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A tepid rain drizzled down over the Docks, somehow making the air of Lowtown even more musty than normal. Grunts, clangs, and muffled commands echoed from the merchants and dockhands rushing to get their cargo unloaded before sundown. The Siren’s Call sat quietly at its usual slip – thankfully, its charming captain was elsewhere; one less person to burden Hawke with the sort of well-meaning but empty condolences that were beginning to feel like rashvine wrapping around his heart.
Hawke stared out over the water, looking beyond the city walls toward the Waking Sea. Even with the Blight threatening to consume them there, had it been a mistake to leave Ferelden? After Malcolm’s death, they had little keeping them tied to anywhere in particular, and staying would have meant certain death…. but leaving had cost them Bethany. It should have been him taking on that ogre; her blood on his hands was already one failure too many. And now…
Hawke half-heartedly punched a balled fist into his own leg, not knowing what else to do with the helplessness he felt clawing at his throat. He had perched himself in a relatively quiet alcove near the harbour, daring with a vicious glare anyone who passed by to intrude on his space. Daring someone to try and rob him, or to be foolish enough to pick a fight. He’d settle for practically any kind of distraction or chaos that would take his mind off the hot, piercing sharpness of the bottomless grief that threatened to consume him entirely.
Remaining at the Estate had quickly become too much to bear, between the unending bouquets of flowers and notes of condolence pouring in, and the nosy Hightown nobles dropping by to “just offer their sympathies.” It was clear that they were much hungrier for gossip than sincere in their acts of mourning, but unfortunately, it was so awfully tacky to just stab a visitor in your home, especially when there had just been an Andraste-forsaken murder of its matriarch in residence. This wasn’t Orlais, after all!
So, Hawke had fled through the cellar and started for the Hanged Man twice before changing directions both times. Shortly thereafter, he found himself lurking in the shadows at the Docks, like any proper apostate mage should. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be around other people – not exactly, anyway – but more like he didn’t want to have to live up to the tall tales that Varric had been telling about him lately. And it wasn’t like the Hanged Man was known as a bastion of privacy, even at the best of times.
Hawke summoned a small flame to his hand, only to watch it fizzle out as the rain slowly smothered it. He did this a few more times; a necessary distraction since he’d already emptied his flask. Unable to focus solely on generating the flame, Hawke’s greatest failures looped through his mind, over and over on repeat.
He had never been good at healing magic, not like Bethany had been. His abilities tended to be far more chaotic, more destructive. He had far too much blood on his hands, especially now.
The loss of Bethany had cast his family’s world into a permanent state of grey, without her gentle radiance there to boost their spirits. Then, his idiotic self had been stupid enough to let Carver go into the Deep Roads with them. The one small balm was that Carter had lived through his ordeal – if you could call death by slow Darkspawn taint any sort of life. About the only thing that hadn’t gone wrong on that mission was that Bartrand didn’t actively try to murder them, only passively. Hawke idly wondered if dying down there would have been better than returning to Kirkwall. Leandra had crumpled to the floor when he told her about Carver’s fate, and refused to leave her room for a week afterward. He was halfway surprised that the grief didn’t kill her then and there. It would have been a kinder fate.
And now… her. Mother. Hawke had failed Leandra too, and his failure had cost her life. He still couldn’t get her mangled face out of his mind. The worst part of it all was that she had been so kind, so soft at the end. Lying to him, saying she was proud of him. Each time he replayed that moment in his mind, he all but choked on the word. How dare she leave him with that?
He’d failed to catch a killer, one he’d known about well-prior to Mother getting kidnapped. If he’d just worked harder to find the bastard, Leandra would still be at the Amell Estate, safe and sound…
Hawke refused to think of it as home. Not now, not when he was all alone there, save for Bodahn and Orana and Sandal, who were all nice and well-meaning but not family. It could never be a home when it still felt like some kind of temporary good thing that he could always lose…
A honeyed voice spoke softly from somewhere beside Hawke. “You’re slipping, Chuckles. I’ve been standing close enough to stab you, and you wouldn’t’ve even noticed until I was in and out.”
“Varric.” Hawke grunted, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. Varric was a little too good at reading tells, especially his. “In and out, hmm? Sounds like a good title for the next chapter of whatever bodice ripper you’re writing now.”
“Hawke, why didn’t you say you’re a fan of my work?!” Varric faux-gasped, swooning a little for dramatic effect. “Why, I’m pretty sure I know a dwarf who could get you an autographed copy.” Varric gave one of his trademark winks. “So. Any chance I can talk you into going somewhere dry, or do I need to sit out here with you and get all soggy?”
Hawke shrugged, still not trusting his voice not to give his anguish away. Bloody crying in front of his best friend wasn’t something he wanted to find himself doing.
“I’ll take that as a yes, you want to drown your favourite dwarf.” Varric patted the barrel beside the one Hawke was sitting on. “Is this seat taken? You know me, I like to live dangerously.”
Hawke nodded with his chin, indicating for Varric to take a seat, as he summoned the closest thing to a grin he could manage given the abyss swirling in his mind. “Look, if you’re out here because all the barstools at The Hanged Man are broken again, I swear I don’t know anything about that. Not this week, anyway.”
Varric clambered up beside Hawke, taking a moment to study his face as if searching for the answer to some unspoken question. “Mmm, plausible deniability. That one time, when that dashing and mysterious rogue and mage duo reduced those barstools to splinters when fighting Templars, well that could’ve been anyone.”
“Yeah. Plausible deniability.” Hawke shrugged again, a small huff escaping through his nose. It was rare for him not to have some pithy quip at the ready, but the events of the last few weeks had left him entirely wrung out. Hell, Leandra had only been cremated a handful of days ago.
Hawke still wasn’t sure if he believed in the Maker – if he did exist, clearly the big guy had some kind of hard-on for making Hawke’s mortal life goddamn miserable – but ever the dutiful son, he’d given his mother the full Chantry rites he knew she would have wanted. A small consolation that they’d still cremated her, given the way that blood mage had desecrated her body…
“Drink for your thoughts?” Varric drew a flask from one of the many hidden pockets in his duster. “I’d offer a sovereign, but I’m fresh out.”
“Suuuure. Thanks.” Hawke took the flask, took a swig, and passed it back to Varric. He recognized the taste of expensive Antivan brandy; Varric must really be feeling sorry for him if he’d cracked the good stuff. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Would you believe it was my impeccable stone sense?”
Hawke grunted in reply.
Sip. Pass. Sip. Pass. Despite his gentle teasing, Varric didn’t push him to speak further; Hawke found himself grateful for the companionable silence. Too soon, the flask was as empty as all the rooms at Hawke’s estate.
Hawke could feel the weight of Varric’s gaze lingering on him as he drained the last few drops and passed the empty vessel back. “You don’t have to stay out here with me, you know. You’re starting to look like a drowned nug.”
In response, Varric reached over, surprising Hawke by lacing his fingers through his own. The heat of Varric’s palm burned against Hawke’s, despite the dampness on their skin. “Hawke... I, uh, know you two had a… complicated relationship… but letting yourself catch your death of a cold out here isn’t going to bring Leandra back.”
Well, shit. Clearly, Varric had become too good at reading Hawke’s tells. And he was seldom this serious, this fucking honest. Hawke felt something a little too much like a sob catching somewhere in his throat.
“It’s not your fault, Hawke. There was no way you could have known -”
“Don’t, Varric. Please.”
Varric squeezed his hand in reply, a sad grimace twisting his lips. “Look, I know that nothing I can say will make it better or fix anything for you. I wish I could, but I know I can’t. But I see you, Hawke. I see how you’re killing yourself over this. And I see how Maker-damned hard you’ve been working from the first day you landed in Kirkwall, trying to make a better life for Junior, and for your mother, and even for Gamlen –“
“And what has all that hard work gotten me, huh?!” Hawke growled, as all the pain and helpless rage bubbled to the surface. “I got my one and only sister killed even before setting foot in Kirkwall. Carver’s going to die of Darkspawn taint, the only consolation there is that he’s dying more slowly instead of us having to carry his Maker-damned corpse out of the Deep Roads. And Gamlen’s a useless drunk, he’s the one who lost the Amell estate in the first place! If anyone should have died, maybe it should have been him. Or me!”
“Hawke –”
“If I’d ever been good enough, even just fucking once, we could’ve caught that bastard Quentin in time. Before he… Hell, you were smart enough to put a bolt through Dupuis’ neck, as soon as…” Hawke choked back another sob as electricity began to crackle along his skin, his mana reacting to his chaotic emotions.
Varric winced, but kept hold of Hawke’s hand, squeezing even more tightly.
“Mother was right, you know. I’m nothing but a Maker-damned failure! I let everyone down.” What made Leandra’s murder even worse was that Hawke hadn’t expected to feel her loss as profoundly as he did, especially given the fraught tension that had marked so many of their interactions over the last few years.
“Hey. C’mere.” Varric reached over, drawing Hawke tightly into his arms, even as more sparks surged. “Don’t be so mean to my best friend. I happen to know that he’s a wonderful guy. He’s smart and funny and incredibly generous, and despite life dealing him way, way too many shitty hands, he still goes out of his way to help other people, even when it bites him in the ass…" After a moment, the sparks subsided as Hawke’s shoulders began to shake – half-crying, half-laughing, all at once.
Varric rubbed soothingly at his back as Hawke finally surrendered to his tumultuous grief. The hollow laughter turned fully to sorrow, and he sobbed until he ran out of breath.
Finally, Hawke stilled. “You forgot handsome in that list,” he sniffled into Varric’s shoulder.
Varric chuckled, warm and low. “Yeah, pretty handsome. For a human.”
“And a pain in the ass.”
“Definitely a pain in the ass. But the only pain in the ass I’d trust to guard mine.”
Hawke begrudgingly unfolded from Varric’s warmth, feeling rather awkward now that he was back in control of his emotions. “Unless this pain in the ass fries your ass first? Sorry about the light show, by the way. You ok?”
“Pfft. That was nothing compared to some of the ‘friendly reminders’ the Merchants Guild have sent me over the years.”
“You sure?”
“I’m good. Really. But if you keep it up, I’m gonna have to start calling you Sparky instead of Chuckles.”
Hawke chuckled softly. “I think I can live with that.”
“Good.” Varric reached up, smoothing a few wayward strands of hair out of Hawke’s eyes, as hazel eyes started into deep watery blue. “Look, Hawke, I know this whole thing sucks some serious nugshit, and it’s probably gonna suck for awhile. Grief’s like that. But I’m not going to let you carry all of this alone, and I’m not gonna let you blame yourself for the actions of a madman, either. Nobody could have seen this coming, and you did the absolute best you could. Trust the bullshitter, even when he’s not bullshitting for once. Okay?”
Hawke nodded softly, leaning forward into Varric’s touch. He knew how seldom Varric spoke with this level of sincerity, and how rare and precious this private gift was. “Okay.”
“I mean it, Hawke. You’re stuck with me. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
“Not even inside, to let me get you out of those wet clothes?” Hawke found himself smirking, doing his best to slip his usual mask of carefree sarcasm back into place.
Varric returned the grin, more than happy to play along if it meant making Hawke feel even fractionally less shitty. “Well, when you put it that way… My palatial suite is your palatial suite, after all.”
Hawke stood up, offering an arm to Varric. “I’ll hold you to that. Back to the Man, then?”
“Sounds like a plan. Norah can draw us a bath and bitch about all the rain we’ve dragged in. Probably not in that order.” Slipping his arm through Hawke's, the two set off through Lowtown.
The dwarf was right, Hawke mused as they walked – grief did suck serious nugshit. But somehow, it sucked a little less when Varric was at his side.