Ghost Story

[Marian Hawke]

"Magic is illegal, for starters."

[Varric]

Varric stares at her. "Beg your pardon what?"

[Marian Hawke]

"They didn't tell you? Magic is illegal in Golden Shores."

[Varric]

"Dragon shite," Varric says succinctly, eyes hard and unrelenting. "I'm a fucking citizen of Nyra, of which Golden Shithole is a protectorate and you can take my magic from my disintegrated corpse."

[Marian Hawke]

"They'll kill you," says Emma quietly, looking away. "They've killed before."

[Varric]

"I wish them the best of luck; or I would, except I hate wasting effort. I might not be able to take the entire town head on, but I wouldn't bother to try." Some invisibility and some flight to withdraw, then take my time (or go back to Nyra and call on the guard (as if you would) to settle things) with picking them off. "Fuck the town."

[Marian Hawke]

"If you don't like it here then leave," snaps Emma, temper flaring as the temperature in the room drops. 

[Varric]

I already did. "Why should I? I bought this house, the estate and a good chunk of land around the village. Hells, I own the damn mine, such as it is. Place is almost more mine than everyone else's at this point. I'm old, I'm stubborn, I'm a dwarf, I'm repetitive, and I don't much care if things go wrong anymore. So fuck it, a political and cultural battle might just distract me a bit." Despite his annoyance, old instincts have Bianca reappearing and his eyes carefully drifting around the room.

[Marian Hawke]

"Fine! But I'm not letting your stupid, stubborn ass get me killed!" Emma stands as she shouts, then turns, bolting from the table to slam the back door open. She slams it shut, too, as hard as she can, once she's on the other side of it -- the house shudders with the force of her slamming the door. 

[Varric]

Varric slowly exhales, leaning back in his chair as he studies the door. "Well. That went great." Why surprised? What did you expect, old man? he thinks to himself, ignoring the fact that he's not really all that far into middle age. You can barely relate to-- To most people, why would a troubled young woman, barely not a child, work out?

"Empty life," he swears softly, eyes closing for a moment. "Sometimes..." He sighs, then squares his shoulders before rising to his feet. "House won't fix itself."

[Marian Hawke]

Half an hour later, when he glances out the window, he discovers just how far Emma didn't go; she's seated on a stump near the well and the empty henhouse, sobbing into her hands, the picture of dejection and misery. 

[Varric]

He tries. He really does. He's no good at emotions, not real ones. He's terrible at comforting people. He's got work to do. He's--

"Here," Varric says brusquely, shoving a mug of gently steaming tea at Emma. 

[Marian Hawke]

She looks up, wiping at her eyes, and takes the tea. "Thanks," she mumbles, her breath catching in a silent sob halfway through the syllable. 

[Varric]

"I'm no good at being comforting." A slight pause. "Fair warning given, uh, you wanna talk?"

[Marian Hawke]

"They're dead," she chokes out, barely holding back a sob. "I don't even remember their name, but I know they died. What's wrong with me?"