Chapter Text
After Adamant, Hawke disappears.
At least that is how the general public describes it. And it's what Varric tells them, when they come hunting for rumours. For some of the more eager enthusiasts he spins a tale or two – she's off to cure the Calling with the Hero of Ferelden, or something equally fanciful. They eat it up, of course – Varric is nothing if not a masterful worker of hearsay and exaggerated stories. And they're mostly pleased; Cassandra is the only one who leaves with a deeper glare than she arrived with, offended that, after everything they've been through Varric still doesn't trust her with the information of the Champion's whereabouts. But the thing is –
Varric has no idea where Hawke has gone.
She'd left for Weisshaupt as planned, but there's been no word in months. No notes or letters have found their way to his desk, not an 'Off on a new adventure, be back in a flash!', or even an 'Got a little roughed up, nose looks like yours now, imagine that! Taking a leave of absence to get my face in order'. To be perfectly honest (which he is rarely, if never), for the first time in the considerable length of their acquaintance, Varric has no idea where she's gone off to. Not an inkling, and – Varric feels it. It's not betrayal, but it might be worry, and that worries him more than anything else. Because Hawke always stays in touch.
He's written his own letters, of course – he'd said he would, for all the grief it's caused him. Rivaini's answer was the first to reach him, written in limerick to properly mask any sign of concern. Daisy's was overtly concerned, in her elaborate if not somewhat rambling style, and Aveline's predictably official and to-the-point. Carver's response included concern on the state of the Wardens that Varric has politely ignored. Blondie didn't reply, but no surprises there. The elf –
The elf actually wrote back, which Varric had not expected. The force of the pen strokes convey more anger than the words themselves, and if it hadn't been for the seriousness of the situation at hand, Varric would have found this an amusing detail. Hawke's efforts have borne fruit, and the prose is – “wordy” being the understatement of this age, maybe – clean and concise. Varric hasn't gotten around to responding, and he half expects the elf to turn up any day.
But the days pass, and there is no elf. Instead, in some bizarre twist that reads more like one of his own novels than reality, the person who comes knocking on the doors of the Inquisition is none other than the elusive Champion herself. There are no messengers to herald her arrival, which is probably for the best, the precarious fate of Varric's neck taken into consideration. Cassandra will be furious, and there will no doubt be a considerable amount of yelling in his near future, but Varric finds the fact wholly insignificant, presented as he is with the vision before him.
In his future novel of the events (Home to Roost, a working title) Varric will describe it as one of the few moments in his life where he's been properly caught off guard. It's as honest as he gets, and it's partly because the surprise itself is so great, but also because his genuine reaction reads better than anything he could have conjured himself.
She's in the doorway, the weight of a long journey heavy on her brow, but there's a wry sort of amusement in her cornflower eyes, as though she knows she's on to something good – something that'll make for a decent fireside story. He almost expects a joke to come tumbling off her tongue, but the thought is forgotten a moment later as he drops his gaze, eyes finally drawn to what she's carrying.
“So,” Hawke says, shifting the bundle in the crook of her arm. It makes a noise, and Varric finds himself – speechless. “This happened.”