Chapter Text
The Hanged Man was as loud and rowdy as ever, but it was almost easy to tune out the noise with Varric sitting across the table. The old, beat-up tavern in Lowtown seemed like it hadn’t changed a day since Hawke had left Kirkwall, even when everything else had.
Hawke’s golden eyes twinkled over the rim of her mug as she watched Varric in the flickering firelight, her smile as sharp as her wit. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the splintered table. “So, Varric, have you started working on your eulogy yet, or should I take the lead on that one?”
Varric raised a brow, amused. “And let everyone believe I tripped off a cliff and died?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of you tripped over Bianca.”
“If you tell anyone that Hawke, I’ll find a way to haunt you.”
“Well, I think it sounds poetic,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “In the right light, of course. I’ll make sure the bards sing it with... reverence.”
Varric scoffed, swirling his drink, eyes glinting with that familiar spark of mischief. “You’d let them sing that about me?”
“Of course,” she said with mock solemnity. “As your friend, it’s my duty to leave no detail unexplored in my retelling of the tragic tale of Varric Tethras. Even the embarrassing ones. It’ll be legendary.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Somehow, you’re going to be the death of me, Hawke.”
Hawke tilted her head, a flicker of genuine concern under her banter. “Or you’ll be the death of you, heading off to chase the Dread Wolf like this.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Why are you going, Varric? There are plenty of people, fools, who’d line up to play hero in your place. Myself included.”
He looked at her, a slightly weight in his gaze. “Because he’s still my friend Hawke, and if I don’t stop him, they’ll send someone worse than a fool. Someone who doesn’t understand what they’re dealing with. And because—” He paused, then shook his head, taking another sip of his drink.
“Because…?” She lifted her brows, leaning in slightly, her grin fading as curiosity slipped into something softer, something closer to worry.
Varric’s mouth quirked into a small, sad smile. “Because stories can’t end without a last chapter Hawke.”
They fell quiet for a moment, the hum of the tavern around them growing louder in contrast. Hawke’s gaze shifted to the fire, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug absently. She knew better than to pry; she’d spent enough years dodging questions herself. But still, her worry was plain, etched in the slight furrow of her brow.
“So this is goodbye,” she said softly, trying to sound flippant and mostly succeeding.
“Ah, don’t worry.” Varric waved a hand. “I’m not going anywhere permanent. And even if I did, I’d keep that promise of finding a way to haunt you, if only to hear you butcher my eulogy.”
She snorted. “I’d like to see you try that.”
“You’d never be rid of me.” His voice softened, a hint of something lingering in his gaze, but he looked away before she could place it. “Besides, I haven’t finished writing your story yet.”
“Oh?” She laughed, arching a brow. “What more could you possibly need from my story?”
Varric’s grin turned wistful. “I’m always finding new things to add, Hawke. Just when I think I know the last line... you find a way of surprising me even when I’m getting too old for shit.”
“We’re both too old for shit, Varric.”
The tavern was starting to empty out. Outside, dawn was drawing near, casting a pale light into the smoke-filled room. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek as she sighed.
“Don’t go getting yourself killed.” she muttered, the humor slipping from her voice.
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving her a brief squeeze. He knew how dangerous the journey would be. Hawke knew it too, and he could feel the tension in her, the way she was trying not to let on how much it bothered her.
Varric cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, Hawke. I’ll be back. Then you can me tell me every time you annoyed Aveline and the Templars whilst I was gone.”
She laughed, a hollow edge to the sound. “Oh, I will. Just don’t forget me, will you?”
He chuckled softly, though his expression was a touch sad. “Nobody can forget you Hawke, I certainly won’t in a hurry”
She lifted her head to look at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
He smiled, faintly, that same secretive look he wore when something was too close to the heart for words. “Nothing,” he said, brushing it off. “Just that I’d better make this story have a good ending.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered, soft. “You’re impossible, you know that right Varric?”
They sat there in silence, the weight of unsaid words between them, words that had been there for years but never needed saying. Finally, Varric rose, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She felt his arms around her, the warmth of him, and wondered if she should say something. Tell him not to go, that Kirkwall needed him, that she needed him. But she just squeezed him a little harder, letting silence say what she couldn’t.
When he pulled back, he looked at her with a smile that held years of history and more affection than he’d ever put into words.
“Take care of Kirkwall for me,” he said, gruffly.
Hawke gave him one last playful grin, her voice thick with unspoken things. “Kirkwall’s in good hands. Just… don’t take too long okay?”
He nodded, then turned away, leaving her standing alone in the dim light of the tavern.
In the morning, she’d tell herself that it was nothing more than a night of drinking and banter between two friends. But as she watched him walk out of the Hanged Man and into the dawn, she felt the ache of an unfinished story, and the quiet hope that he’d come back to write it.