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The tell-tale scratch of a pen would be noticeably absent to anyone passing by. Varric crumbles a blank parchment and throws it into the fire.
His friend, all these long years, gone.
How many times did he warn Hawke not to turn into a hero? Idiot always snorted into his tankard and declared no one in their right mind would mistake him for one.
Another blank page stares Varric in the face, mocking him. Daring him to put pen to paper and kill Hawke for each of their friends in turn. (How many heroes has he killed before, leaving behind only a trail of ink? It never bothered him then.) He can, at least, deal the blow gentler than it was dealt to him.
Varric’s hand trembles as he writes. His penmanship is scrawling at best (the complaints from his editor are endless); it is practically illegible now. Even with all the enhancements made to Bianca his aim would be poor.
“Shit,” he curses his unsteady hand.
In his whole career, killing off the hero has never been this difficult. He shed no tears over them and even felt a little giddy at the thought of his readers weeping over his characters’ dying words. If only it could be that way now.
Laying the pen down on the desk, Varric buries his face in his hands and cries.
----------
Aveline immediately knows something is wrong from the thickness of the letter left on her desk. (Good news isn’t delivered like this.)
She sits and stares at the writing on the envelope. She’s had to put up with a lot of sloppily filled out reports in her time as captain, but no handwriting she’s encountered as ever been as bad as Varric’s. And it’s somehow worse now; the second sign.
The third sign something’s amiss are the two other letters which fall out of her own.
The pit of expectation is so deep in her stomach, Aveline can barely bring herself to read the one addressed to her, until her eyes catch the first few lines.
Hawke sacrificed himself…
Simple and direct, Varric details the events at Adamant; he might as well be filing a report because the language and the lack of humor sounds nothing like Varric.
(He does try throwing in a joke. Something about a Lady Seeker struggling to write about the happenings in the Fade even once – he has to do it over and over again. It is dark and not very funny at all, but Aveline recognizes Varric trying to console himself.)
Her attention finally falls to the other letters and Varric’s last lines.
I’m entrusting you with my letters to Carver and Isabela. It’ll be easier for them to hear the news from you first.
She isn’t pleased with Varric, dropping the responsibility of bearing bad tidings on her, but Aveline understands his point.
Hawke and Carver’s relationship was so delicate, one wrong word could have smashed it to pieces. Isabela, however… Oh poor, Isabela. (Who knows how long it will be before she returns from sea?)
Aveline regrets it is her duty to break their hearts.
Varric’s letter is so well disguised Aveline’s own grief doesn’t register until later that night.
She wraps herself around Donnic and hopes for Hawke’s pounding on the door, waiting to whisk her away on some adventure of dubious legality. But her imagination can’t conjure him back from the Fade.
----------
The large shadow over Carver is gone, but yet another passes over his face.
“I’m sorry,” Aveline offers once more before leaving him alone.
He wishes she didn’t know Garrett so well. He wishes she didn’t know how poor their relationship was. He wishes she didn’t know they were only just starting to put the pieces back together. And he wishes she didn’t expect him to be sadder because of it.
Truth is, Carver doesn’t feel much of anything.
Point to the ground, hilt loosely in his hand, Carver restlessly spins his sword. He watches the pummel turn around and around.
Maybe it’s mesmerizing. Maybe it’s mind-numbing, but the fact remains: Carver is the only Hawke left.
Funny, how he’s never actually felt like a Hawke (or maybe it isn’t, but Garrett would have thought it was).
There’s a reason Garrett always went by ‘Hawke’ and it wasn’t that he hated his name (though he did) and it’s because Garrett was exactly like dad; an apostate staff in his hand and a joke always on the tip of his tongue.
It makes Carver miserable, the only thing he inherited from dad was a mop of thick, black hair. He’s always been more Amell than Hawke; taking everything too seriously, knowing his place – only he doesn’t anymore.
Even if Aveline would let him out of her sight, Carver can’t go back to the Gallows; there’s nothing there. Not for mages and especially not for templars.
The unopened letter taunts him. What empty and meaningless consolation can Varric offer?
Staring the envelope down, Carver redirects whatever leftover resentment he has for Garrett at Varric. Varric’s the one responsible for taking his brother away from him; making Garrett leave him behind when they went to the Deep Roads, coaxing Garrett out of hiding, and leading him to his death.
Varric’s fault, he keeps telling himself over and over as he finally opens the letter. He scoffs at the apology and sneers at the condolences, but he can’t dismiss the letter entirely.
A familiar name appears about midway down the page.
…If you ever wanted to leave the Free Marches, Cullen Rutherford, the Inquisition’s commander, has plans to reform the Templar Order. He’s spoken highly of your service in Kirkwall, and I’m sure he would be glad for you to join his ranks…
Carver can’t believe Knight-Captain Cullen remembers who he is. But being the Champion’s brother must have gained him some recognition, even if the attention was unwanted.
Refolded, the letter is placed beside his armor.
He’ll take Varric’s suggestion into consideration.
----------
Tears well up in Merrill’s eyes at Varric’s kind and gentle words. He always had such a knack for making her feel at ease.
She puts the letter down and curls up on her bed. It hurts like little needles to her heart, but Merrill does not fall to pieces.
Hawke was her first friend in Kirkwall – Hawke may have been her first friend anywhere; she never really seemed to fit anywhere else. And with Hawke came other friends, always protecting her and looking out for her.
She tries whispering comforting words to herself, “Dareth shiral, Hawke.”
The trick is not as successful as Merrill had hoped. She hadn’t realized how infrequently she practiced her clan’s customs or that she’d broken the habit.
Despite wanting nothing more than to preserve her culture, she’s abandoned it. Her stomach churns at the thought of leaving it all behind.
She laughs to herself, thinking of how Hawke would tell her she’d found a new clan and taken up new customs of playing cards and chasing down Lowtown scum. She laughs to herself until tears finally fall.
Merrill curses the halam’shivanas. She never would have before; she would have embraced it, but now it’s killed her friend.
Tears stop flowing long enough for her to remember she is not the only one suffering. She thinks grieving will be harder because they’re not together.
If only they hadn’t dispersed; they could be together now. (Hawke might still be alive.)
Merrill tries not to think in ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs’.
She knows what she’s lost, but Hawke’s been gone from Kirkwall a long time – it hurts only because now she will never receive Hawke’s teasing or assurances again.
Merrill hurts for the others because they have lost just as much, or even more. She worries about the others, Carver especially. (It cannot be easy to grieve a relationship already in such disrepair; she wishes they would have had more time.)
Drying her eyes, Merrill lifts herself from her bed; she cannot waste away in here, feeling sorry for herself and her friends.
She throws herself into helping elves and every so often when she gets tired and worn, Merrill reminds herself: it’s what Hawke would do. Telling a joke (though it almost always falls flat) and flashing a grin keeps her going.
----------
The envelope is as dusty as anything else in the mansion when Fenris returns to Kirkwall.
He would wonder how it managed to find its way onto his desk were it not for the footprints all throughout the servants’ quarters – Merrill’s been sheltering other elves here in his absence. He doesn’t mind; Merrill’s kept them away from anything he would consider his and there’s nothing to steal. The house may as well be used for something.
Forgetting, for the time being, that Merrill should’ve at least asked first, Fenris rips open the letter.
He has to read it twice through; the shock of its contents paralyzing him, but not registering with him.
Hawke is dead. Or likely dead?
On the third read through, evermore carefully (he must be sure he read it correctly), Fenris realizes how much Varric must be downplaying the Tevinter mage’s involvement – the warden mages’ involvement – and blame is placed where blame is due.
Old bitterness rises to the surface. No, not every mage summons demons or practices blood magic – Hawke made Fenris see that, but they are the root cause of this. They are responsible for Hawke’s death.
Never mind what Varric claims: Hawke sacrificed himself. He wouldn’t have had to sacrifice himself if it weren’t for the warden mages.
Fenris stands abruptly from his chair and grabs the nearest bottle by the neck. Empty. He smashes it against the wall.
He needs a drink. Badly. A horrible drink would be preferable; something to burn the throat and churn the stomach, but there’s nothing but antique vintages in Daranius’s old wine cellar and at a time like this anything would suffice.
Collecting a few bottles, Fenris collapses on the floor and can’t be bothered to pick himself up.
He uncorks the first bottle with his teeth, takes a swig, and puts it back down.
The one good mage he knew is dead. The dark irony settles around Fenris that both mages and wardens were involved. Anders was going to be the death of them all one way or another.
----------
Isabela sobs against Aveline’s cold armor, Varric’s letter crumbled up in her hand.
“It’s not true! It’s not true!”
Her fist bangs steel, leaving a ringing in her ear. She can’t hear Aveline’s shushing and whispers of condolence over the sound; the sound Isabela suddenly recognizes as the beat of her own heart.
This is why she swore off love – why she swore she wouldn’t fall for Hawke. This ceaseless empty thudding is too much to bear.
Isabela longs for any other sound; the cry of gulls, the flapping of sails, or the roll of cannon fire. Not this. Anything but the sound of ringing and the words in Varric’s letter.
Maker, if only she’d press-ganged Hawke into her crew. He would never have gotten himself involved in this mess with the Inquisition.
The adventures they would have had. He always professed to be a horrible sailor, but she would have had him ship-shape in no time, if only to keep her captain’s bunk warm (at least he would have been safe).
What was the point of going into hiding, if he was just going to run headlong into the Fade?
Somewhere between the strokes of Aveline’s hand petting her hair, Isabela extracts herself from her friend’s grips and escapes to the docks. She breathes in the sea air raggedly, trying to come back to herself.
Being in love cannot have made Isabela lose herself so entirely (changed maybe, not lost). She must remember what it is like to be on her own.
Isabela returns to the sea – her first love. The spray on her face and the sun on her neck, rejuvenate her. She is Queen of the Eastern Seas once more.
Her crew notes the differences in their captain. She still is the scourge of two coastlines, though the plunder of nations holds little interest; her targets are war ships and slave ships. Captains of their adversaries tremble at the silhouette of her hat.
Her first mate dares ask Isabela why they do not merely seek treasure anymore.
“Hawke’s damned influence.”
The first mate cannot tell if her response is scathing or glowing.
----------
The wind kicks up leaves as Anders skirts the perimeter of another village. He stops long enough for food and rest and to aid a few wounded and sick. He does not stay for news, but it always finds him somehow.
“The Inquisitor walked through the Fade!”
“She must be the Maker’s chosen!”
Anders scoffs and moves onto his next patient.
He closes their wound and makes them promise to change the bandages every few days, when he overhears another conversation.
“The Champion of Kirkwall is dead.”
Anger flares up in his chest, not Justice. Justice stays curiously silent on the subject; Justice does not comment.
Action was demanded to free the mages, and if Anders had left it the decision up to Hawke, nothing would have changed.
The chantry got what was coming to them. Why could Hawke not see that? How could he admonish Anders in one breath, taking the chantry’s side, and banish him in the next, sparing him the chantry’s wrath?
He overhears little of the circumstance of Hawke’s demise, only enough to know he sacrificed himself for the Inquisition. Anders’s anger is stoked.
Why now was Hawke willing to take action? When the mages needed him, he did nothing, but when this new arm of the chantry needed him, he laid down his life. He professed to be a friend of mages, but served the chantry better; what kind of justice is that?
Waking as though from a nap, Justice berates Anders for holding onto his obsession with Hawke.
The man was a self-preservationist. What else did you expect of him?
For all of his mixed feelings, Anders cannot take Justice’s side in this. Misguided perhaps, but Hawke never put his life above anyone else’s.
Someone stares too long as Anders argues with Justice within himself; fearing recognition, he decides it is time to move on.
Though Hawke may not have taken responsibility for the mages of Kirkwall as he should have, Anders is still responsible for sparking the fire of rebellion; none looks too kindly on him.
Wind at his back, Anders blows through another town.
----------
Varric keeps Aveline’s response with him at all times.
She doesn’t say much; only that she delivered the letters to the others and her prayers are with him (everyone’s been saying that for weeks – her condolences are the only ones that matter).
He doesn’t expect a response from anyone else. All too wrapped up in their own lives and their own grief, he suspects.
Isabela probably blames him for the whole thing anyway; she always did have a softer skin than she liked to admit. Last time Varric saw her, he made the mistake of saying she was in love with Hawke; she accused Varric right back of the same crime of the heart.
Varric has a hard time deciding whether or not she just snapped back the first thing that came to mind or if she actually suspects the truth of the matter.
Spreading his latest manuscript across his usual table in the great hall, Varric tries not to think about it. But revising is about as engaging as bills right about now.
Because, who is he kidding? Of course, Isabela knows. She’d probably have offered a three-way, if they’d ever all met up again, but she’d never have given Hawke up; she’s too selfish for that (Varric would’ve thought less of her if she had).
As if he weren’t already having enough difficulty focusing today, Cassandra stomps past on her way to the war table. She does not even glance at him, nor has she for weeks.
If he were crueler, Varric might imagine all the ways she feels guilty for pursuing Hawke so avidly. If he were kinder (not so grief-stricken himself), he might console a fellow mourner. Instead, all he can think of is how he teased her for developing a crush on a man she’d never met.
After everything he’s been through with Bianca, deflection and projection are just easier responses for Varric.
Cassandra’s path is intercepted by Cullen; Varric watches as they confer outside Josephine’s office. The Inquisition would have staggered on with or without Hawke, but somehow it all seems impossible now that he’s dead.
Cullen directs Cassandra’s attention to something at Varric’s end of the hall. Quickly, Varric averts his gaze.
In hindsight, he should have ducked into Solas’s study.
Whatever – whoever Cullen pointed out to Cassandra, greets him, “Hello, Varric.”
Varric stands bolt upright. Of all the dwarves to appear here – Bianca smirks at him like not a day has passed.
“Aren’t you going to at least say ‘hello’?”
He realizes he’s standing there like an idiot with his mouth agape. He’s imagined their reunion and his witty greeting so many times, but his sharp tongue fails him when he needs it the most.
Instead Varric says the only thing that comes to mind, “Well… Shit.”