Doubt

(a Dragon Age Inquisition one-shot)

A/N: I've been having a lot of feelings for the companions, especially Varric, in this game, so I just had to get an exchange down. Very few spoilers and indications of Cullen/F!Inquisitor romance. All credits to Dragon Age characters and lore go to BioWare (and thank you for creating them!). Hope you enjoy!

"If I never find another grain of sand on me, it will be too soon," Dorian says grumpily, brushing his hands against his pant legs once again.

"You realize you're lying in sand, Dorian?" Cassandra sighs, already draping an arm over her eyes as she stretches out on her back.

The mage's pointed look goes in the Inquisitor's direction, who is in the process of laying out her armor. "Well, if someone would have just left me back at Skyhold for this little venture, that wouldn't be the case, would it?"

"Think of it like a beach, Sparkler," Varric offers. He begins to dig through his pack. "Having all of the nobles swooning over your shirtless majesty."

"I even made sure Iron Bull stayed behind so you get all of the attention," the Inquisitor laughs as she finally sits down. She puts her hands behind her, stretching on her palms to bear most of her weight.

Varric chuckles with her. "Exactly. The fantasy is complete."

"Save for the complete lack of water and an unnatural collection of sand … in my boots." Dorian sighs as he pulls his shoes away.

Of all people, Varric thinks of Fenris in that moment. If the elf ever found out he was mentally comparing him to a human magister, though, he'd probably end up with a fist-sized hole in his chest. Fenris would always not whine as much as Dorian had been the last hour, but he would definitely not hesitate to complain in Hawke's direction. Granted, their fearless leader never bothered to listen.

Cassandra brings her arm away from her face, allowing it to be illuminated by the firelight. The Seeker seems oddly calm about Dorian's grumbling, which is unsettling in its own right. Unnecessary complaints that distracted all of them from proper rest, training, or focus put her on edge. Give her freckles and red hair, and she could be Aveline's twin.

Tonight, in the Western Approach's quickly cooling sands, she's almost … happy? Varric struggles to recall a time he's seen her face so relaxed since the Inquisition began. Shockingly, none come to mind. Even now, her face is not smiling, but relaxed. That is still miles of progress for the Seeker. Maybe because the plan is to kill a dragon tomorrow, or maybe because she secretly enjoys watching Dorian live a less than luxurious life. It's probably a bit of both.

Returning to the moment, Varric produces what he originally aimed for in his pack. The bottle isn't large by any means, but it does the trick for three humans and a dwarf. If Tiny had been in the group, the bottle would last all of a few seconds. He passes the bottle to Dorian first, who continues to be preoccupied with his sand issue.

"Tell you what, Sparkler, I bet our dear lady Inquisitor will let you fashion some boots from the dragon scales we get tomorrow if you ask nicely," the dwarf taps the man on the shoulder with the neck of the bottle. "At the very least, this will help you forget how much sand is stuck in parts discussed in not-so-polite company."

"No guarantees the dragon scales will be sand-free, however," the Inquisitor cuts in with a grin. "We are going to find her out in the Wastes, after all."

"I would be cautious, Dorian," Cassandra says in a serious tone. "All of this work tonight to rid yourself of sand … Only to be covered in it once again when the dragon barely flaps its wings."

Varric can't stop the shocked laugh that bursts from his mouth. "I'll be a nug's ass, did you just make a joke, Seeker?"

"Made an insult at my intelligence, more-like," Dorian shrugs before he puts the bottle to his lips. He takes a deep drink before offering the bottle to his right, where Cassandra sits. "Come now, Cassandra. You cannot tell me you enjoy being in a sand-ridden death oven."

"We go where is necessary, for the better of the Inquisition," the Seeker answers, her expression slipping back to its stoic seriousness. At least we got to enjoy it for a few seconds, Varric thinks to himself.

"'Where is necessary,'" the Inquisitor scoffs, shaking her head. "I would love someone's explanation for the seriousness of finding a druffalo in the middle of the hills and leading it back to its farm."

"Or listening to our Inquisitor curse more than a pirate while trying to scale rocks by a waterfall, only to drop into the water multiple times, just because she found a picture at a campsite," Dorian suggests with a laugh.

"Only to find out it was the wrong waterfall," Cassandra genuinely smiles now as she hands the bottle off to the Inquisitor.

"I thought it was north of the bridge, not south!" the Inquisitor snaps. "A crude drawing and a map is hardly enough to point me in the direction I need to go!"

"Then we will not discuss the time you got lost on the Skyhold battlements all afternoon after seeing Commander Cullen."

"I think the Inquisitor's mind was on more than finding the stairs after a visit with the Commander, Cassandra," Dorian comments, winking in the Inquisitor's direction.

Varric makes notes of the conversations as they continue through the night. His hands itch for blank pages, but he hates making it obvious that he is writing about his traveling companions. It would have to be stored in his thoughts for now, until they arrive at Skyhold again.

His usual routine remains intact at the fortress. Every time they return, he slips into his quarters to write. First, quick notes about certain events, jokes, bets, gossip … anything that he considers important. After those thoughts are alleviated, his hands work on their own to write his letters. Aveline, Rivaini, Elf, Blondie, Daisy … hell, even Junior.

Lastly, as he does every time, he writes to Hawke. Whether he sends them or not varies, based on necessity and sappiness. The dwarf makes it a point to not show off how he's feeling, especially if Iron Bull or Sera would catch wind. He'd never hear the end of it, otherwise. But he does miss his friends, the people he's known for years, torn apart in all of the chaos that started in Kirkwall.

They never get too far without him knowing, though, thanks to his contacts. Leliana might have a competitor for spy-master … If he ever had the ambition to hide in the shadows. Hawke would be the first to cut that idea down: "You've already got your taste of fame by riding the Champion's coat tails. You'd never be able to enjoy silence, Varric." Varric chuckles to himself. Yeah, that sounds like Hawke.

The Inquisitor begins cleaning her equipment as the bottle makes its way around and around. The redness in Cassandra's cheeks appear before anyone's. She mutters her good nights before going off to her tent. Dorian follows suit a bit later, complaining one more time of sand getting stuck to him as his figure disappears from the light of the fire.

Eventually, the bottle sits a quarter-full at his feet as he watches the motion of the rag streak over the Inquisitor's armor, wiping away blood, dirt, and dried bits of who-knows-what from the smooth metal. Hawke would do the same when they got back to Kirkwall. No matter what time. Varric's hands itch again to begin writing, to put down the thoughts.

The Inquisitor's hands are quickly becoming more callused as they continue their travels, he notices. A sort of "Free Marches royalty," she admitted to not knowing much about handling swords when everything began. Being the only person that could seal the rifts forced her to learn quickly. In a matter of no time, she is a household name, known across almost every country in Thedas. "The Herald of Andraste."

Despite running with Hawke for years, he forgets how legends can do such mundane tasks. Even as the story is unfolding before him, he is surprised by the little things the Inquisitor does. Stopping to talk to townspeople, picking apart armors and weapons, putting them back together with the help of the smiths, stifling laughs as her team argues back and forth about anything under the sun …

All of these actions that are performed daily, but never heard of in the stories. No one would ever really know the Inquisitor who chips at bits of iron in the hillside, or who roots around in shallow waters up to her knees searching for blood lotus, trying to keep from making irritated noises because her boots have soaked through to her feet.

Same as the Champion. The story became so big that no one would ever really know Hawke, or any of his other friends, for that matter. And that was his own doing, always would be. Now, the same would come about for the Inquisitor. He never regrets the stories he tells, never will, but, for small fleeting moments like this, he wonders if it would just be better if he had no part in—

"I don't think I'm unlucky," the Inquisitor suddenly says. Her eyes look up from her work, her hands pausing over her armor.

"Sorry?" Varric asks, shocked by her sudden attention.

"We talked a while back about whether you really thought if I was the Herald or not. If Andraste had chosen me. You basically guessed I have the 'shittiest luck,' if I remember your phrasing."

"Oh." His laugh seems offensive, so he ends it abruptly. "Uh, I didn't mean to insult you then. If it makes you feel any better, my luck is even shittier, all things considered."

The Inquisitor shakes her head, focusing on the fire. "No offense taken. I was just thinking about it, and … I don't think I'm unlucky. Certainly, I would be in a very different place if I didn't have this mark on my hand. I would probably join the Chantry without question, like most of my family always has. But if I had done that, I would know hardly anything about the world. You realize I haven't traveled as much in my life since I joined the Inquisition?"

"You should have been with us in Kirkwall. I swear, we walked just as long, but always ended up back at The Hanged Man. You do have that above Hawke, Inquisitor. I've never been in so many places in such a short time."

She huffs, a sound that doesn't quite become a laugh. "Strangely enough, I don't think my luck had anything to do with it. I'm thankful for the experiences I've had, even if it is leading to the end of the world … but, if you were to ask me, I think your luck is what got me this far."

Varric is speechless for a split second. He recovers himself just as quickly. "My luck? That drink must've gone straight to your head. You didn't even know me before all of this."

"True, but I met you soon after it started. Hawke told me something along the same lines happened with him meeting you as well. The Champion's story might not have even happened if it hadn't been for you."

"Clearly we remember different 'Champions,' Inquisitor. Hawke never needed me to get into trouble. Damned idiot did that fine on his own."

"He didn't need you to start the trouble, maybe, but he did need you to make it through it. Through all of it, you were with Hawke."

"He would have made it fine without me, I assure you." After a pause, he sighs, feeling a pressure building in his chest. "I mean, honestly, all of this shit with red lyrium wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for my brother and me trying to find a big cache … If anything, I'm great at fucking up a story and spinning it to make it sound good."

Her laugh is real now, reaching her eyes as she looks up to him. The fire licks in her irises. "I don't believe that for a second. Everyone fucks up their stories at some point. Not very many stick around to write the good ending, or help others reach theirs. Tales of the Champion or not, you would have been with Hawke to see to all of it. Because you were his friend, and because you cared."

Varric shrugs, feeling incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden. "Wrong place, right time, I guess."

"So maybe both of our lucks are shitty. Maybe both of our stories are fucked," her voice is tired as she takes a breath. She's been thinking about this longer than just tonight. Her smile still breaks through her seriousness. "In any case, I'm really glad you're still standing in all of the shit with me, Varric. Thank you."

He hands her the bottle, his own grin feeling light. "You're very welcome, Inquisitor. Just, do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"You gotta tell Sparkler that whole 'standing in shit' analogy. He's been throwing a damn fit about sand all day. The mental imagery alone will have that mustache all kinds of twisted."