Chapter Text
*
Maevaris was rather used to only hearing from Varric infrequently, but she wasn’t entirely pleased when the next letter she received from him was another one asking for aid. Safe haven for a friend. She half-hoped he meant Alistair, but she knew he did not.
The letter had not specified anything vaguely resembling a time or date so she sent the coach down to the docks whenever she could spare it. Which wasn’t very often, really. She had a lot of work, both political and social, to attend to. She had also had her apprentices to think of, and they were always so very put out when they couldn’t do as they wished exactly when they wished it.
Even Phaeton had been irritatead. “You would think these guests of yours—”
Maevaris looked up from the flower bed where they’d been working for the past half an hour, smiling as Phaetan rolled his eyes. “Varric’s family. If he wants to show up a month from now, he can show up a month from now. I’m more than ready to accommodate them.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“Right. As if anything would slip by you.”
“I only think… It’s just that your time is precious.”
“Oh, everyone’s time is wasted now and again. That’s just the way of things.”
One of her younger slaves, Renna, ran out, panting heavily as she neared them. The girl froze, blinking and ears drooping as she regarded her father. The hem of her dress was splashed with mud and her sandals were a mess. “Oh. Sorry, mistress.”
Maevaris removed her gloves and touched the child’s shoulder. “Catch your breath, dear.”
“I… It’s only your guests are coming. I hopped off the coach and got here as soon as I could to tell you.”
Maevaris frowned. “All the way from the docks? Let’s get you something to drink then before I change. Phaeton—”
“The rest can keep or perhaps you’ll permit me to do it myself. I could do it faster and however it turns out will be blamed on me by future visitors.”
She laughed. “Very well.”
“I could also see to my daughter to spare you some time.”
“Oh, nonsense. I can manage to find my own kitchens. And you’d only scold her when she’s done nothing wrong. I’d prefer there to be none of that today. Her dress will wash and those sandals are too small for her anyway. Your feet must have grown overnight. I suppose that’s how you ran so fast.” The gentle teasing earned her a small smile from the girl.
The older elf sighed, giving his daughter a disapproving look. “As you like.”
“Oh, leave it, Phaeton, honestly.”
“Some semblance of decorum should be maintained. And I find that scolding my children is a vital part to raising them.”
Maevaris rolled her eyes. “Then do as you must.”
Inside the manor, she got the girl water, adding ice absent-mindedly with a wave of her hand over the glass. “Here you are. Now, were I you? I should sit quietly for a bit. Then I should find somewhere else to be. Your father will be outside working for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Yes, mistress. Thank you.”
She nodded before leaving the elf, imagining the girl would sit there quietly for as long as she was able. Maevaris estimated that length of time to be roughly three minutes.
She’d inherited Phaeton from her parents, but even before that, she’d spent most of her life with him lingering somewhere near her right elbow. She’d considered freeing him roughly five times. Five springs during which he and his wife had been blessed with yet another child. He had asked her not to each time so she’d honored the request. Her other slaves were a small group that also felt a lack of interest in being freed, which didn’t make it right, but that was how the system was set up. Being freed and being given freedom were somehow mutually exclusive things. Freedom was impossible to attain, and being freed was simply meant being made poor and disposable.
As a Magister, she had to play by certain archaic and sometimes arbitrary rules. She could not afford not to have slaves if she wanted to be taken seriously. Even as she worked to change as much as she could, she had to build alliances with those who did not feel as she did. And as much as she liked the idea of new Tevinter Imperium with a more wholesome reputation... She needed to be a part of the old world to have her rightful place in the new.
As a woman, she was already at a significant disadvantage. Of course, there were plenty of female Magisters, but power in Tevinter was an still an old man’s game. No matter how the political landscape changed, there would always be old men with blood magic and dreams of dragons fueling their fervor for ancient rites and hierarchies.
The road to change required, as did so much of politics, a good deal of waiting and patience. Without blood magic, altering the minds of the elderly and infirm was not likely. No, realistically, she needed to earn their approval and wait for more of them to die off. Even then, she needed to not only be patient but to instill patience into those placed in her care for she also needed plenty of young people to be alive in to help legitimate a new vision for Tevinter. This would not happen if she pushed too much too quickly for her apprentices, her boys, were all fools who longed for a cause to champion. What happened in Kirkwall and the latest developments in Orlais and Ferelden had only increased their desire to become revolutionaries in their own right.
All the same, small progress was still progress of a sort. She’d been telling herself that a great deal lately.
The arrival of Varric’s friends was a relief. In exchange for providing safe haven for one of them, she had insurances that the others were eager to be given work to do in Tevinter. To that end, she had a list of slavers that she’d be glad to see put out of business. Provided she could not be tied to that happy event in any way, of course.
Her father had always told her that one either learned to play the game or one became a pawn in it. In her case, he added, there was no choice. She either played the game or she gave up all that she wanted because to become a pawn would be the end of everything.
He had always supported her, but he had never lied to her. He had always assured her there were battles she would have to fight all on her own. If she wanted to be herself, she had to play the game better than anyone else before or after her ever would.
She’d kept that truth close to her heart both in school and in training to become a battle mage. When she’d fought in the Provings for the first, final, and only time, she’d come out on top quite literally. And even though her father certainly would have given her his title, she only accepted his seat after making herself known as a powerful player. She could not afford to be given something she had not earned. Her abilities were enough that she became a Magister without his vast connections. To this day, she was owed many favors on her father’s behalf. To this day, she’d yet to collect on virtually any of them.
Alongside her own, she had copies upon copies of the contracts her father had made. Alliances he’d forged for years, even when he’d been ill, solely for her. He hadn’t needed them, but he’d always known she would. The original remained in the vault, and she’d always enjoyed going over them, smirking and wondering if she’d ever need use them.
The only person she’d shared them with was Thorold who had assured her he found it all extremely amusing and insanely attractive. He’d patted the papers gently, telling them to rest easy until they could be of use to their mistress. Thorold had told Maevaris he was as fond of her hoard as he was of her. And that she’d always be his greedy little dragon. And she’d been so glad to fall in love with someone who understood her…
She sighed, washing up and drying off slowly. It was good to think of him even when it hurt, but it always left her feeling so lonely. The tightness in her chest would pass, it always did, but it made looking at those papers so hard for she would have given each one of them up to have kept him instead.
Wrapping a towel around herself, Maevaris set about examining her vast wardrobe before selecting something simple. Or, at least, as simple as her clothing ever got. She considered some of the pastel and white outfits towards the back of the closet before frowning. She had never been a fan of white, and certainly there was little cause to wear it in Tevinter.
She settled instead on a black sheath dress. There were soft teal and black feathers on the shoulders and along the collar that framed her face. She wrapped black ribbons on her wrists and black leather sandals that laced up to just below her knees on her feet. In terms of makeup, she just touched up what she already had on. She also didn’t bother with much in the way of jewelry. She didn’t want to look too heavily groomed for their arrival, nor did she want to look too much like a Magister. She imagined these Ferelden types would find that vaguely off-putting.
Glancing in the mirror, she smiled. “Well, if they don’t like the look of you,” she reasoned, “they’re blind.”
*
Maevaris embraced Varric as soon as she could, hardly glanced at his companions. “You sure know how to keep a girl waiting.”
“Part of my charm,” he managed, but he seemed heavy-hearted. More so than usual, but then he’d been in Kirkwall and the friends he’d brought her…
She glanced up at them. The woman had a long red mark over the bridge of her nose. She seemed the sort who ought to be smiling but at the moment had no reason to. She was a mage who all but radiated grim determination.
The elf was eyeing her resentfully. He wore a hooded cloak over his armor, but his lyrium tattoos were glowing as he bristled. She remembered the look of him but not his name. She didn’t care for the memory.
The other man was clearly a mage. He was vaguely handsome, she supposed. He seemed unfocused, and it was difficult to try what was actually attracting his gaze. He wasn’t looking down exactly, but he was a bit hunched over in a way. As if he was trying to shrink, a difficult feat for someone so tall.
She kissed Varric’s cheek before leaving him. “Hello,” she said to the woman. “I’m Maevaris Tilani.”
“A Magister.”
Maevaris eyed the elf thoughtfully. “That is my title, yes.”
The elf scowled, turning to his companions. “And you would leave this a—This one here, Hawke? What has he ever done to merit any safe haven, let alone this much luxury?”
The woman – Hawke— sighed, not answering. Maevaris had a feeling whatever she wanted to say would be unkind.
The other mage said nothing.
Varric sighed too. “Could you not do this everywhere we go, broody?”
“I am not sure what sort of safe haven you had in mind… But ‘any port in a storm’ doesn’t always have to translate to rat-infested mess,” Maevaris coolly observed.
Hawke snorted quietly.
“Maybe we could go back to introductions,if you don’t mind? I am still very much Maevaris Tilani and you are…?”
“Marion Hawke. And this is Fenris.”
Fenris just glared.
“Right. A pleasure to meet you both, one can only imagine,” she murmured. Still, she smiled at the woman if not the disgruntled elf. She had heard about Hawke in Varric’s very infrequent letters and during her recovery from a previous and rather unfortunate misadventure.
“Anders,” the other mage said.
Maevaris blinked, glancing up at him.
Fenris smirked, but even then he managed to reduce the gesture to an unhappy one. “The insane fugitive that took it upon himself to destroy the better parts of Kirkwall.”
She raised an eyebrow. In polite Tevinter society, one would scarcely refer to a Southern Chantry as the better part of any location, but saying so was insensitive at best.
“Yes, thank you for that, Fenris,” Hawke muttered.
Anders merely shrugged. Maevaris imagined that, quite some time ago, the mage had learned that he unlikely to ever earn Fenris’ approval. Or perhaps the loathing was mutual.
“Oh, he’s probably trying to save you the trouble of carrying a banner or hiring a town crier,” Maevaris said, shrugging herself. “A sign that said all of that on it would be quite expensive, I’m sure. And, yes, we have heard of that even here in the Imperium.”
Fenris snorted. “That? Yes, and I’m sure you were glad to hear that. What did you do to celebrate, I wonder? Fireworks and a parade?”
Maevaris rolled her eyes, more amused than anything else. “Well, of course, I made myself sick from cackling once I received the news. It’s a requirement for all Magisters, but the rest has been saved up for his arrival. We’re declaring him the High King Dragon of Tevinter and long may he reign. We’re also lining up the hundred virgin sacrifices to his infernal and infamous name as we speak. Is that to your satisfaction, ser?”
Oddly enough, the elf did seem satisfied with this. He didn’t smile or anything like that. She was pretty sure the only smile he’d give her was one of grim satisfaction the moment he had a reason to rip her heart out of her chest, but he seemed to be finished, at least until he encountered any of the elves living on her estate. Maker, but it was shaping up to be a very long and tedious day.
She glanced at the others. Varric was sighing, grumbling something to himself. Anders was eying her thoughtfully. He continued to say nothing.
“Is this part of the traditional Tevinter greeting?” Hawke asked. “Trading insults until you’re invited in for tea?”
“I told you already,” Varric said, forcing a jovial tone. “Fenris can try to offend her, but that’s about all he can do. She’s immune.”
“I am merely trying to be a decent host,” Maevaris said stiffly, unwilling to force a lightness she did not feel.
What else was she to do when faced with so much unbridled hostility? She had no desire to be cruel to the elf or make more out of it than she needed to. He was a former slave who had freed himself and killed his master, he was going to feel a certain way, that much was to be expected. There was nothing she could do to change that, and she wasn’t so much of a fool that she was going to congratulate him on ridding the world of Danarius. One simply never knew who was listening in. It was bad enough that she was in the same enclosed courtyard with these people.
“And I certainly don’t see the sense in arguing—“
“With an elf?”
“With someone who isn’t looking for a debate so much as eyes to gouge out,” she said irritably. “But yes. With an elf, because you are, in fact, an elf. Just as I am a mage. It is a fact. You can love it or hate it, but pick a fight elsewhere if you must pick one at all. If you’re staying here, I would appreciate some semblance of decorum,” she added, borrowing from Phaeton’s phrasebook. “There are children here—”
“Slaves.”
“Children, and I would prefer you didn’t frighten them. Or give anyone a difficult time save for myself. If you’d prefer to simply leave, you’re welcome to do so. I have the papers you need already.”
“We ought to take the papers and go,” Hawke said with a shrug. “Safer. For all of us.”
“I quite agree,” Fenris haughtily replied. “I have no interest in spending any more time here.”
Varric sighed. “Then go back to the docks. I’ll meet you there tomorrow with the papers and we’ll leave.”
“Suits me.”
“Mae?”
She nodded stiffly, crossing her arms. “I think that would be best, yes.”
Fenris headed for the coach without another word or a glance back.
Hawke lingered, frowning. “I… hope you understand that I can’t apologize for him. It would be wrong of me.”
“You needn’t.”
Hawke nodded, awkwardly looking to the other mage. “Anders.”
“Marion.”
Neither one of them seemed to know what else to say.
“He’ll be fine,” Maevaris assured the woman before looking to the man. “You’re welcome to stay here, Anders. In fact, if you never leave, I might never notice. It’s just me and a handful of apprentices.”
Hawke frowned. “That’s good of you. I know Varric is your cousin and all, but still. It’s a lot to ask, so it’s good of you to be willing seeing as you don’t know him or…”
“Or what I’m capable of,” Anders finished for her. “Or what I might do.”
“If Varric feels you can stay here, then that’s all I need to know,” Maevaris said. “It’s usually all he tells me anyway. Make your farewells and then come inside, if you don’t mind.” With that, she left them to talk and went into her house.
*
Varric was sighing and Anders was frowning when they finally came in. They were both relatively empty-handed, but Varric at least had Bianca with him. Anders didn’t appear to have anything with him, not even a staff.
“Have you anything to bring inside?” Maevaris asked gently.
“Not a thing, I’m afraid.”
“Maker, Varric, no wonder you want him to stay here.”
“You like strays.”
“He’s not some sort of dog coming in out of the rain,” Maevaris said irritably. “He’s a man, and he is --or was-- your friend. How can you just--”
Anders cleared his throat. “Magister Tilani, you needn’t concern yourself.”
“Maevaris.”
“Maevaris then. I suppose you don’t understand,” Anders began. It ought to have sounded like an unkind accusation, but his tone made it clear that he already knew he couldn’t perceive things from her point of view either. “Considering this foyer alone, I’m sure what I’m about to say will make no sense to you at all… But I have never owned much. Had I come here under any other set of circumstances, I still would have arrived here with nothing save for the clothes on my back.”
“...I see.”
“I haven’t a bit of money either, but I imagine we’ll have to come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Yes, I imagine we will. I haven’t any idea what that ought to be. I have no interest in indenturing you to me. Wealth is not something I need more of. Not really. Power is something I could give you but not vice versa.”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “You could give power to me?”
“If I had a mind to. I suppose I could bring you to parties if you’re not opposed to gossip, but that’s hardly repayment so much as getting you out of the house every now and again. Had you any thoughts on the matter, Varric?”
“A few. Should he just be himself or…?”
“I imagine that after all of this time, he would like to be himself, Varric.”
“He would,” Anders said quietly.
“And I realize this will sound… wrong, Varric, but no one will feel the way your people do about him or what he’s done. We didn’t celebrate, but we didn’t mourn either.”
“Right,” the dwarf said gruffly. “They’ll just gasp and gawk when you dance with him.”
“Would I really be of that much interest at parties?” Anders asked.
“Well, of course,” Maevaris said primly. “What with your reputation and my looks… We’d make a pretty pair. Once I get you cleaned up, obviously. I was merely being honest about your wet dog look. A look that, truth be told, really doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m more of a cat person anyway.”
She gave them a tour of the manor. Varric had seen it all before, but he hadn’t been willing to leave them alone just yet. As much as she loved her cousin, the man was truly bizarre. He was leaving in the morning and who knew when he’d visit her again, but he didn’t like the idea of her being alone with the man she was going to basically be alone with for the foreseeable future. Give or take a few of her other “strays,” as the dwarf had called them.
At the end of the tour, she brought them to the guest room Varric would use, and the dwarf seemed to decide it was okay to temporarily leave them.
She led the other mage into the room she’d decided Anders ought to have. It had been more of a storage closet for her clothing than anything else. The only other room available in this wing of the estate was her late husband’s study. Dorian had taken it over ages ago. He slept in it when he visited, and she thought that it would upset the boy greatly if she gave it to someone else even with Dorian being so overdue for a visit. As of late, and as was only be expected, Dorian had been spending nearly all of his time at Magister Gereon Alexius’ estate.
Anders stared around the room, walking the edges of it. There were bookshelves lining the right side of the room and a desk on the left side. The windows were stained glass, in the waning light, they still shone bright red, dark purple, and hunter green. The bed was a large black monstrosity that someone had gifted to her. It might have been a kind gesture if it hadn’t been for the timing of it. Even after several years, the insult still stung.
“We can add whatever you’d like. Most of the rooms have far too many books in them,” she said, inspecting the place. It was pristine save for the layer of dust that the nightstand had attracted since the room had been prepared for his arrival. She didn’t think the other mage had noticed.
“It’s near mine,” Maevaris added. “I’m at the end of the hall. Not that you need crave my company, mind… You’ll meet my apprentices soon enough so I’m sure you’ll have plenty of people to talk to, but I thought for now you might like to know where someone is. When I’m here, at least.”
Anders looked back at her. “You’re not always here?”
“Oh, if I’m not here, I’ll be easy enough to find. The Senate keeps me busy though, and I can’t afford to miss meetings.”
“And this is only one room?”
Maevaris smiled. “Would you like more than one room? You're welcome to explore, claim, or re-purpose other parts of the house.”
Anders shook his head. “I hardly know what to do with all of this.”
“Enjoy it,” she suggested. “If you’re rusty, I can teach you how.”
“Like your apprentices?”
She laughed. “No. The boys come to me because they need to cultivate the right sort of grooming and reputation. They arrive lacking in manners and magical prowess. I show them how a knife and fork works. I train them in magical attacks and defense. I help establish them in hopes that they can continue the trend and make a name for themselves.”
“How long do they train?”
“It depends. Some need more of a guiding hand than others. Some just need references. Most of them have just finished college if you can believe it. I generally find that I can’t.”
“But you teach them and they live here with you?”
“Yes. As for you, I think you’ve just been a shut-in.”
Anders considered her intently. It was impossible to tell if he was offended or not. “I have been,” he said at last.
“Why?” she prompted.
He blinked. “That would take a very long time to explain.”
“There’s time for it when you’re up to the task,” she observed. “At any rate, you don’t have to be that way now. You’re not in awful Ferelden anymore. Tevinter will do wonders for you. We’ll get you some fresh air and sunshine and a smile in no time.”
“I suppose.”
“Would you prefer something else?”
“I try not to prefer anything at all.”
“That’s not very healthy of you.”
Anders sighed. “There was a time when I wanted so much which, in awful Ferelden,” and here he smiled faintly, “translated into very little for the average person. I wanted…” He frowned, looking at her sorrowfully, brown eyes glowing blue for one split second. “It doesn’t matter. All of it, all of those things… I don’t deserve them any longer,” he murmured.
How do you know if you’ve never had them? she thought. Good or not, deserving or not, there are plenty of people who get everything they’ve ever wanted.
Instead, she patted his arm sympathetically.
He just stared at her.
“Well, at the very least you deserve a decent meal. Come on then.”
*
Later in the evening, Maevaris found Varric sitting on a veranda, pulling out a pipe and tobacco pouch. She sat down next to him, lighting the contents of the pipe bowl with her fingers when he was done fussing with it.
“Thanks,” Varric muttered.
“You should be thanking me. Maker, but it’s either feast or famine with you. I either never hear from you no matter what the circumstances, or you’re on your way over bringing all sorts of problems to my door.”
“Sorry, Mae.”
“Yes, you ought to be.”
Varric snorted.
“I don’t understand why you’re helping him. Don’t get me wrong, he seems to require it, but it doesn’t seem to me like you or the others want to help him at all.”
“We do and we don’t. He’s… It’s like you said. He is and was a friend. And now… I don’t know what he is to me, but he’s Hawke’s responsibility. Was.”
“And now he’s mine? Lovely,” Maevaris said with a sigh.
“I can figure something else out. I just need time.”
“Where else?” she asked.
Varric inhaled and exhaled smoke for a time. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“You might as well leave him here then. I don’t feel very burdened by it, truth be told. The poor man--”
“He is anything but.”
“He is literally penniless.”
“You weren’t talking about the state of his finances.”
“He’s a mess, Varric.”
“Yeah, he ought to be.”
“You can’t bring me someone in such need of repair only to tell me not to feel sorry for him.”
“I damn well can. What he did… You can’t even begin to understand. I don’t really want you to either, but he fucked us all over and up to do what he thought was right. And it wasn’t. It wasn’t even close to right.”
“I’m guessing he thought you’d kill him.”
“That Hawke would,” Varric agreed. “Not sure why she didn’t, but she sided with the mages and I think… She doesn’t want to, but she understood some of it. Everything we had to fix was either caused by blood mages or the Chantry. But understanding and accepting aren’t the same thing, not by a long shot. And she’s been dragging him along with her for a long time. Like a great big fucking boulder dangling from her neck.”
“A burden, a reminder, and a former friend.”
“Yeah.”
“Which is why you want to leave him here. Or at least you’d like for her to do so, both physically and mentally.”
“I thought I did. Thing is, I don’t like that any better. Looking around here, imagining him carving out a life here thanks to your charity... It just makes me want to shove him down a flight of stairs. Or throw myself down a balcony and get it over with.”
“Don’t you dare. The carpets on the landing and in the main hall would be very expensive to replace.”
Varric managed a ghost of a smile. “Sure. And I’m not saying I want to leave him in a cave for a thousand years with only his thoughts for company, but I’m not saying I don’t either. And here… He doesn’t deserve here. You’ll be nice to him. You like looking after people and helping them out.”
“You knew of that particular character defect long before you boarded the boat that brought him to my door.”
“I know, but I just hate leaving him here. I hate that I can’t just leave him somewhere he deserves to be left.”
“Like where? The bottom of a well? A bereskarn’s cave? A dawkspawn nest? Yes, I imagine that would be difficult.”
“You think I’m being too harsh.”
“No. That’s the hard part. I don’t think you’re being harsh because I know you. I know you, and you always take on a great deal more than a person is meant to. We suffer from the same affliction, Varric. You like looking after people and helping them out just as much as I do.”
Varric nodded grimly.
“I also think you’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t really want to.”
“Yeah. As for bringing him here, I don’t know what else to do. I really don’t, but I have to go back to Kirkwall. I’m not like Hawke. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sleeping in the woods and hunting down slavers.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that if he hurts you, that’s on me. If you like him too much, that’ll be my fault.”
“I doubt he’ll hurt me. And I’m sure there’s something that’s worth liking about him even if it’s harder for you to find now than it was before...”
“I want to believe that, I really do. But I don’t. Anders is... He’s a runaway mage and a Grey Warden possessed by a spirit. And he’s also a healer. And he’s…” Varric trailed off. Maevaris knew what he wanted to say but it was probably difficult to discuss what had happened to those in the Kirkwall Chantry let alone the city proper. “He’s a thousand different contradictory things, Mae.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Not like this we’re not.”
Maevaris sighed, unable to continue with this dark frame of mind. She’d never been one for so much gloom or tragedy. It was why she suspected she was and always would be a terrible widow. She had mourned Thorold with all of her heart, and she still mourned and missed him from time to time, but she had never been very good at being very sad.
“Well,” she decided with a mischievous glance at her cousin-in-law, “if he misbehaves overmuch, I shall inform you of it at once, and chain him up in the attic. I’ve always wanted to have someone chained up in my attic. It’s like one of your dreadful and sordid tales.”
Varric chuckled briefly. “It is a bit. Meanwhile, and in reality, I’ll try to be better about writing you. Or stopping by.”
“I’d appreciate it. It’s only that I worry... and rightly so it would seem.”
“Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I don’t write as much as I mean to,” Varric said, setting his pipe down on a marble railing. He took her hand in his. “I like the idea of someone worrying about me somewhere in the world. Even if they’re only worrying because I’m being an asshole.”
“It’s the useless romantic in you,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Must be.”
*