Chapter Text
Marian Hawke skidded across the slick deck as the entire ship canted into the air. Patches of ice sent her feet out from under her. She knelt before she could fall, hard steel poleyn over her vulnerable kneecaps digging into the wood. With a snarl, she slammed the point of her shield into the deck and hung on grimly.
"Mind the wood!" a distraught female voice cried.
"Sorry, Isabella," she called back. "Bit busy!"
Wind whined through the taut ropes as the ship crashed back into the water. Hawke bounced, settled, braced by a strong arm corded with heavy muscle.
"Thanks," she said to the red-haired dwarf beside her.
"No problem." Varric said, pausing to check on the solid weight of his crossbow.
"You two all right?"
"Bianca's always ready to go."
"Little creepy, Varric. How're we doing?"
"Oh, you know us."
"Deadly peril, then?"
"Check."
She flashed a grin at him, seeing his smile in return. Their patter was quick and light, and it eased some of the tension inside her. He was easily her best friend, the one person she counted on to always have her back. Or her arm, as it happened.
"Right," she said, bright blue eyes turning to track the path of the swooping dragon. "I'm on it."
Hawke stood and snatched up her shield, smashing aside the wide blade of an attacker. The cultists were determined, relentless, she had to give them that. Her sword flicked out in response, opening his throat for him as she picked up speed on her way by, heading toward the prow. That's what it was called, right? Prow? The pointy bit at the front of the ship? Anyway, that's where she was headed, to the prow and the chest lashed to the deck.
Two more cultists detained her, entangling her blade and shield in rapid patterns that forced her to keep moving, circling. She switched from offense to defense and back in smooth shifts of weight and position before an opening let her slam her shield into the face of one of the cultists. He went down in a tangle of robes, freeing her to kill his partner.
"Hawke!" Fenris bellowed, his deep, smooth baritone rolling through the salty air.
Her head snapped towards her lover, fine strands of silky black hair dancing around her face, sticking here and there to the sweat on her brow.
Along his arms, his lyrium tattoos blazed blue. His sword, outsized for his slender elf's frame, whipped through the air and blasted through the skull of a cultist too slow to move. He pointed away from himself, toward the prow.
Was it a prow? Blast, she couldn't remember. She looked.
The dragon stooped, claws snatching at the chest and ripping it away from its bindings.
With a curse, Hawke sprinted down the deck, put one hand on the rail, and vaulted over. She landed on the snow and ice, then rolled, dispersing some of the energy of her impact.
"Hawke!" Varric yelled.
"She's got the chest!" she yelled back over her shoulder.
Something – several somethings – whistled overhead. The dragon's wings sprouted a porcupine's worth of quills. No, bolts, she realized. Crossbow bolts.
She came up on her feet just as Varric landed beside her. "Wait for it," he advised as he straightened, squinting at the dragon.
Hawke glanced at him, then at the dragon. Then at him. "She's getting away."
"No, she's not."
Another look. "She is quite literally flying away."
"Patience, Hawke."
"Varric…"
"Ten gold."
Hawke pursed her lips. The dragon was still flying, though a little lopsided. She started after it, booted feet crunching on the ice. "Three," she said.
"Ah, so you do trust me. That warms my heart."
"Let's say I don't not trust you ten golds' worth."
"You realize that made no sense."
"Neither does chasing a dragon on foot, yet here we are."
"Good point," he said. "I'm going back to the ship."
Hawke broke into a trot. Varric kept pace beside her.
Ahead and above them, the dragon's wing burst into flames.
Hawke's eyebrows rose.
It screamed its anger and pain, but didn't let go of the chest. The dragon looped crazily in the sky, trailing smoke and soot. It fought for the sky and began to tumble.
They ran.
"Are we really trying to get under that thing?" Varric yelled.
"We need that chest!"
The dragon's lopsided flight carried her overhead, and they skidded to a stop. Eyes up on the dragon, Hawke moved left, then right, trying to judge where it would come down. And coming down it was, still on fire.
She took a breath, held it.
The dragon slammed headfirst into the frozen sea in front of them, it's scream cut off abruptly in a heavy snap of bone breaking.
Hawke waited, crouched, shield at the ready.
One last exhalation plumed into the air around the dragon's muzzle. Its wings shuddered and were still, flickering flames feeding on the corpse.
With a slow grin, Hawke straightened and glanced at Varric. "You killed a dragon."
Matching her grin with one of his own, he slung the crossbow onto one shoulder and winked at her. "And you owe me ten gold."
"Three," she objected.
The snap, the low crunch, sounded again.
They frowned at each other, then looked at the dragon.
Crunch. Snap.
Blue cracks like iced lightning chattered outward, away from the point of impact.
"Oh shi—"
The ice opened under them.
Freezing salt water slammed over her as she fell flailing. Her sword struck something, bit deep. She clenched her fingers tight and hung on, feet dangling in the air. She kicked and swung, gasping for breath as the wash of bitterly cold water stopped. Hawke looked up, down, tried to understand her position.
Her sword was dug into a wall of ice, some kind of crevasse. Below her was a shelf of ice, wide and seemingly sturdy. Below that, only blue darkness. Above her was a slice of winter sky, water still trickling over the edge of the broken ice, and a falling dwarf.
"Varric!" With a grunt of effort, she swung her body sideways and reached. Her gauntlet slammed into his arm.
She screamed as her arm wrenched. He slid.
Their hands met.
And held.
Panting, Hawke clung grimly to him, dangling one-handed from the hilt of her sword.
He stared up at her.
"I've got you," she said between breaths.
"Don't let go. Shit," he swore. "Shit, oh shit."
"There's a ledge," she gasped. "Ready?"
"Oh shit, you're going to drop me?"
"I am absolutely going to drop you."
"Wait don't—"
She timed the swaying of their joined bodies and let go.
His yell cut off abruptly as he hit the ice. She looked down, watching as he climbed to his feet.
"Well, this is going to hurt," she muttered. With one last glance at the opening high overhead, she took a deep breath and let go of her sword.
She landed on Varric, driving another short cry from him and a whuff of sharply exhaled breath. Her shoulder burst into dazzling waves of pain that crested and subsided, only to swamp her again. She knelt, her good hand clasping helplessly at the armor over her damaged shoulder.
"Hawke? Hawke!"
"Fine," she managed to get out between gritted teeth. "I'm fine."
Eventually, she managed to clamber to her feet, Varric steadying her as best he could. He held onto her for a moment, strong hands holding her arms.
Hawke looked around and tried to stop swaying. She shivered violently. "Cold," she said.
"Yeah well, you're wet and surrounded by ice. It's to be expected."
"We have to get out of here."
"You got an idea, I'm all ears. Otherwise I think we're stuck here until the others show up."
She craned her neck back. "Can you climb out?"
"Up a wall of wet ice? I don't think so."
"Well I certainly can't do it."
"Like I said. Stuck here until the others show up."
Giving a sharp sigh, she wiped at her face. "How is it all of my worst scrapes happen when we're together?"
"What are best friends for?"
"Seriously, I mean it. The whole Deep Roads fiasco—"
"Which made you rich, by the way."
"—was entirely your doing."
"That was two years ago!"
"And th-that time we almost burned down the H-hanged Man?"
"I didn't know she was married. And anyway, you threw the first punch."
"Oh." She sniffled, shivered. "That's right. Maker, you have the w-worst taste in women." Then she smiled at him, winsome and bright. "It was a good fight, though, wasn't it?"
He chuckled. "The best. Right up until the guards showed up."
"I s-still can't believe Aveline th-threw us in jail."
"You should've let me pick the locks."
"She was m-mad enough as it was."
She shivered, shuddered. A rapid shake of her head sent tiny frozen water droplets scattering out of her hair.
Varric frowned. "Maybe you should get the armor off."
"It's p-padded," she said, stumbling over her words. "The metal's n-not against my skin."
"It's soaked."
"I d-don't think me being n-naked will be an improvement."
"Well, it'd warm me up."
She rolled her eyes, a look that did nothing to rattle his leer.
He chuckled and shrugged out of his cloak. "Seriously, take this."
"Don't y-you n-need it?"
"Nah." He shook his head. "The ice sheet dipped and water sloshed over the edge. It mostly got you. I'm dry, except for my boots."
"W-wonderf-ful." She wrapped the cloak around her head and let it drape over her. It smelled like Varric, like woodsmoke and ale. The scent was oddly comforting.
Gingerly, she tugged at the curiass on her injured arm and flinched. "I don't th-think I can get m-my armor off. My arm."
His frown deepened. "Well, move around or something. We didn't get that far. They can see where the dragon went down."
"Unl-less it slid into the w-water."
"Way to be cheerful, Hawke."
She began pacing and jumping a little, trying to stomp some feeling back into her rapidly freezing feet. "How are you not c-cold?"
"Dwarf," he said, watching her, concern written plainly on his rough features. "All this muscle and hair isn't just for show, you know. You only think I'm purely decorative."
"Wh-what I think of you is unp-printable." Wincing, she stripped her gauntlets off and wrapped her hands in his cloak. It hurt, pain sizzling from her frozen hands. She ignored it and paced some more.
"S-say something," she said finally.
"Like what?"
"I don't kn-now. Anything."
"All right. Let's see, now…" He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Her name was Rosaline. It means 'little rose' in Orlesian, and she was as pink as a rose between her—"
"Maker's breath, n-not that!"
"What? You said anything."
"I don't w-want to h-hear grossly exaggerated t-tales of your love l-life."
He grinned at her and waggled red-gold eyebrows. "No exaggeration necessary. C'mon, I can tell you about how she earned her nickname, Rosa the Wriggler."
"I will f-fling myself off this l-ledge."
Varric chuckled, his eyes tracking her as she moved. His smile faded as she stumbled. "All right, what, then?"
She shuddered again and swung her good arm. It moved sluggishly, wooden. "Did you see wh-where the ch-chest went?"
"Under the dragon," he said, watching her. "I didn't really get a better look than that. Can't the viscount just make another key?"
"It's the k-key to the city," she said, shivering hard. "It c-c-" She couldn't get the word out and shuddered. Her legs gave out and she fell.
He was beside her. "Hawke? Hawke, look at me." His rough hands chafed her face, scrubbed warmth back into her.
"S-sorry," she whispered, leaning into his touch.
"C'mon, stay with me. Here." He grabbed the cloak from her, roughed up her hair as he toweled her head dry with it.
After a minute, she nodded and peeked up at him.
He stared at her intently. His thumb slid across her cheekbone.
Her blue eyes held his amber ones.
She looked away first, before too much could be said.
"I don't hear them," she said.
"They're coming," he insisted quietly. "Just hang on."
"Why don't I have a nickname?"
"What?"
"A n-nickname," she repeated. "Everyone else has one. Merrill's Daisy. B-bethany was Sunshine. Even Fenris gets Elf. Why not me?"
He shrugged, uncomfortable. "I don't know. Your name is short enough as it is. Hawke. Short. To the point. You never needed one."
She sat heavily. "That's a horrible reason," she said. "I feel left out."
He sat next to her. "Hawke?"
"What?"
"You're not shivering."
"I noticed. I don' suppose you have any idea how long it takes to freeze to death?"
"Hey, stop that," he said, wrapping an arm around her, ignoring the chill of her metal armor against him. "They're coming. You're not going to freeze to death."
"You're probably right," she said. She could feel hints of his warmth through her armor and scooted closer.
"I'm always right."
The silence between them went unbroken by anything more raucous than the plinking drip of water from high overhead. It didn't seem as cold, somehow. She was almost comfortable, leaning against Varric this way. It was good that he was there. Varric had always been there for her.
He jostled her roughly, one arm wrapped around her waist, her head thunking on his shoulder. "Hey. C'mon, no sleeping on the job. Hawke. Wake up."
She didn't want to.
"Hawke. Please. Wake up. Wake up, and I'll... Hey, I'll tell you what. Wake up, and I'll tell you the truth about why you don't get a nickname."
Well, that was interesting. She tried to rouse a little, to at least respond to the panic in his voice. Varric shouldn't panic. Varric never panicked. "Hm?"
His chuckle was a puff of relief and warm air across her face. It stung, that warmth, and she flinched a little. "That got you, huh? Open your eyes."
"'m tired."
"I know. But don't sleep."
Sighing would have taken too much out of her, but she opened her eyes. For Varric, she made the effort.
He peered down at her from less than a hand's breadth away. She could see some bitter knowledge in his eyes, in the little crease between his eyebrows and the tension across his jaw. His lips twitched upward at the corners, though. He tried to smile. For her, he made the effort.
"Tell me," she managed to say.
His blunt fingers, always graceful and sure, were awkward against her skin as he brushed a lock of hair off her forehead, swept it back over her temple. "I call you Hawk," he said slowly, "because that's what you are. In my head, it doesn't have the 'e'. You're a hawk. Fierce." She saw him swallow hard, and when he continued it was past some roughness in his throat. "Free. I always knew you weren't on this world for long. We were just borrowing you from the sky."
Her heart stirred and pattered faster in her chest. She blinked. Surely she should say something. Make a joke. Turn aside his regard the way she always did for him, the way he always did for her.
It was how they stayed safe.
She waited for him to pull away. She waited to pull away herself.
Instead, he bent his head a fraction, an inch, another. She felt his breath hot on her lips.
He hesitated.
She tipped her head.
They kissed.
For long moments, they sat like that, his lips on hers, their breath mingling. She could feel his pulse against her mouth. Then his fingers slid deeper into her hair, and she opened her mouth. Varric responded, the tip of his tongue just touching hers.
They parted.
She stared at him.
He tried to work up another smile for her. She saw the effort, saw him fail.
Hawke closed her eyes against the sight. She couldn't bear to see him lose his smile. Once closed, her eyelids felt too heavy to open again. "You should have a nickname too," she said. Her tongue felt unaccountably thick. She had trouble speaking clearly.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, fingers still stroking her hair, teasing the curve of her ear. "Like what?"
"Dunno. Something short."
"Hilarious."
"Short 'n red. Strawberry. Currant."
She felt him shake, heard his soft laughter. "That's terrible. Why not just go with Poxmark and get it over with?"
"Doodlebug."
"Well, those would be brown."
"Varric?" she said.
"Hm?"
"C'n I sleep now? For a little. It's just that I'm so tired."
His arm spasmed, clenching her tighter to him. "Aren't you too cold to sleep?" he asked lightly.
"No," she said. "I feel warm now."
His hand tightened in her hair. For a moment, he didn't speak. "Sure," he said finally, hoarse. "You sleep, Hawk. I'll keep watch."
She sighed against his shoulder. He had the best shoulders, so broad and strong. "Don't let go," she murmured.
His lips stirred her hair as he kissed her forehead.
She slept.