaupt, just as she'd left, and told her Varric was fucking missing and no one knew how or what had happened.

It was inconceivable that he'd just vanished. It was remotely possible he'd have left the Inquisition, though she doubted it. It was impossible that he wouldn't have left any word for her. They knew it and she knew it. It was with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Hawke realized the Inquisition was hoping she knew something they didn't, and probably the only thing that convinced them she wasn't was her absolute cold fury about what had happened. Not that they knew what had happened.

Corypheus was gone, but the Inquisition continued, and threw its considerable weight into the search. Hawke couldn't stand to wait around at Skyhold pacing and hoping for news, and the Inquisitor wasn't stupid enough to ask it. She kept in regular touch with Leliana's spies, tried to find Isabela and Fenris, wrote to Aveline, wrote to Sebastian, wrote to anyone. Nothing. No hint of chest hair or irrepressible smirk anywhere.

And then Bianca showed up for auction in Minrathous.

A repeating crossbow was a novelty to say the least, and it'd gone for a high price to a secret buyer. One who revealed herself to be Varric's cousin-in-law Magister Maeveris, who'd contacted Dorian Pavus to ask what in the Void Varric's weapon was doing anywhere without Varric attached to it.

Even then it'd taken months more searching to find out anything. One lone dwarf in a place as large as the Imperium didn't stand out. And wherever he was, Varric was uncharacteristically quiet. Which couldn't be good.

But now. Now, it all lead here. To Hawke, dressed as any hired bodyguard, biting her tongue and ignoring how hard her heart was beating, as she stood next to an Inquisitor agent disquised as an Altus, here to buy slaves at market. They had more agents all over the place, servants and other potential buyers and even one of the slave-masters, though it'd been judged unwise to have Maeveris or Dorian be present. They attracted too much attention. And the Inquisition didn't trust Hawke to keep things...low-key, which was why she wouldn't be doing any bidding.

But they hadn't been able to keep her away completely, so she was here. Though it was even odds, if Varric really did appear on that auction block, as to if she'd able to keep herself from running up there, grabbing him, and killing anyone who got in their way as she hauled him the fuck out of this blighted country.

Edited 2018-02-21 21:53 (UTC)

The auction went on for a long time, with the lots increasing in prestige, rarity, and value. Somewhere around the end, a scrawny-looking dwarf with long hair shuffled into the limelight, head down. He was an unusual sight in the endless string of elves and humans.

The auctioneer snapped her fingers, making the dwarf lift his chin unwillingly, forcing him to look at the crowd.

"Now,” she oozed, touching the slave entirely too familiarly. “Don't let his stature fool you- lot 43 is no blacksmith. This one has an advanced southern education. He'll dictate your letters, he'll ghost-write your thesis, he'll tutor your kids and entertain your guests with small-talk and tall tales. His flare for stories is excellent for amusing your children or manufacturing gossip about your enemies.”

The auctioneer rapped the dwarf smartly on the shoulder, prompting him to straighten up and try to look less pitiful.

"He's excellent at small talk, but needs a bit more... training with decorum," the woman continued, giving the dwarf a look that made him flinch and bow his head. "Not to mention, he is quite good with a crossbow if you need a bodyguard. And of course, he's ideal for handling lyrium and any lyrium-related experiments."

The bidding started quite high. Whenever it seemed to slow, the woman snapped her fingers and made him stand up straighter, pose better, something.

She knew him as soon as he stepped onto the stage. It didn't matter that he'd lost weight, that his hair was long and loose and unkempt, that the pathetic sight bore almost no resemblance to the overconfident businessman and storyteller she was used to. It was Varric.

Her gaze burned, and her hands clenched into fists by her sides, but she didn't need the surreptitious side-step disguising a nudge from her 'employer' to remind her to keep still. This was a particularly prestigious slave market, with blood-magic wielding guards everywhere. Which might not have deterred her. But if she fucked this up, it'd be Varric who paid.

Well, and her, and probably a lot of other people. But it was only Varric that she was concerned with.

With an iron will honed by years of determination--the real thing that'd kept her going through her life, far more than speed or luck or general deadliness--Hawke unclenched her fists and forced herself to look anywhere else except the stage. She was ostensibly here as a guard; she did a good impression of one, scanning the crowds and the market guards as though for potential trouble. She didn't even flinch when the bidding started. She took all that rage and locked it down into something cold, something that would keep. Something she could use later, when Varric was safe and she could find out who was responsible for this and make them suffer for it.

That wasn't usually her style at all. Hawke didn't go for vengeance as a rule, she kept her kills quick and clean and efficient. But for this, she would make an exception. They'd made him flinch. They'd reduced him to that. She'd reduce them to nothing. She'd strangle them with their own intestines, and that'd just be a start.

The bidding continued. The numbers climbed. Her 'employer' bid only occassionally, as though mildly interested but not sure this slave was really worth so much effort, a calculated nonchalance. She wanted to scream that Varric was worth more than every person here, combined and multiplied. He was beyond price.

She didn't. She waited.

Whenever the iron woman snapped her fingers, the dwarf felt cold hands grip his insides, forcing his chin up, making his spine straighten painfully, squaring his shoulders with a steely grip. It hurt, even that little bit of blood magic, and it took all his will (and hard-learned training) not to let it show on his face. One time he did wince, and earned a small jolt of electricity in the back (where they couldn’t see) for his efforts.

So many faces in the crowd. Dark skin, light skin. Golden hair, black hair. Black eyes, blue eyes. It didn’t matter. Someone bid and someone won. He shuffled off, shackled and cuffed, until money exchanged hands and the auctioneer handed over the key to his collar. Then the miserable woman unlocked his shackles, and he was alone with them.

He said nothing, though he did give them the briefest glance. Curious, a tiny spark of wanting to mock. To show his valuable sodding skills at fucking small talk. Couldn’t. Most owners reacted viciously to slaves speaking unbidden. So he said nothing to his new owners, just stood there unhappily, waiting to be led the fuck around.

It took even more willpower not to throw her arms around him than it had to not start a one-woman rampage of slaver slaughter. Hawke had never understood Fenris so much as she did now.

But she gritted her teeth, kept up the pose, held Varric's chain lead (Maker, forgive her, Varric, forgive her) and led him on, following her false employer (actually named Riva, and a good sort, not at all like the sneery altus he was playing) out of the auction and into the coach he'd hired. Even then he warned her with a glance not to let the pose slip, so they all rode in silence. Halfway across the city, until they reached the safehouse. Owned by the Inquisition, not that many knew it.

Only once they were all inside did the charade end. "Good job, Champion," said Riva, placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't wince like she once might have. The days when Hawke cared about whether or not she'd failed Kirkwall and her title were in the past. "I only had to kick you once. I'm impressed. Not to mention relieved."

"It took effort." She glanced at Varric, then back at Riva. "Can you arrange a bath and some food for him? And then some really, really strong liquor for me. After this day, I need it."

"We all do." He clapped her on the back. "It'll be ready within half an hour." He looked at Varric, with an expression that clearly stated he wanted to say more, but didn't. Instead he walked off, leaving the two of them alone in the hallway. Hawke made a note to thank him for that later.

She let out a long, controlled breath and turned to Varric. Slowly, and very carefully, she reached out and undid the lead on his collar, then undid the collar entirely. She wanted, badly, to throw them against the wall, or into the fire. Instead she placed them carefully on a table. "Varric." Quiet, unthreatening voice. She knelt down so she could look at him on his level. "You...don't recognize me at all, do you."

She already knew he didn't. They'd sat opposite each other in the coach and he'd barely glanced at her. Training, no doubt. And worse than training. But she had to ask. Hawke wasn't the praying type and never had been....but sweet Andraste, please, let there be something of Varric left in the dwarf in front of her.

The bodyguard seemed tense. Unhappy. He paid attention to that, even though it looked like he was just shuffling along. Always good to know which ones were most likely to hit him. Or not; she didn't look Tevinter. Another slave? The Imperium had very few willing, free residents who weren't born there. Probably a slave.

It didn't matter. He kept his eyes down and mouth shut. The few years of his life he remembered were defined by a few simple lessons. One of them was stop talking. In the beginning, he'd spoken all the time. Too much. Even when the dwarf was wanted for his silver tongue and wit, it was theirs to command, not his. His voice and his wit were tools for them to use when they wanted; speaking out of turn was punished so viciously that, after a few years, he finally learned his damn lesson.

They reached a house. Now, the dwarf bothered to look up, to take in his new home. Prison. Whatever. This neighborhood was familiar to him, but the house was not. Few people ever came or went.

Hm.

Stranger and stranger: the new master called the bodyguard "champion." They spoke like equals. Something was happening that he didn't understand. They looked at him as if the conversation involved him, but it didn't. They were talking about a guest, someone in need of hospitality. Why did the bodyguard ask the master to do it? And why did the master look at him like that?

Shit. He frowned, tensed. Something was wrong. When something was wrong, the shit always rolled downhill.

Collar off. Lead gone. Of course- those were for the auction only, or for controlling the unruly. That made sense.

The bodyguard was looking at him. Speaking to him as if they knew each other. The dwarf looked at her, at her hair, at her posture, not meeting her eyes (he knew better). Nothing, no. He didn't know this person.

She expected an answer. Now that his voice was called for, he frowned, worked his jaw for a moment as if out of practice, thought about his next words.

He didn't deny knowing her. He said something much worse.

"Varric?"

Hawke closed her eyes, swaying a little. She'd expected this. She'd been warned about this. They'd planned this for months, she'd made sure to learn what to expect, what they were up against, not just when it came to extracting Varric to begin with but in what they'd find once they had him.

It was still a blow to the gut. Far, far worse than his not recognizing her, not looking at her at all.

Another long, deep breath. "Look at me." She didn't want to give commands, but she'd probably have to for a bit. When he was looking, she met his eyes steadily. "Your name is Varric Tethras, from Kirkwall in the Free Marches. You've been missing for three years and we've been looking for you all that time." She made herself swallow over a lump in her throat. Three years, and she could still feel every day of it. "Anything you don't remember, anything you want to know about...about before, I can tell you. You're not a slave anymore, we're going to get you out of this blighted fucking shithole of an empire, and I will personally kill anyone who ever lays a hand on you ever again without your consent."

She was shaking a little, and forced herself to calm down. She didn't want to scare him, though it was probably inevitable. "...sorry. Getting distracted there. The point is, I swear to the Maker no one here will hurt you."

One thing about Hawke that had always been true: despite her general bullshit and flippancy, she'd always had an air of unquestionable, unflappable honesty about her. At least, so people said; it was one of the main reasons so many came to her asking for help with whatever weird shit they needed dealing with, even if they'd never met before. It'd caused more trouble than it was maybe worth over the course of her life. Maybe she'd be lucky and it'd help him now. Maker knew they needed all the help they could get.

There was a loud barking noise from behind them, and the sound of paws skidding to a halt.

Edited 2018-02-23 16:28 (UTC)

He followed the command obediently, meeting the intense woman's eyes for the first time. Dull amber met pained blue.

All at once, everything was different. The world shifted in some undefinable way; he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if seeing something nobody else could in those too-piercing eyes.

He listened shrewdly, taking in everything she said and trying keenly to match it up against what precious little he knew about his own life. There wasn't much; the Sullas did their damnedest to make him empty, a vessel filled with enough personality to entertain party guests and all those sodding skills they paid so much money for. But he knew he wasn't Tevinter, and he knew he was a surfacer. He knew that, although he taught the Sulla children for three years, when it came time for them to learn about the Free Marches? The parents hired a tutor rather than letting him read about it. He knew Orrick wasn't his name- he had always known that, it didn't fit right.

More things he knew: the infinitely many shades between truth and lies. His masters had loved him for it; his ability to listen to a conversation between magisters and hear exactly who was bullshitting, who was telling some truth, who was committing a sin of omission, who was lying through their teeth. The slave had unparalleled people-watching skills and it had saved his masters' bacon on more than one occasion. So when this woman started in on her rant, voice building and shoulders shaking, he could hear every bit of sincerity to it.

Maker's breath, he hadn't heard honesty like that in years. Which meant... he had a name. He had a home. He had friends, and this woman apparently was one of them. Maybe (dare he imagine?) that conversation from before, about food and a bath, was actually about him. Probably not, it was stupid to presume, but maybe. Shit.

By the time she fell quiet, he was frowning, eyebrows knitted, looking uncertain. A thousand possibilities and questions crowded his mind, but he dare not voice any of them; some habits are too hard-learned to abandon. He wanted rather badly to take a breath, to look at the floor and collect himself, to take a goddamn minute to think about all of this, but he obediently kept looking at her.

Then a noise snapped them both out of their reverie. The dwarf broke their gaze and looked to it; a mabari (he'd never seen one in person before, damn) came crashing in and bounded straight for him.

Without thinking he bent over, arms out, and greeted the dog like an old friend. He roughed the dog's ears like an embrace and the hound licked his face furiously. The dwarf laughed genuinely for the first time in what felt like years.

"Hey there, Teo."

Hawke knew what Teo's reaction would be to Varric, it was one reason he'd been left behind. He was intelligent, but there were limits. And he was also a huge mabari, complete with impressive strength and sharp teeth, and anyone who saw him bounding their way would have every reason to panic and assume mauling and probably death were imminent, even if they hadn't been tortured in Maker-only-knew what ways for the past several years.

But Varric laughed. She had never loved her irrepressible dog more than in that moment, which was saying a good deal. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched them greet each other, as the terrible, watchful tension written all over Varric's frame relaxed for a minute. Even if it was only a minute, it happened.

It didn't matter that he hadn't recognized her yet. For the first time since they'd taken him out of the slave market, she actually hoped he would. It didn't matter if it took time. She'd give him all the time she had and not resent a second of it.

He didn't know how it happened. All the slave knew was that when that huge warhound ran into the room, something burst out of him unbidden as a sneeze, words borne on the same loose tongue that had gotten him in so much trouble over the years.

This dog was- wasn't his, exactly, but in a way it was. In a way, he thought maybe he was the dog's. There was something right about that hot breath on his face, the slobbery tongue dragged over his cheek, the enormous paw pushing at his leg. The dwarf had never seen a mabari before in his life, only talked about them during the children's lesson on magical fauna, but he knew this dog.

He drew in a ragged breath. He knew this dog. For the first time, here was something he knew, from before- before that first day of blank slate. Something true.

The joyful moment passed, but the dwarf held on, resting his head against Teo's with closed eyes and a firm grip on both ears. The dog seemed to understand what he needed, and stayed there resolutely, unshakable as the earth.

She recognized that grip, the way Teo went still and solid under it. She'd never seen Varric do that, but she'd done it herself many times. After nightmares, most often, whenever she was shaken or uncentered. She'd grip Teo and bury her face in his fur and inhale the smell of him until she was grounded again and could look up and face the world. That a mabari would allow such attention from anyone but its bonded person would surprise most people who knew mabaris. It wouldn't surprise anyone who knew the three of them.

"He missed you," she said finally. Her voice was a little choked; she cleared her throat, wiped her eyes. Andraste's burning pyre, when had she last wept at all? Sometime during that first year, when they still knew nothing. Incongruously, she laughed, though it was an aborted sort of sound. "What I said earlier about killing anyone who touches you without your consent doesn't apply to him, obviously. Most rules don't, and he knows it. Unfortunately."

He heard her, he understood her words, and some part of him even smiled a little at her joke, understanding on a deep level that it was real and true and right. There were things he could say and things he could do, but caution and instinct stilled his hands and stole his voice until called upon.

He stayed there, leaning against the dog, until he felt something settle. His heart. Had it been racing? Had he been scared? The dwarf didn't even know, all he knew was that his heart slowed, his breathing calmed.

Look up. Okay. She said- she said a lot. A name, a home, a story. A rescue? Freedom? Too much. His eyes cast around, looking for something safe to rest on, something to calm the maelstrom. Nothing came to save him or tell him his next move. He didn't know what to say; she had said so much, and so many things warranted a response, but the slave simply couldn't make his tongue loosen. There were no rules for this, no decorum to follow, no learned routines or expectations to fall safely back on. He didn't know what to do or what was expected of him, so the dwarf did the only sure thing he could think of, and followed his last order.

He looked at her. One hand stayed on Teo for a moment, scratching, then he jerked it away as if catching himself in a lie and clasped his hands together tightly.

She saw the way he caught himself, the moments when training took over. There was still a long, hard way to go.

Best to get started. She stood up, stretching out her legs; couldn't stay kneeling like that for ten minutes and be comfortable after, not at her age. He just stared, even when Teo (accepting no excuses for the abrupt cessation of his rightful head scritches) butted his head back under Varric's clasped hands. It took her a minute to realise why, and she groaned inwardly. A very long and hard way to go.

"All right. This has to be a lot to take in." How to do this without... causing more damage? Hawke ran a hand back through her hair, a habitual gesture whenever she was thinking. "They're running a bath for you, and there's food for afterwards. We can start with that." Her eyes flickered back to his. If the steady, unwavering stare unnerved her, it didn't show. "If there's anything you want to know, you can ask. If there's anything you want to say, at all, you can. If you want to complain about the bath water being too hot or cold, go right ahead. No one will hurt you. Take as long as you need. We don't have to rush." She shrugged, a little helplessly, repeated that hair gesture, looked down. "Teo, would you go with him? You know the way."

And Varric might trust the mabari as he wouldn't, couldn't, trust any other guide. Teo was certainly smart enough to know where and when to go anywhere, and could protect Varric from anything, including himself.

She looked back at Varric's face. "Is that... okay, with you?"

At some point during her ramble, the dwarf realized she was talking to him like... not exactly an equal, but not as a slave. Her tone was one you might use for a child, or a grieving widow, or a terrified civilian pulled off a battlefield.

When had he been on a battlefield? How did he know that?

No. She wasn't talking to him like a thing, she was talking to him like a person. Giving him permission to ask for things, telling him he was allowed to complain. It occurred to him that following her only order and staring like a damned weirdo was probably not necessary; he looked back at Teo, scratching the dog's ears once more. Listening to her speech was easier after that; he could glance at and away from her more normally.

She was upset. Sadness burned in those blue eyes, and despair, and loss. Hers was the face of a widow, of a parent knelt before a child's grave. How terrible it must be, to look upon the face of a loved one and still feel the yawning emptiness of loss.

He should try. For her. She had been kind, and her eyes felt like home, and he could tell that he had known her for a very long time. He should try harder.

He wasn't an empty shell, he had versions of himself locked away in his mind's closet that he took out and wore like suits; a different Him for every occasion. The tutor, intelligent and eloquent, with the confidence to lead a lesson. The test subject, observant and responsive, knowing what information was pertinent and when to give it. The plaything, attentive and selfless. The entertaining host, outgoing and witty, knowing what to say and when, a response always on his tongue, a delight to guest and hostess alike.

That him flickered to life like a candle-flame behind his eyes; he straightened up a little, shoulders relaxing, expression contorting into the perfect imitation of thinking over her question. Convincing to those who didn't know him, but ringing hollow to any who did. "Okay? Messere, that sounds positively luxurious. I'm sure Teo and I will do just fine."

He smiled at Teo, who only stared and stilled under his hand.

Hawke went just as still as Teo. It was as though he had put on a illusion of himself, or part of himself. It wasn't Varric. It looked a bit more like him and sounded a bit more like him, but it was empty, and in its way less real than the silent slave had been. It was a mask put on her for benefit, not his.

"...right," she said finally. "There's some clothes up there, clean ones. They used to be yours. Probably they won't fit as well but at least they're yours. If there's anything you need--"

She couldn't finish the sentence. There was so much he needed that she couldn't even start to fathom it.

Hawke rubbed her forehead. "Teo, show him the way, please? I--there's something I need to do."

Teo left Varric's side just for a moment then, returning to her and stretching up on his hind legs, putting his forepaws on her shoulders to lick her face. She braced herself automatically, or else the sheer weight of him would have knocked her over. She accepted all his slobbery ministrations without any of her usual ribbing or attempts to shove him off, grateful for the comfort. "Good boy," she whispered, rubbing behind his ears.

He licked her one more time and barked, then went back to all fours while she tried futilely to wipe her face dry. "Well, he'll certainly guarantee you as much time as you want for that bath. If anyone tries to interrupt he'll just lick them to death." It was a little forced, but there was a glint of her usual sardonic humor in there. No one could drool like a mabari and they were both now covered in it.

Her reaction left him at a bit of a loss; he didn't know what to do to make any of this better, and didn't know why she seemed to dislike his attempts at actually stringing three words together.

How to make it better. How. Thinking about that was simpler than thinking about everything else. The everything else was enormous and looming and threatened to crush him beneath its weight if he thought about it too hard; it couldn't be borne. A life unlived, a world stolen, a friend forgotten. All that had held him together these years was endurance, quiet, and resolutely focusing on whatever was immediately in front of him. Look beyond that, and the chasm yawns before him. Look beyond that, and the horror settles in.

Varric attempted a response, but came up hard against her expectations and his instincts.

Silence, again. His face had some animation, enough to smile at her forced attempt at a joke.

"The fabled might of the mabari," he said quietly, scratching a spot above Teo's butt.

His eyes found hers and snagged, unable to look away. There was something hypnotic, almost- he felt as though, if he looked hard enough, he could see something in them. Give shape to the whispers licking at his mind. Something...

"I dreamed about you," he blurted, then cringed slightly at his own outburst.

His joke about the fabled might of the mabari earned a half a smile, at least, and a bit of the tension eased. "Yes, but legends and songs about mabari slobber just don't have the same ring to them, so everyone leaves that part out. Our Sweet Lady needed someone to drown her face in drool..."

She sighed in an overexagerrated manner, shrugging in a no one appreciates dogs enough, it's such a pity way, classic Ferelden. Her half-smile flashed briefly into a grin as she did it. Even if it was...forced, on his part, it was still easy to banter with him, and she'd missed it so much. She'd have to be careful not to take advantage, or make him feel obligated to put on a show, but it felt good, for a minute.

And they'd always covered up the hard shit with humor, both of them. That part was real.

Her eyes widened at his outburst, and she automatically reached a hand towards him and pulled it back almost as immediately. "You did?" That was...heartachingly encouraging, to a level she tried very hard to suppress. "What about?"

"I... don't remember," he admitted, staring at her harder and trying, with all his might, to shake some memory loose from his addled brain. "But... your eyes. I've seen them before."

His hand raised unbidden, tracing something in the hair in front of her face: a single arc, a stripe going across her nose. Something felt familiar, or wrong, or almost right.

Fuck, he couldn't remember.

This time her smile was bright like sunlight. "You have," she confirmed. "A lot. And you were there when I fought a duel and ended up with this stripe of blood across my nose--" She traced the same movement across her face that he'd just done. "--that became this whole thing for a while, and it was ridiculous, and I'll tell you all about it. But later."

Teo bounced in place, ecstatic to see that look on her face, and licked her hand, then Varric's, then moved around and butted the dwarf in the back to start moving him along, clearly tired of standing around in a hallway foyer for conversations like this. Hawke laughed. "Fine, fine, old boy, we get it." She looked back at Varric. "I'll see you soon. No more than an hour or so, I promise. Unless you're still in the bath then, which is entirely possible, knowing you."

Easy, teasing, a complete contrast from the anger and grief of a few minutes ago. They weren't gone, far from it.

But he remembered her eyes.

This felt better. More natural. The blood stripe information slotted neatly into his mind, accepted as easily as breathing: a duel, yes, that fit. That made sense. Her easy attitude complete with teasing: that, too, felt right. That was how this woman was supposed to be.

Maybe there was something. Maybe he wasn't totally adrift after all- the eyes he'd been dreaming about for years were real, and belonged to someone, and she was here.

After taking a dog-assisted step or two, he stopped and looked at her. Opened his mouth, closed it again. Seemed to screw up his courage, then spoke.

"What- um. What's your name?"

"Hawke." She noticed the 'um', how much effort it took him before he could ask even that most basic of questions. And ruefully kicked herself a little for not having told him before. She just hadn't thought about it. "Marian Hawke."

"Hawke..." he repeated slowly, looking thoughtful and then suddenly stricken.

Hawke. Hawke.

Marian Hawke.

He fell to his knees as pain flared white-hot behind his eyes, layers and layers of blood magic locking away one of the most important things in his entire life behind countless walls of agony.

Hawke?! HAWKE! Inquisitor I swear to Andraste's hairy tits, where is she-

Hands in his hair, fisting, pulling.

What do you say we put an end to all this waiting around, and go meet destiny?

Everything's noisy, someone is shouting, it can't be him, can it?

Right behind you, H-

Hurts, it hurts, comes pouring through in great bursts-

-what, and miss seeing you make these motherless nug-lickers cry? Not on your l-

-Fits and starts, scraps of memory, shreds of a life-

How many have you got, Hawke?

She was moving towards him the instant his face changed, before his hands went to his head, before he fell to his knees, before he screamed, shouting, Someone get Riva right fucking now, Teo bounding off in search of help, and both of those things were probably pointless because the way Varric was screaming would bring people running without any effort from her or Teo.

Her arms were around him, holding hard, clinging, to the Void with all the times she'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't touch him until he let her, holding as though she could keep all the broken parts of him together and stop them exploding and hitting the walls, metaphorically, (oh Maker, they can't have put sick blood magic spells inside his mind to make it actually explode, can they?), Riva!, and she held, and held, and held, repeating over and over: "I've got you, Varric, I've got you, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here--" Couldn't say he was safe because she knew now it was a lie, the traps were in his head. "Varric!"

Edited 2018-02-25 00:28 (UTC)

He could have fought off her touch but he didn't. He could have reacted with panic but he didn't. He held onto her like a lifeline, like the only thing keeping the blown-out pieces of himself together and a comforting anchor through the pain.

It hurt, it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt in his life, but he had to hold on. Had to push through. He wanted more than anything to keep screaming, but something was breaking through- something important, something wonderful.

His eyes opened, teeth ground together to bite back a scream. Eyes locked on hers, hands clutching at her, seeing her for the first time.

"Hawke."

She put a hand on the side of his face as he looked at her, as he saw her, not realizing (or caring) that there were tears running down her face. "Varric?"

Hope this suits!

Ha ha is this a good time for trigger warnings

Yeeeeeeep.

Good stuff.

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