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Varric sat on the steps of the Gallows courtyard and watched the ships in the harbor, thinking about blood and gold. Kirkwall loved both in equal measure. There was blood deep in the stones of the Gallows and there always had been-- the blood of slaves mixed with the mortar when they laid the foundation, or so legend said. Years of foot traffic wore away the layers that dried on the cobblestones, but could never quite clean the cracks between, stained dark. Magic still hung in the air like a sour smell, leftover from the final battle or the first real one, depending on how you looked at it.
Varric took the long view: the final battle for Kirkwall was the first in the war for Thedas. With war coming, (or going, as it were, starting with them and spreading out like a cancer, or the Darkspawn, he’d sort out the better metaphor later,) the Gallows were a busy place, full of trade. Blood and gold always flowed through Kirkwall’s streets and flooded her in wartimes. The city was drunk on it and distracted; she had yet to notice her Champion had gone. To hear it told, though many had loved Hawke, Kirkwall was her true passion.
Varric knew better than most how the legends lied. Love served only one purpose in a story like hers. Characters were changed, settings were adapted, but the foundation always remained the same-- in legends, love was only to be lost. The details never mattered.
It could have been Anders who kissed her first or maybe she’d kissed him, they argued about it, inventing previously unmentioned details of the circumstances surrounding it. He did it on a whim, she was simply trying to shut him up, he had never kissed a human before, she’d never kissed a dwarf, they both thought the other was another. Anders had the first taste and found himself unable to resist a second. Blondie always had been something of an addict.
Or Merrill, who came in the night to comfort her, held her close while she sobbed herself breathless, whispered comfort into her ear. Merrill spun stories about a better world, created a fantasy for her to escape into, used every ounce of her talents to give Hawke a shred of peace. Merrill, who made sure she ate, made sure slept, made sure she woke up, made sure she went back into the fight. Daisy was sweet like that.
Sebastian might have fallen in love with her. He kept silent about it, though, the bloody fool. Or maybe he was smarter than he looked; he knew he wasn’t what she needed, he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Oh, entertainment, adventure, love, sure, but a normal life with children, a shot at Kirkwall’s crown on her head and real power to wield? No, that just wasn’t in the cards, and she deserved a normal life with children and a crown, free from racism and biology’s cruel joke. She deserved that chance. Sebastian had that sense of honor, was stupidly noble.
But Isabela was a hedonist, she’d be unable to deny herself the pleasures of Hawke’s flesh, unable to keep her hands to herself. Isabela would take the invitation in Hawke’s eyes, take Hawke. Or maybe Hawke took Isabela, her hands greedy and wicked, climbing into her lap and riding her long after the stories had been told and the Hanged Man had closed. It had to be Isabela to make Hawke scream, braced in an alcove of the Palace, one long leg thrown over Isabela’s wide shoulder, tangled in Bianca’s quiver. It must have been Isabela’s gilded tongue telling a tale of fire and lust, while the nobles fought and schemed in hall outside. It sounded like the sort of thing Rivaini would do.
The Elf could have proclaimed his love. Fenris was one given to great fits of passion-- it was the nature of his character. But flowery proclamations didn’t drip from his tongue, (that would come later, a game, to tease smiles from her when laughter was rare.) Instead, he must have whispered it against her skin, her hair, her lips, hearing its echo in her every time. He might have stolen precious hours from the end of the world, while every spy and thug he employed watched for assassins hired by those unhappy with her newfound influence. They might try to come for her, but they would go through him, first. Everyone knew Fenris was the type to guard what was his.
It was definitely Varric who stayed out of those tales, because he knew how stories worked. He never really thought there’d be more time than they’d had, just hoped. Hoped the way candles hoped for a match. Any romance of Hawke’s was destined to end the same way, no matter the circumstances. It would be blackpowder on the fire that flamed her greatness.
Anders would die by her side, fighting the Templars, and give her the strength to overcome their tyranny. Merrill would give in to the temptation of blood magic and Hawke herself would be forced to put her lover down, like a mad dog. Sebastian would be overthrown when Nevarra marched and Hawke would become a warrior queen, a symbol of strength and purity. The qunari would finally catch up to Isabela and put her to death, hammering the final nail into the coffin Hawke had built them. Trevinter would reclaim Fenris, make an example of him to show all lands what happened if they defied the Imperium, and Hawke’s fury would burn them to the ground.
Death was simple, but served the story’s purpose; like blackpower, after the explosion it was only ash and memory. But leaving for honor, for a higher cause--
He was the one who told her she needed to go. Hawke needed blood and gold to win this war. She was nothing if not adept at finding the first, but to get her the latter, he had to stay in Kirkwall. Even she couldn’t keep the rabid mabari bitch of a city on a leash and still tempt the world away from the brink of war. Without Kirkwall, gold and blood would not flow, and without gold to dilute the tide, blood would drown them all. No one could fight a war on all fronts, someone needed to hold the line, keep Kirkwall and the economy stable.
Varric was never meant to be a blackpowder flash. He was a blacksmith’s bellows.
There had to be fire to forge a blade and tragedy to create a legend-- without despair, there was no hope, without hope, there could be no symbols, and that’s what legends were, stories about symbols.
And that was the thing about stories; the truly great ones were all the same.
Originality didn’t equal immortality, not really, not ever. The greatest stories were the ones that were achingly familiar. Varric had known it from the start, when he set out to create her legend, grown from a small woman with large sword and justice in her blood. He had known it when he first kissed her, when he comforted her, when he loved her. He knew it now, watching her ship sail away from Kirkwall and away from him. Heroes needed to be equal parts grit, gild, and gold, but legends…
Legends were pure hope.