spicyshimmy:

every bright spell had its shadow and—according to a popular anderfels ballad anders had played for varric once on hawke’s lute—every rose had its thorn. varric preferred to think of it like every spirit had its demon or every villain was a hero in his own mind, but even that wasn’t it, not really. it was the beauty of the complicated character, the way he was in profile so different from how his eyes hardened in the light. it was the way he tore enemies down in battle but fell asleep sometimes in a chair made for a dwarf, papers scattered over his lap. how he healed; who he hurt. there wasn’t even an answer to when and where; they could never hope to understand why. he was only a man, after all, against the towering foundations of stone, putting up a small and feathery fight. and you could love him or hate him and always be right.