Chapter Text
“This is an outrage! The Twins of Kirkwall are a part of our history, and a landmark of the city. They draw in much needed tourism revenue. They–”
“For every tourist that comes to see those big ugly things, a dozen businessmen avoid Kirkwall just so they don’t have to look at them,” Varric interrupted. “Have you stopped to look at them recently, Councilman? They’re depressing.”
“There are formalities. You can’t just–” Seneschal Bran interjected, trying to reason with his viscount.
“Too late! Already did it,” Varric said, throwing his hands in the air. “Or close enough. The workers have been hired, the buyers found, contracts signed. What’s done is done. We’ll keep the harbor chains for defense, sure, but the slave statues are gone. It’s time we stopped glorifying the whole ‘City of Chains’ angle.”
“We appreciate what you’re trying to do for the city, Master Tethras,” a councilwoman spoke up, “What you’ve done already. But with money finally coming in, we are not so desperate for funding that we need to sell off every available asset.”
“I’m the one that got the harbor and businesses up and running again, or did you forget why you lot volunteered me as viscount in the first place? It was because you want shit fixed, and I can do that.” Varric shook his head with a disgruntled laugh. “Look, we may be on our way to recovery, but there’s still a long way to go, and it hasn’t been cheap. There are debts that need to be paid off, sooner rather than later. And I, for one, won’t miss those bronze monstrosities being the first sight to welcome each boat into this city.”
Many mouths opened to speak at once, but Seneschal Bran’s voice rose above the others. “Perhaps we can table the matter for now,” he practically shouted, “and move on to the next subject on the agenda: the Kirkwall Circle tower.”
“I don’t think so.” Varric climbed off his chair and strode out of the assembly room, ignoring the clamoring voices left in his wake. He’d had more than enough for the day, he wasn’t about to start up the debate about what should be done with the prison that had held so many mages, not so long ago.
He made his way down the long hallway to the rest of the Viscount’s Keep, his keep, muttering to himself. “‘Assets’? More like ‘eyesores’. Spooky, too. Am I the only one the least bit worried that they’ll come to life and rampage the city?”
He ignored the many people who tried to catch his attention as he headed for his suite. Bran would catch up with him shortly, and the seneschal was so very good at telling people to piss off. As he entered his office, a familiar sight met his eyes.
“Did you miss me, Bianca?” he asked of the large repeating crossbow that leaned against his desk, waiting for him. He couldn’t take her to council meetings — that would be a bit overtly threatening, even for him.
Running a loving hand down Bianca’s red cedar stock, Varric slung her on his back and made his way out. He didn't even make it halfway to the door of his suite before Bran’s voice could be heard outside, skillfully dismissing the same citizens Varric had ignored. Bran quickly made his excuses before entering the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, as if the crowd would surge their way through.
“You know you can’t actually do that without the Council’s approval.”
“Tell me, Provisional, which way would you vote?”
“A dangerous thing, taking sides. I avoid it wherever possible.”
“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
“We still need to discuss the matter of–”
“Not going to happen.”
“You’ve received two more letters from the Merchants’ Guild–”
“Of course I did.” He didn’t know why his seneschal even bothered to mention them anymore — they both knew Varric was never going to read them. He stood in front of Bran, waiting for him to move out of the way so that he and Bianca could make their escape.
“Alright, that just leaves the matter of the marriage offer.”
“The what, now? Sorry, but you're not my type.”
Seneschal Bran made a face, but did not repeat himself. “From Comtesse Dulci de Launcet.”
“Huh. For one of her daughters, I assume? Makes sense, I suppose. The pair of them are so insufferable the comtesse would have to resort to marrying them off to a dwarf.”
“Fifi or Babette, yes. What shall I tell the Comtesse?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
Bran nodded, having expected each curt answer he’d received. He started to move towards his own office, but hesitated. “Perhaps you ought to consider it, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Marrying a de Launcet? What have I ever done to you?”
Bran shook his head and clarified, “Marriage, I mean. To anyone. Maybe some gentle lass would calm your… Demeanor.”
Varric grunted. “You obviously hang out with a different type of woman than I do.” Varric had gotten to know many women in his travels, and he wouldn’t describe any of them as ‘gentle’. “Now move— I’ve got someplace to be.”
Bran didn’t look as if he believed him, but he walked off nonetheless, allowing Varric to make his escape. Varric headed straight to the chained off door a short distance to his right. The door led to a hallway, which led to a private building; his estate. Not for the first time, he thought about having them knock down the wall between his suite and this hallway, so he wouldn’t have to enter the main hall of the keep, exposing himself to the masses, just to get home.
~~~~~
Varric was feeling restless, and that evening, just after sunset, he found himself in Lowtown for the first time in… Well, it had been a while. In his position as viscount he rarely left Hightown. Shit, he rarely left his keep. But with the Council breathing down his neck, the ever-present nagging of the Merchant’s Guild, and the distressing updates he’d been receiving from the elf-formerly-known-as-Inquisitor, he felt the need to haunt his former home. He wouldn’t have believed it at the time, but those years he spent living in the Hanged Man had been simpler days.
Entering the building felt right, but all wrong. Like coming home after a long trip to find someone has moved all your stuff. He noticed the changes immediately. The wooden floors remained the same, recently cleaned but still scuffed and bloodstained and missing large sections, but virtually every bit of the walls had been plastered over—most likely from necessary repairs due to the fires caused the night Anders screwed everything up. Fortunately, the plaster was already well on its way to looking old and dingy, as if it had always been there. The ever-present graffiti on the walls had even been reapplied: the old Emerius heraldry, screaming slaves, and a small mural that looked suspiciously like Hawke.
He looked up as he crossed the floor. The rotting banners that hung from the ceiling had been replaced, though the new fabric wasn’t exactly fine Orlesian silk — they were hemp, rough and cheap, and looked as if the majority of them had somehow gotten dirty up there. All the chandeliers were lit, for once. Chains still hung down from the rafters.
The smell was just about right, too — still all ale and mystery meat stew, blood and sweat, but it seemed cleaner somehow. There was no lingering odor of stale vomit or piss, but there was the faint sting of smoke still hanging in the air; the owner had probably just covered over the fire damage, then, not bothering to replace the half-burned timbers in the walls.
This early in the evening the bar was pretty empty, and Varric was ignored as he headed upstairs, curious. Fresh air, or as fresh as air ever got this side of the Foundry, breezed in through the hallway windows that hadn’t been there before. From the looks of things, the hole in the wall had occurred naturally, so they’d just gone with it. The open ceiling, presumably used originally for slave deliveries or something, had been sealed. Debris that had piled up long before the fires had finally been cleared. The whole place smelled cleaner than any part of Lowtown had right to, and… Were those flower pots?
Maybe it had been a mistake to come here and ruin his memory of the place.
Unable to quell the urge, Varric continued his investigation. The door to his former suite was closed, and Varric left it alone, not knowing if someone else was currently residing there. Lucky bastard. The first door on the left was cracked open, though, and he peered in, not sure what to expect. This particular door had always been inaccessible before, so much dirt piled in front of it that it couldn’t be used.
Inside he found a small storage room, full of crates and supplies and the broom that was likely responsible for this hallway no longer smelling like dust and dirt.
With a grunt, he closed the door. Bracing himself for the worst, he crossed the hall to try the door of one of the group-rooms. Meant for anyone who had neither home nor coin, these rooms held multiple beds stacked together, quantity over comfort. Or, at least, they used to. He held a breath as he pushed open the door to find…
Exactly what he had hoped to find. Mismatched furniture, a handful of roughly-made bunkbeds, a table. ‘Desks’ made of stacks of crates, and ‘chairs’ made of empty casks. The only differences he could find were fresh candles, a new rug, and yet another clay pot of bright orange flowers.
He smiled, and felt himself relax. There were still drunkards downstairs, there was still graffiti on the walls, and there was still the general air of criminal activity. This was still, as he always said, the best damned tavern in Kirkwall. All it needed were some cute dwarven–
“Oh, hello!” A dwarven serving girl exclaimed as she came around a corner. “Can I get you anything? An ale?”
Varric smiled.
It was perfect.