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1.
"Am I meant to be surprised?" Jaster asks, dark eyes steady as he looks at the stranger.
The Champion of Kirkwall is unmistakable, despite Varric’s poor attempt at subterfuge. And it was a poor attempt, there is no doubt in Jaster’s mind about that. Varric Tethras is too competent an incompetent spymaster to give away his nerves and to set up such a suspicious meeting and expect him not to be tipped off. He doesn’t doubt that Master Tethras’ actions had been deliberate and calculated. The dwarf is as much a warrior as any of his ori'ramikad, stone strong against his enemies but yielding to his allies.
Jaster is well aware that he is lucky to be counted amongst Varric’s allies, as temporary as the arrangement might be. For now, they are united by a common goal, but despite it all— despite everything they have gone through, despite what they are going to go through, despite the sleepless nights and the words shared under the shadows of a budding trust— Jaster knows where Varric’s loyalties lie, and he is not at the receiving end.
No, the holder of that privilege stands before him, looking increasingly uncomfortable under his gaze.
Cloe Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall and Varric’s best friend.
Minutes alone with the two of them makes the truth a simple thing: Varric and Cloe would kill and die for each other.
That makes his growing affections a double-edged blade. A liability he can’t afford to have, but cannot stop himself from craving.
He keeps his eyes on Cloe Hawke for a second longer, — letting her sweat simply because he just knows she is going to drop a new host of problems on his lap— before shifting his gaze to Varric, an eyebrow raised in a silent question and lips twitching as he stamps down on his urge to grin.
Varric breaths out a laugh in response.
“Most people would, Legend,” he admits readily as he moves closer to Hawke, shoulders loose and gait steady. “But I suppose you are not most people.”
Jaster eyes the pair for another beat, before he allows himself the liberty to relax. Despite it all, he wishes to trust Varric, and he does trust his interests. The Breach and its creator are a Damocles Sword hanging above Thedas, and for now, he is the only solution. There is no reason to distrust the Champion’s intentions, not yet.
Perhaps not ever, a small part of him whispers.
“I am wounded that you thought otherwise, Serrah Tethras,” he says, mock offense positively dripping from his tone as he crosses the distance between him and Hawke with a stride. He offers his arm for a clasp with a nod. “Champion, I suppose you are here to help with our Warden problem?”
Hawke cackles, and clasps his arm, grip strong and sure.
“As long as it stays an Inquisition’s problem, rather than a ‘me’ problem, yes. I am.”
Jaster sighs, and sends an accusatory look towards Varric, but the dwarf just laughs, golden earrings glinting in the sun. The joy in his voice, undisrupted by the worry that has plagued them all from the moment the Breach opened the sky, sends a pang through his chest, and it weakens his resolve enough that he allows himself to close his eyes and enjoy the sound.
Eyes fluttering open a moment later, Jaster looks at Varric and has to bite his cheek to stop himself from grinning. Varric smiles fully and freely, and Jaster’s eyes linger on his lips before he looks back at the Champion.
The Champion, whose eyes are jumping from Varric to him.
The moment shatters.
His jaw clenches.
Kriff.
2.
Crestwood is another karkshow, but frankly, that is nothing new.
From the moment Jango crash landed Jaster’s ship into the middle of the Korcari Wilds and they discovered they had a Jetii and a Jetii’ad as stowaways, Jaster’s life had been one karkshow after the other.
Crestwood is no different.
The Inquisition’s squad gets hit by a wave of the undead as soon as they leave their main camp, and things don’t get better from there. Despite the relative weakness that characterizes a decaying body, the sheer number of bodies makes it a battle of attrition.
His squad is not prepared for that sort of battle, not when their mage’s main attack consists of summoning exactly the beings that they are fighting.
And yet, they manage.
Jaster is too well-trained to allow for a defeat when the opposing force is made up of corpses, of all things. Manda knows Jango would never let him hear the end of it if he fails to meet an informant and gets outdone by second-rate darkspawns. So he plans and plots and listens to Bull’s advice, to Dorian’s observations and Varric’s quips.
He builds upon the foundations of the work they have done together and crafts a strategy that will allow them to tackle all the difficulties in their path, despite the poor match in skills.
So they continue on, rescuing a group of clueless Wardens and acquiring a new agent, all the while he keeps an eye on his squad’s health.
But he doesn’t talk much. Neither do Dorian or Bull.
His relationship with his Inner Circle had changed, shifted and settled into something foreign after the fall of Haven. Mother Giselle’s decision to cement the religious aspect of the Inquisition— ‘Inquisitor’ a title of honor for a religion that isn’t his, ordained for a god he doesn’t believe— had changed things and Jaster hates the tension that change brought, the way it made their trust in him falter and shift as their dynamics changed into something unfamiliar.
He is still the same man, still willing to give his life for them, but the weight of his loyalty settles differently across his companion’s shoulders now that it comes from the Inquisitor, rather than from Jaster.
It’s the sort of tension that gets you killed by the silliest mistakes, but that he can’t break because he is it’s origin.
There is a glimmer of golden hope beyond the dawn, however, and it takes the shape of Varric. The dwarf continues on as always, asking questions and teasing answers from Jaster’s companions, slowly chipping away at the unnatural tension and Jaster can’t help but feel unbearably fond of him.
It’s in the middle of one of such questions that one of the Shadows he calls aliit drops by for a visit.
They are half a day away from camp, walking underneath a rock outcrop when one of Varric’s quips lands a little too well and Jaster stops paying attention to his surroundings to turn back and admire the way the light of dusk makes Varric’s hair shine a brittle gold.
Jaster looks at Varric and finds Varric looking back at him.
Black eyes meet hazel brown through a tinted lens and his breath leaves his lungs in a soft exhale. He is too distracted by the sudden shiver running up his back to draw his blaster when he notices the shadow of a person dropping from the outcrop, but not distracted not to step to the side, or to realize Varric noticed his sudden tension.
The shadow becomes a man, landing next to Jaster with unnatural grace.
Before Jaster can blink— before recognition settles and he can relax—, an arrow embeds itself between him and the intruder.
“Step away from tall, dark, and handsome,” Varric warns as he aims Bianca between dark brown eyes and Jaster— Jaster pauses and mouths the words — tall, dark and handsome, his mind plays in repeat — in surprise, a soft heat spreading through his cheeks.
Observant eyes — dark brown eyes and a single light blue-green eye— notice his pause.
“Tall, dark and handsome,” Quinlan says, a sly grin on his lips as he wiggles his eyebrows at Jaster, paying no mind to Varric's implied threat. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Jango that his buir is tall, dark, and handsome. He is going to have a conniption,” he snickers.
“I will not ask again,” Varric says, eyes flinty, and that is enough to shake Jaster out of his stupor. Quinlan raises a brow in surprise at the dwarf’s tone, but does as asked, arms going up in a mockery of a surrender.
Jaster gestures to Varric to lower his crossbow.
“No need to shoot him,” he says. “Quinlan might be a brat, but I trust him.”
“Aw, Jas’buir, you trust me?” Quinlan croons as he throws his arm around his shoulder as if it was nothing — when did the ad get so kriffin’ tall? — and pulls him into a one sided hug, which Jaster allows with a sigh.
It had been months since he last saw the kid, and while he missed him, the distance always made him forget how much of a brat the former stowaway was.
Carefully, he turns his head and bumps his helmet against Quinlan’s forehead in a quick Keldabe kiss before he steps out of the hug.
“Quinlan Vos,” he says, in a tone that manages to communicate equal parts exasperation and fondness at the annoying teen he watched grow into a awe-inspiring — if somewhat silly— Jetii.
“The full name treatment? Oh, I am in trouble,” Quinlan says in a sing-song, not an ounce of embarrassment in his tone. Not that Jaster expected it to be, but was it too much to ask for one of his ade to grow some self-awareness?
The sound of metal rubbing against leather catches his attention, and he turns to face his companions. They are watching him, surprised and wary alike and Jaster finally gives in to the urge and goes to rub the bridge of his nose, only for his fingers to hit his buy’ce. Closing his eyes, and sighing again for good measure, he reaches up and takes his helmet off to try to rub the incoming headache away.
“Jetii’ad,” he says, his tone unrelenting.
Quinlan snorts, his hands making their way into the pockets of his robe.
“I am going to take a wild guess and guess you two know each other,” Bull says, suddenly reminding Jaster who his current traveling companions are, and the headache that particular combo might bring him in the days to come. He sends a quick glance at the skies, praying for enough patience to survive the explosive combination of wits that will be Quinlan, Dorian and Bull and holds back a sigh.
Clipping his buy’ce to his belt, he places a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder and turns to the members of his Inner Circle.
“This is Quinlan, another member of my clan,” he says and shoots Quinlan a look. “Did you—?”
Quinlan nods, eyes flickering from Bull to Varric to Dorian and stopping there.
“We found a trail, but Tholme needed to confirm something so he will take longer to make it back.”
“A trail for what?” Dorian demands, tone making it clear he quite dislikes being left out of the conversation, thank you very much.
From the corner of his eye, Jaster sees Quinlan blink as he takes in the Tevinthian mage and smile, eyes shining with intent and— oh, come on.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, beautiful?” Quinlan purrs, and Jaster closes his eyes in exasperation. Of course. “Sadly, I am not allowed to tell anyone but Jango or Jaster or I am going to get shot, so you will have to simmer in anticipation.”
Dorian splutters, and stalks closer while seething in equal levels of fury, embarrassment and something Jaster doesn’t want to dwell in. In his anger, Dorian looks remarkably like a peacock, and he has to look away to stop laughing.
As always, his eyes land on Varric.
Only, this time —for the second time that day—, he finds Varric staring back at him, a fond smile on his lips.
3.
“I do not believe this is necessary—,” Leliana says, brows furrowed as she looks at him. She looks ready for a fight, too stubborn to give in, when she believes she could be doing more.
Her conviction to her cause shines through in moments like this, reminding Jaster of the young bard he had met all those years ago, before her kindness had been turned into biting steel.
“Lel’ika,” he quells the complain on her lips with a look and takes the quill from her hands. Carefully, he cradles her hands on his and rubs his thumb against the back of her hand. “I know you are worried, but they are fine. The last update from Ophelia said that none of them felt the call.”
“That was months ago, Jaster,” she says, mask slipping on a moment of weakness, and all Jaster can think is that her blue eyes are so tired. “I haven’t heard from Juliet since, the situation could have changed without us knowing.”
“They have a communicator,” he says, softly and only for her ears. “If something truly dire had happened, we would know.”
“But—.”
“Leliana,” he says, tone making it clear he would brook no argument. “You have been awake for three days. Ad, you need sleep.”
Leliana’s eyes narrow at his chiding, as if she is suddenly remembering who she is talking to.
“I am not a child, Inquisitor,” she hisses, hands slipping from his grasp. “I am your Spymaster, and I have tasks to accomplish.”
Jaster narrows his eyes, arms coming up to cross across his chest.
“Then don’t act like one,” he says. “You are exhausted, and because of that, more likely to make mistakes or miss crucial information in your missives. Go to sleep, Leliana. You need the rest and the Inquisition needs a Spymaster that isn’t too tired to function.”
He watches the muscle of her jaw twitch as she swallows back her words, watches as the mask of steel hardens her features and nods.
Gone is the woman he considers family, instead, he is facing the Left Hand of the Divine. The mask Leliana had taken to wearing is hardened into beskar, and yet, he notices the cracks of stress, of grief, of fear. His heart aches for the woman in front of him, but he knows he can only help if she lets him in, and she won’t.
Not yet.
“Understood, Inquisitor,” she says and stalks out of the Rookery like a wraith, slamming the door on her way out.
Jaster looks at the door for a second, before sighing and shaking his head. He needs to talk to Leliana about the bantha in the room, the tension that had surfaced after she learned where their origins, but everytime he attempts to broach the argument, something comes up.
Something always comes up.
Free time is a rarity, when you are fighting a hidden enemy that is trying to drag the world into ruin, and he can’t waste those precious few moments of rest on things like hesitation. And yet.
“I am guessing the conversation didn’t go well,” Jango says behind him as he finishes climbing the stairs to the Rookery with steady steps. “I heard the door slamming shut from the first floor.
Jaster turns towards his son and shakes his head as a raven flies over his head and settles on its perch.
“I would say it went as well as always,” he admits, hand coming up to run through his hair as the other settles Leliana’s quill in its place. “She is still struggling with the realization that there is more out there than what her Maker created. You know that the current preachings of the Chantry have no place for alien species.”
“Well, she is going to have to get used to it,” Jango says, unrelenting, as he places his pack on Leliana’s desk and begins ruffling through it. “It’s not like we can leave this planet with how the paths in and out are unplottable.”
The sound of rustling paper fills the silence as he struggles for something to say. For the right thing to say.
“I don’t think it is as easy as that, ad,” he finally says, the words rushing out as a confession as he moves closer to the desk. “Our beliefs had millennia upon millennia to adapt to the concept of intergalactic life. Nine years is nothing in comparison.”
Jango snorts in derision, hands wrapping around a stick of wax and Leliana’s personal seal.
“And yet, she named you Herald of Andraste first, and Inquisitor for a religion that is not yours second,” he says, bitterness his tone. His eyes are on the desk, as he grabs a candle and lights it, filling the room with a soft golden glow. “Leliana wants us when we are useful, but refuses to accept us for what we are. Did you know she has not talked to Tholme since we told her? Tholme, of all people.”
Jaster places a hand on Jango’s shoulder and squeezes in reassurance.
“She will come around.”
“When?” He asks, voice calm but hinting at the grief of losing someone he considered family to stubbornness and religious fervor. “It’s been years, buir.”
There is nothing Jaster can say to that, he just moves closer and places a kiss to the top of Jango’s head, holding him like he held him those first few nights in Thedas and those first few nights after he adopted him.
“She will come around, Jango, the others did. Zevran did.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice turning soft as he lets go from his loot to fiddle with the leather vambrace on his left arm. “Zevran did.”
Jaster smiles at the affection on his son’s voice.
“Talking about Zevran,” he says, taking a step back, noticing the lightning fast flash of panic on his son’s eyes with glee. “How is your riduur doing? Has he written or are you here to glare at the poor ravens until they bring you his letter?”
Jango’s groan is punctuated by the sound of raven wing’s rustling.
“Manda, you are embarrassing,” he says with a sigh.
“It is my Manda given right to embarrass you, ad,” Jaster points out with a smirk.
Jango glares at him, before reaching down and pulling a small packet from his pack.
“For your information, I am here to send a reply to his letters because he does write to me,” he grumbles as he seals the packet with the wax and Leliana’s seal. “He still has some murders of crows left to deal with, but he should be visiting by the end of the year.”
Jango uses Leliana’s quill to scribble something on the brown wrapping paper, before moving to the cage of one of the ravens assigned to Antiva.
“That is good,” Jaster says with a smile that turns mischievous when he realizes the opportunity for teasing presented to him on a platter. “Do you think he will have adopted a baby chick by then, or will you do the honors?”
“Buir!” Jango splutters as his hand jerks and accidentally slams against the birdcage he was opening, prompting the raven inside to screech at the sudden movement.
He sends him a glare before stopping the cage midswing and reaching inside to calm the raven down.
“What?” He says innocently, lips twitching as he holds back a smirk. “Is a genuine question, ad. You are nearing the age most Mando’ade adopt their first child, so it’s not like I am reaching.”
Jango grumbles as his fingers carefully combs the raven’s feathers, soothing the bird.
“If you have time to worry about your possible grandchildren, you have time to stop pining for Tethras,” he blurts out, and Jaster’s brain buffers.
“What.”
“You know? Varric Tehtras? The handsome storyteller you can’t keep your eyes off?” Jango says, sounding victorious now that he was able to turn the table on his old man.
“Who knows?”
His thoughts race, trying to remember if he had slipped at some point. He had been so sure he was keeping his feelings under check but— He thinks of Varric, of the gold pendant that draws attention to his chest, of the joy that is hearing him laugh— Slowly, scene after scene passes before his eyes and he winces at the realization that he had not been as subtle as he had liked.
“You really have to ask?” Jango asks, looking at him from the corner of his eye before focusing back on the raven and tying the packet to his leg. “Not too many people, I think. I do, obviously. Quinlan and Bull, because of the Crestwood debacle. Leliana, maybe. But at this point who knows with her… And the Champion, but she doesn’t look like she is going to tell Varric. She is having too much fun for that.”
Heat rises to his cheeks and he buries his face in his hands with a strangled groan.
“I thought I was being subtle,” Jaster manages to hiss out, despite his embarrassment.
Jango snickers.
“You are as subtle as Bull,” his son reassures him, as he lets the raven fly away to its destination. “The problem is that you are surrounded by observant people. You are lucky Varric hasn’t noticed yet.”
Jaster takes a deep breath from behind his hands and lowers them.
“He hasn’t?”
Jango shakes his head.
“No, but I think you should tell him.”
He grimaces and shakes his head. He had thought about it, still thinks about it. If he is truthful to himself, Jaster wants to tell him. He has never been one to hide from his feelings, never ran away from the truth, no matter how difficult. But there is too much left unsaid, too many tentative words for him to do so. Varric’s motives are clear as far as the Breach and Corypherous go, but after? There are too many secrets between the two of them to fully trust him.
For kriff’s sake, Varric doesn’t even know that they came from space.
Jaster wants to tell Varric how he feels. No, he will tell him.
Just.
Not yet.
He looks up at Jango, ready to tell them that, when—
CRASH.
Before Jaster knows it, he and Jango are crouched, back to back. There are blasters in their hands as they examine their surroundings, waiting for an attack that never comes.
“Quinlan!” Dorian’s voice breaks the silence that followed the crash, his shout loud and surprised.
“Don’t Quinlan me, Dorian Pavus!” Quinlan growls back loud enough for them to hear two floors away, and the air feels thick, dark and angry. “Slavery is better than poverty? What the kriff is wrong with you?”
Jaster shares a look with Jango, before they sheath their blasters and run down their stairs.
They both recognize Quinlan’s tone, and it does not bode well.
4.
“I don’t like sand,” Quinlan complains as they enter the Inquisition’s Main Camp in the Western Approach. Jaster is too busy being grateful that his armor has temperature control to bother answering, but something Quinlan’s tone niggles at the back of his head.
“Whyever, not?” Dorian asks, in relatively good humor and Jaster thanks the Manda that Dorian had been willing to let himself be taught about the realities of slavery instead of sticking to his beliefs. It takes courage to admit when you are wrong, and while Dorian is not there just yet, he is getting closer, and Jaster can’t help but feel proud of the Tevinthian mage.
The fact that his willingness to listen has stopped their arguments altogether is an added bonus, because dealing with the two arguing in the middle of the desert would have been a nightmare and a half.
Even if the fighting had turned into a sarcastic sort of flirtation between the two. Jaster could do without that.
“It’s coarse and rough and irritating—” he whines, with a little too much drama to be convincing if you ask Jaster.
Dorian nods.
“And it gets everywhere,” he agrees, only to stop, perplexed, when Quinlan begins snickering. The snickering soon turns into a full blown laughter that has him bending in two, and Jaster finally registers why the tone is familiar.
It’s the tone Tholme and Quinlan use when they are referencing one of their Visions as an inside joke.
The two of them had taken to joking about the Visions that had plagued them from the moment they breached the planet’s atmospheres, burying their worry at the realization that something was sabotaging their Order’s connection with the Force behind humor.
If his understanding of the matter is correct, time and meditation had led them to discover that the “Veil” —as the residents of the planet had taken to call it— had kept the Force clearer than they had ever felt, and brought new concerns. Or something along those lines.
He isn’t fully sure.
While he understood the basics of what the two had taken to discuss with the Jetii Council, he isn’t well versed in their Force, so knowing that the Light Side was clearer in Thedas than anywhere in the Galaxy doesn’t mean much to him.
What few things about the subject he understands do bring him certain concerns, concerns that he made sure to share with Duke Kryze and his High Command on their last holocall.
“You ok there, Stripes?” Varric asks as he comes to a stop next to a still-chuckling Quinlan and Dorian. There is an amused look on his eyes, as they jump from Dorian to Quinlan, noticing how Dorian flusters when Quinlan grabs a hold of his arm to keep himself from falling over in laughter.
Jaster shakes his head in disbelief at the exchange and carefully doesn’t think about how his exchanges with Varric look from an outside perspective.
“It’s an inside joke,” he explains, turning to Varric.
It’s nearing dusk, and yet the sun is relentless in their shine. If he squints and pays enough attention he can see the way Varric’s sunscreen has stopped working and how the skin of his nose has turned red from the sun.
It’s adorable.
“Something only his teacher could get, but he still thought was too funny to pass,” he continues with a roll of his eyes hidden by his buy’ce. Jaster means to look away after he is done speaking, to focus on the horizon to try and estimate how far they are from the sunset— not too far, he believes, but it’s better to be sure—, but as he turns Varric’s gold necklace shimmers and draws his eyes.
His eyes dip to Varric’s chest and stay there, he follows the dips of his chest, breath caught on his throat at the dark smattering of hair peeking from his cleavage. He swallows hard, allowing himself another moment to try and memorize the view, before he is dragging his eyes away, grateful that his helmet makes it impossible for anyone to realize where he is looking.
Except, well.
He forgot there was an empath in his squad that is always up to mischief.
His eyes move to check on Quinlan and his heart speeds up when he realizes that he is looking back at him, brown eyes shining with mischief.
“Quinlan’s teacher? Would that be that mysterious Tholme you keep alluding to?” Solas asks, sweeping into camp with a grace Jaster would be envious of, were it not for the fact the grumpy old bastard was shoeless in the middle of the kriffing desert.
Jaster can’t answer, not when he is trying to glare Quinlan into silence.
It’s not working.
Quinlan’s smile is widening, and he is opening his mouth to say what Jaster is sure is a smartass comment, when a hand settles on the back of his neck stopping Quinlan on his tracks.
“That would be me, yes,” Tholme says calmly as he nods at Jaster in acknowledgement. “Jango is prepping his tent for my report.”
With a nod of his own, Jaster takes his helmet off and clips it into his belt.
“Good to see you in as many pieces as you left, old friend,” he says and takes a step forward to clasp his extended arm and bring it into a hug.
“Likewise,” he tilts his head in agreement before his eyes flicker towards their traveling companions. “You must be Dorian, Varric and Master Solas, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says and bows, a lifetime of Jetii practices too ingrained into his very being to be forgotten.
Jaster steps back to give Tholme some space, and manages to catch a flicker of suspicion and annoyance on Solas' expression before it disappears and his face settles in its usual calm placidness. His head turns to see if Tholme notices, and the expression on his face is all he needs to know he did and that he triggered Solas’ suspicion on purpose.
“And, pray tell, how shall we address you?” Solas asks, usual placidness back in place.
Tholme’s eyes glint.
“Well, that depends. If I am to teach someone, I would prefer to be called Master Tholme, otherwise, I would enjoy being called Tholme,” he says, voice equally placid even as his eyes shine with the same spark of mischief he had seen in Quinlan’s eyes a mere moment ago. “You, Master Solas, can address me as Master Tholme, for I am sure there is much I can teach you.”
He fights back the urge to close his eyes against the unrelenting sun and sigh— it would give the game away, and he trusts Tholme to do what is necessary and just, so he will let things play out without interfering. Instead, he decides to flee the passive-aggressive argument that is sure to follow and turns to stalk towards the camp, before he remembers Varric’s sunburnt skin.
He hesitates for a moment, glancing towards the safety of the tents, before giving in to the insistent tug on his chest and reaching for the belt pocket in which he keeps his moisturizers and sunscreens. Taking two bottles in hand, he takes a step to the side to stand next to Varric and places a hand on his shoulder.
He doesn’t need to touch him, not really—he is tall enough that he can provide Varric more than enough shade, it would be impossible for Varric not to notice him standing next to him—, but Jaster wants to touch him. As the Inquisitor, he cannot allow for any liberties without being sure his feelings are returned, but he can allow himself this.
He lets his gloved hand linger on Varric’s shoulder as Varric notices his presence, and when he does, he gestures to the sea of tents with his chin and squeezes his shoulder in hopes of getting his meaning across. Varric looks up at him and he could have sworn his eyes lingered on his throat before moving on to look at the camp and nodding, but— he must have seen wrong.
Quietly, they move out of the range of Tholme’s and Solas’ polite yet pointed comments and walk deeper into the camp.
Once they are out of Quinlan’s line of sight, once Dorian’s attempts to stop Tholme and Solas turn muffled, he stops and turns to Varric.
“Did you need something from me, Legend?” Varric asks, brow raised as his eyes take him in for any wounds. “Something happened in the field that I should fix?”
Jaster snorts.
“Please,” he says as he breathes out a soft laugh and shakes his head before looking at Varric fondly. “Master Tethras,” he pauses. “No, Varric. You are too experienced and too tactical to make any sort of mistake that would require me to talk to you. No, I just wanted to give you this.”
He extends his hand and opens it, palms up, showing him two tubs— one red and one blue—.
“They are sunscreen and moisturizers,” he explains, quietly. “I noticed your current one is not strong enough, and you are sunburnt, so I wanted to give you some. The blue one is for sunburn, and the red one is to put before the expedition tomorrow to prevent more burns.”
Varric looks at the tubs on his palm for a long moment before breathing out a soft ‘oh’. Carefully, he reaches out to grab the tubs, fingers grazing his gloves and for a moment Jaster wishes he had taken them off.
Then the moment passes and Varric’s hand retreats to place the sunscreen and moisturizer on his bag.
“Thank you, Legend,” he says softly, eyes fond as he looks at him, cheeks dusted with pink and Jaster—. Jaster wishes that they were red from emotion and not from the sun, but it’s just that, a wish.
They stand there, silent and deep in their own thoughts. Varric doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t leave.
They watch the sunset together.
5.
They hit Adamant Fortress with vengeance.
Jaster knows Grey Wardens, he cares for them. Back when it all began, when they had left the wreckage of their ship with two catatonic Jetii under their care, it had been Duncan that had helped them. He had been the one to explain Thedas to them, who had offered aid in exchange for their help for the Blight.
Jaster knows Grey Wardens, he cares for them.
He fought alongside the Heroes of Ferelden, watched their sacrifices. He saw Juliet Amell grow out of the shell the templars had forced her into. He saw Ophelia Surana bare her fangs and destroy those who had harmed her. He saw the joy in Edward’s eyes the first time he saw a deer in the forest.
Jaster knows Grey Wardens, he cares for them, and to see what has become of them due to Corypherous’ meddling enrages him. Wardens enslaved and Wardens slain, all because a mad-man long past his expiration date has aspirations for grandeur.
It’s infuriating to see an organization with as much mandokarla as the Grey Wardens fall so low. If Jaster didn’t have plans for Corypherous and his shady sponsor already, he would have them now.
An arrow embeds itself on the Pride demon guarding the last siege point and he sends a fleeting nod to Varric before slamming his beskad into its head.
“On your left,” he hears Varric shout, and he moves on instinct. Body tensing and twisting, he barrel rolls out of the way just in time to avoid a Shade’s attack. Without needing to wait for another signal, he bounds forward, beskad on the ready. Jaster doesn’t hesitate to wound the Shade, before twisting to the side just in time for Varric’s hail of arrows to finish the beast off.
Just like that, the last siege point has been taken.
Familiar with what to do in the lull that follows, Jaster approaches the remains of the Shade and kneels next to it. Carefully, he goes through each of Varric’s arrows and sets aside the undamaged ones, then, he stands up with a wince as his knees twinge with the movement.
“I am getting too old for this kark,” he grumbles under his breath, and hears Jango’s strangled laugh in response.
He glares at the corner where Jango is taking advantage of the small break to sip from his canteen.
“Not a word, Jan’ika,” he warns in their frequency as he makes his way to Varric. “Or I will tell Zevran about that time in Kashyyyk.”
Jango mimes zipping his mouth shut from across the room and goes back to taking a holovid of Dorian’s bad attempt at flirting with Quinlan.
“Is that for me, Legend?” Varric says from where he is retrieving his arrows from the Pride demon’s body. He then places a gloved hand against his chest in exaggerated emotion as he flutters his eyelashes dramatically. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. I normally prefer roses, but in a pinch, a bouquet of arrows will do.”
“Unfortunately, a bouquet of roses is not available, but I hope my sentiments are appreciated still,” he says as he flourishes his bouquet of arrows and bolts.
Varric looks at it for a moment, a look crossing his eyes that Jaster doesn’t dare to identify, before reaching out and grabbing the bouquet. His gloved hand grazes his, and Jaster yearns for his touch.
His eyes meet Varric through his visor, and Varric smiles.
“They are,” he assures, voice soft.
Jaster opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything—
The room shakes as another projectile from the siege weapons hits its mark and reminds him of where he is. Of what still needs to be done.
Shaking his head, he turns back to the rest of his squad.
“Move out, position Alpha Seventeen,” he orders and crosses the room in quick strides. He waits as Blackwall settles to his right and Jango to his left and when they are ready, he exits the room, readying himself for his confrontation with Clarel.
They reach the main courtyard in no time, and yet, they are too late to prevent another unnecessary sacrifice.
Rage beats against his chest at the beat of his heart, indignation following as he bites back his words. There is nothing he can contribute to the situation that Blackwall is not saying, nothing but the growing anger in his chest as he watches the Wardens finally realize that they have been tricked.
It’s as Blackwall names the Warden’s manipulator and Tholme swears, that he knows that the fight is not over.
His hands graze his beskad, and Jaster waits for the moment that all hell breaks loose.
And sure enough, it does.
Erimond summons the Red Lyrium Dragon, and they are thrown back into the fighting. The action is rote at this point; Jaster relaxes into his battle mindset as he deals with Shades, enslaved Wardens and a Pride demon, keeping them away from his long distance fighters so they can deal damage.
It’s a dance as old as time, the pull and push of the battlefield, and bit by bit, they conquer it.
6.
They do not conquer the Blight dragon.
It happens too fast to notice.
Jaster and his squad make their way to the battlements, following the path of destruction Clarel’s pursuit of Erimond created and reach it in time to see their duel reach their climax.
Clarel’s anger electrifies the air as she stalks and lounges after Erimond. The Magister fights back, of course he does, but one does not become a Warden-Commander for no reason. Soon, Clarel has him lying on the floor, and Jaster makes the mistake of believing it’s safe to approach.
It isn’t. It takes seconds for the beast to close its gaping maw around the Warden-Commander and for all their plans to go to hell.
As the platform collapses underneath his feet— Jango and Quinlan too far away to reach, Tholme too focused on preventing Solas and Dorian’s demise— there is a singular moment in which he reaches clarity.
He can’t allow Varric to fall.
It’s an action driven from pure instinct, the way he lunges at Varric and uses his jetpack to throw him back to safety.
There is a moment of all encompassing relief, when he realizes Varric is safe, that the platform beneath his feet is stable.
Then he notices the horror filtering through Varric’s features, and his jetpack gets hit by the rubble.
Jaster falls and the rest of his squad —the ones he couldn’t save— fall with him.
Raising his hand is his last, desperate attempt. He remembers the theories of how the Mark connected him to the Fade, how it could —theoretically— open a door to it.
There is no other option, time is running out, so Jaster does the impossible.
He opens a door to the Fade and it swallows him and his companions whole.
7.
“—not madmen drunk on blood magic!”
“Enough,” Jaster barks out, stepping between Alistair and Hawke and pulling them apart and quelling their argument with a look. “This bickering is useless, we can discuss the Orleasian Wardens once we are back in Adamant.”
Tholme, who had remained resolutely quiet from the moment they had stepped on the Fade, nods.
“Regardless of whether they were controlled or lied to, we cannot forget that the blame lies squarely in the feet of Corypherous and whoever gave him the orb,” he agrees, green eyes on their surroundings. “The False Calling, the death at the Conclave, it wouldn’t have happened if they did not set the wheels in motion. Do not forget who our true opponent is.”
Alistair fidgets in place, before sighing and running a hand through his hair, too used to the combined power of his and Tholme’s reprimand to argue back.
“Alright, alright, my bad,” he grumbles before nodding to Hawke, who blinks in surprise.
“That is it? Just like that? We stop arguing?”
“If Tholme and Jaster agree that it’s not the time for something, yes,” Alistair says easily, and Quinlan and Jango echo the sentiment. “We managed to save as many people as we did during the Blight, because of them. They know what they are doing. They are too experienced not too.”
“How odd,” Solas interjects. “I was under the assumption that the Inquisitor and Tholme were no-name mercenaries before the Blight.”
Jaster shares a look with Tholme. It is not the first time Solas had tried to find the truth behind their origins, but this time, the question rings differently.
It could be their surroundings, the reality of the not-dream they found themselves trapped in. But his gut tells him otherwise. Instead, he believes that the truth is much simpler.
They are in the realm of a Nightmare who has gone out of it’s way to poke and prod at their fears and insecurities, except—
It had not talked about the four of them. It could be that their alien physiology does not mesh well with the Fade, but Jaster remembers the Sloth demon and the nightmare it brought. He knows he is as susceptible to the Fade as any other.
Rather, he believes the Nightmare is waiting for the right moment to reveal their secrets. For the right moment to shake his companions' faith in him. It’s a very real possibility, but Jaster has to hope the Nightmare’s strategy does not work in its favor.
“Strange,” Tholme rebuts, distantly polite as he always is when talking to Solas. “I don’t believe any of us ever said such a thing. Quinlan?”
Quinlan shakes his head.
“Why would I ever lie about something like that? ‘Oh yeah, I am a complete novice in this. Please hire me, anyways!’ That is terrible for business,” he says.
Any further conversation is interrupted by the return of the Divine and the Nightmare’s attack, but Jaster knows this conversation won’t be the end of it.
Sure enough, the Fade shifts as they enter the next ravine, changing into a mirage that fills him with a pang of longing and grief. Gone are the greens of the Fade, giving away the golden glow of a Keldabe dawn.
His chest aches for the home he will never be able to see again, but his mind remains focused. The Nightmare would not show them this scene for no reason, not when it has been trying to chip away at their resolve from the beginning.
“You abandoned those who wait for you beyond the stars, Inquisitor,” the Nightmare speaks with Corypherous voice as the scene shifts one more, the peaceful dawn changing into a Keldabe in siege. He watches as his Ha’at Mando’ade die at the hands of the Kyr’tsad, as civilian mothers shield their children from rockets and blaster shots. It’s almost enough for the despair to swallow him whole, almost.
Then he remembers the golden warmth that fills him every time he sees Varric, and his resolve strengthens. He won’t let this break him. Not when nothing else has, before.
“You abandoned them in their darkest hour, will you abandon the Inquisition when it needs you the most?”
His companions shift behind him, looking at a scene unlike anything they have ever seen before. Witnessing a level of destruction their strongest spells would be incapable of.
“What in the world—” He hears Blackwall say, but he doesn’t answer, too focused on stitching his resolve together to do so.
Jango answers for him.
“We never tell stories of our lives before the Blight, because most Thedosians won’t believe them,” he explains through gritted teeth, before raising his voice. “If you think this is going to work, you are wrong. The Kyr’tsad is on the run, too weak after Tor’s death to mount an attack like this in Keldabe. And those who died stopping it? They died to protect their children’s future. They died True Mandalorians. Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.”
“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,” Jaster agrees, pushing down the fury he feels at having his deepest fears used against him. “Not gone, merely marching far away.”
“That is nice and all, but what does it mean?” Dorian asks, eyes glued on the destruction around them. “Are you from across the Waking See?”
Jaster walks deeper into Keldabe, following the tug of his missing memories.
“It means, handsome,” Quinlan says from behind him, and he hears the sound of cloth shifting against metal as he throws his arm around Dorian’s shoulder. “That we are from farther away from that. Think of another planetary system altogether.”
It’s been years since he last visited Manda’yaim, but he still knows the city streets by heart. Knows the most likely place the Nightmare had chosen to hide his memories.
The Mand’alor’s palace.
“That is impossible,” he hears Solas say, composure replaced with a disbelief so deep it makes him wonder what the elf is hiding that makes him so sure there isn’t life in other systems.
“That you cannot imagine it does not mean it is impossible, Master Solas,” Tholme responds calmly. “This is why I believe you have much to learn. There is much more of the galaxy than what you believe there is.”
The Mand’alor’s palace appears before them, solemn and steady against time itself and for a moment, Jaster yearns. Then the Wraiths appear, and he falls back into the embrace of battle as if it were an old friend.
Once the memories are collected, he expects to return to the Fade.
They don’t.
Their surroundings shift again, and he finds himself in front of a burning Jetii’yaim.
Confusion fills him, as he comes to a stop. He had grown close to two Jetii, yes, but he had never stepped into their temple so this new battleground wouldn’t affect him. There are no regrets, no fears he has that are connected with this place.
This is not a nightmare built for him.
“Shit, not this,” Quinlan says, pain and grief shining in three words as he looks at the burning temple. “Anything but this, we fixed things.”
Jaster is turning to ask him what he means, when Quinlan races past him and into the temple.
“Quinlan!” Tholme calls out, before following.
Silence follows their departure, before Jaster shakes himself out of it and follows. The steady beat of his companion’s feet against the Temple’s stairs let him know he is not alone.
“What is this about?” Hawke asks, perplexed.
“No idea,” Jango shrugs as he keeps a steady pace.
“No idea? Aren’t you from the same place?” Dorian demands, in between puffs of harsh breath.
“That is not the case,” Jaster interrupts, before Jango has the opportunity to put up his usual attempt of offense when compared to a Jetii. “Mando’ade and Jetii had a long, turbulent history that had us at odds until very recently. If this is an event of their recent history, it is possible we won’t know about it.”
Silence, then—
“If?” Blackwall asks, sounding surprisingly at ease while sprinting up the stairs.
Jaster debates for a second whether he should be revealing as much as he is, but the Order’s ability is well known across the galaxy, so telling Thedosians wouldn’t put them in any unnecessary advantages.
“Tholme’s and Quinlan’s people are capable of receiving visions of the past, present and future, so this could very well be a future event they tried to stop from happening,” he finally admits as they reach the top of the staircase.
What he sees stops him in his tracks, causing Jango to crash against his back.
“Buir, what—” Jango begins to ask, then stops as he sees what Jaster is seeing. “Kriff.”
Quinlan stands a couple of feet from them, hands buried in his hair as he stares at cloaked figures several feet ahead of them. Tholme is next to him, head bent as he is whispering in Quinlan’s ear, arm on Quinlan’s shoulder as he stops him from surging forward.
The cloaked figure— no, the Sith, even from the distance Jaster can see the golden glow of cold-death-dark eyes— has a lightsaber in his hand, has it raised high and before him—
Before him is a child.
Jaster watches in horror as the Sith cuts the child down and slowly turns towards Tholme and Quinlan.
“You failed,” the figure hisses before turning and stalking into the temple as Shades and Demons appear in his wake.
And the Jetii—
The Jetii no longer need to hide the full extent of their power, not in the Fade and not when their companions know the truth.
For the first time in nine years, Quinlan and Tholme turn their lightsabers on. They tear through the Shades and Demons as if they were paper, reminding Jaster why the galaxy is thankful that the Jetii are peacekeepers and not soldiers.
They pursue the cloaked Sith, of course they do, the Nightmare put him there for them to follow.
The Jetii duo— master and apprentice— lead them through the Halls of their home, through the tall winding corridors and gardens brimming with life. They scramble through delicately built cathedrals and ziggurats, eyes hazy as memories upon memories come crashing upon them.
They do not look down, not to the fallen younglings, not to the hundreds of young adults with Jango’s face, not to their peers and friends. They ignore the jagged saber scars marring the once pristine hallways, pretend that they don’t hear the distant screams and the sound of blaster shots meeting flesh.
They ignore the tragedy that has yet to happen, tearing through any Shade or Demon that dares desecrate their home, but from where he is guarding their backs, Jaster can see the way their robes darken with tears.
The Theodosians are silent, not daring to raise their voice at the sight of the massacre. They don’t know what it means for the Jetii to die. They don’t know of their duty to keep the peace and save those who need saving, no matter the origins.
They don’t know of the darkness that lies in waiting, ready to fill in the space where once the Light stood.
They don’t need to know anything to understand Quinlan and Tholme’s grief.
Their squad make it to the highest tower in the temple, get a glimpse of a Coruscant illuminated by fire, before the Fade twists and they are in the Nightmare’s lair.
The spirit of the Divine— or the spirit masquerading as the Divine, but really, it matters little to Jaster which is true— sacrifices herself, they defeat the Aspect of the Nightmare with ease.
His companions begin to relax, believing they are safe.
Then the True Nightmare appears and cuts off their escape.
Alistair and Hawke offer to sacrifice themselves.
Jaster is about kriffing done with the hut’uun and the whole karking Fade.
“Jango, do you have any whistling birds?” He asks slowly, as he removes the safety from his armor’s fire thrower and turns on his jetpack. The rubble had slammed against it, so he won’t be able to use it at its full capacity but Mandalorian jetpacks are built to outlast most damage.
It will not be a smooth flight but it will be enough.
“Yes, buir,” Jango says, doing the same.
Jaster nods and looks at the self-sacrificing idiots.
“We leave no one behind, not even if you have delusions of a martyred death,” he hisses before turning to the Jetii.
“Yeah, yeah, stop holding back and start using Force tricks. I hear you loud and clear, Boss,” Quinlan says in an attempt to sound cheerful, but the red in his eyes betrays him.
He isn’t fine, but he will be.
“Do not worry for us Jaster, just provide cover fire for us to do what we do best,” Tholme says, before turning to Solas. “Master Solas, you and I know you are holding back. It would be rather prideful to do so now, don’t you agree?” He asks with a raised brow, and while Solas bristles as the perceived insult, Tholme doesn’t look away until Solas agrees.
Once that it’s done, Jaster turns back to the rest of his companions and dolls out orders with ease.
“We need to do a modified 212 maneuver. Jango and I will provide a distraction, the rest of you focus on damage and evading the Nightmares’ attack.”
“Are you crazy? We can’t fight a Demon on its territory!” Dorian exclaims, and behind his buy’ce, Jaster bares his teeth.
“We can and we will,” he says calmly, surety in his voice. “It might have the advantage of terrain, but that matters little when confronting four pissed off Mando’ade and Jetii. We are the best warriors in the galaxy for a reason.”
8.
Nine people enter the Fade in a desperate race for survival and nine people exit the Rift covered in the Nightmare’s blood.
The experience changed them, like any other battle, but there is an undertone of something else. Four of them learned that the reality they know is just a corner of what it is, gaining knowledge that few others in their world have.
What they do with it is their choice.
9.
Jaster lands on his knees on the main courtyard, and for a moment all he can feel is pain. The bruises from hours fighting in the Fade give a dull ache, but his body? His body burns. The Nightmare’s dying attack had thrown him into a rock outcrop, but he had been able to push through the pain to finish the fight. The fight is now over, however, and the pain hits him like a wave refusing to go ignored any longer.
He knows his body and it’s aches. Something is wrong, he must have broken something he shouldn’t have. He is dizzy and there are spots on his visions, but his job is not done yet. He can still hear fighting.
He has to move.
The sound of eight bodies dropping to the ground from the Rift drives him to motion, and he swallows back a gasp of pain as he raises to his feet. He pushes through the pain, through the black spots in his vision, and raises his hand.
He feels his body move as if were not his own as he closes the Rift, and it’s only his years of training that keep it standing as the usual agony that comes from closing a Rift rushes through him.
He clings stubbornly to awareness as the Inquisition’s soldiers cheer for their victory, clings to consciousness because it is still not over.
“Tend to your wounded,” he orders, when they ask him of the fate of the Orlesian Wardens. “We will discuss this once we have the numbers of the survivors, once the dead have been given their rites. Don’t rush a decision that requires time to make.”
He turns to those who accompanied him to the Fade.
“Find me when things have calmed down, you deserve an explanation and you, and the rest of my Inner Circle, will be given one,” he begins to say, when he hears Varric shout his name.
Jaster spins towards the sound on instinct, taking a step to move closer as he sees Varric look at him from one of the balconies.
There is an emotion in Varric’s eyes Jaster can no longer deny: it’s the same sort of longing he feels.
He takes another step, ready to break into a run, when the pain he had been ignoring rushes forth and drives him to his knees.
“We need a healer!”
The black of unconsciousness begins to overtake his vision, but he fights against it, his eyes seeking Varric as a sunflower seeks the sun.
“Help the Inquisitor—!”
The fear in Varric’s eyes is the last thing he sees before everything goes dark.
“Jaster!”
10.
Jaster opens his eyes and all he can see is gray stone.
For a nonsensical moment, he believes himself buried, then someone shifts by his bedside and the fear is put to rest. He glances to the side and sees Leliana calmly shifting through documents, as if she hadn’t noticed his waking.
She is too good for that, but he is thankful she is giving him time to regain his bearings.
Looking back at the ceiling, he sighs.
“I am never going to live this down, am I?”
“I don’t believe so, no,” she agrees easily, setting the documents on his bedside table. “Jango and Quinlan are beside themselves in worry, and not even Tholme has managed to calm them down,” she informs him loftily as she stands and heads for the door. “And I have never seen Master Tethras so distraught. I believe you two must have a conversation.”
He closes his eyes and groans.
Yeah, he should talk to Varric. He can’t keep denying his feelings, not when his excuses are running out one by one.
But before that—
“And you?” He asks. “I have to admit, I did not expect to see you taking vigil at my bedside.”
Leliana hesitates at the door before turning.
“I read Tholme’s report of what happened in the Fade,” she admits softly, biting her lip before continuing. “And I finally talked to Tholme. It made me realize many things, one of which is that you are family, despite my attempts to deny it.”
Jaster raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Really? Just like that?”
Leliana laughs.
“Not just like that,” she says with a shake of her head. “It took nine years and endless badgering from Juliet, Ophelia and the others, but I finally got around the idea. It still baffles me, and I can’t fully accept it, but I can’t let that destroy the good memories, can I?”
Jaster smiles.
“It’s good to have you back, Lel’ika.”
“It’s good to be back,” she says softly, before smiling with mischief. “Now, I shall leave you alone to tell Varric that you have awoken. Even I know that you two have a conversation long past due.”
He splutters.
“Really? This is how I am going to be treated after everything?”
“It’s what you deserve,” she tells him sweetly. “Half of Skyhold has been driven up the walls with your pining, you know.”
The heat of embarrassment flows through him, and suddenly his cheeks feel warm.
“No.”
“Yes,” she says gleefully before leaving him to his embarrassment.
He hides his face behind his hands as the door shuts, and muffles a groan against his palms. He should have figured it out when Jango told him he knew, but he thought he had been subtle—
The sound of the door opening distracts him from his brooding enough to lower his hands.
Leliana just left, it couldn’t be—
His breath catches on his throat when he sees Varric standing in the door still, his hand on the doorknob and his mouth opened into a soft oh shape.
And Jaster—
Jaster fumbles.
“Goodday, I mean , good morrow?” He raises himself by his elbows to wave awkwardly. “Who- I mean, what brings you here in this fine morning?”
He watches a hundred different emotions cross Varric’s face, before his expression settles into fond amusement.
“It’s evening, Legend.”
“Oh.”
Kriff, what is he, a horny teenager with a puppy crush?
“You feeling alright over there, Legend?” Varric asks, laughter in his voice as he steps into the room and closes the door behind them.
Jaster swallows down the knot in his throat.
“Yes, of course,” he reassures, as one of his hands runs through his hair. “Apologies, I am perfectly fine.”
“Nothing hurts? Nightingale didn’t go to call another Healer?” Varric asks as he steps closer to the bed.
Jaster shakes his head.
“Truly, I am fine. No pain whatsoever.”
“Good,” Varric says firmly as he comes to a stop next to the bed. “I am going to kiss you now.”
Jaster stops.
“I— Excuse me?”
“I am going to kiss you now,” Varric says patiently as his face drifts closer to Jaster’s.
And Jaster—
Jaster has never wanted something more in his life.
“Tell me when to stop?” Varric mutters, lips brushing his and eyes fluttering shut.
“Never,” Jaster whispers fervently and surges into the kiss.
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