A/N: Just a short, silly fic describing how my Rogue!Hawke fought the Arishok (answer: Very Badly). For those of you who can sympathize, enjoy!

It's All In The Details

"So..."

"So."

"That was..." Varric paused, scanning his vocabulary and trying to find the best word to describe the event that had shaken up all of Kirkwall and had given his friend a brand new title. "Epic?"

Hawke snorted. Or so it seemed. It was hard to tell with her head buried in her hands. "Epically awful, you mean."

"I wouldn't say it like that," Varric said slowly, twirling the half-empty mug of ale around in his hands "It wasn't exactly your proudest moment—"

"More like my most pathetic moment," she interceded darkly.

"—but you did win and that counts for something," Varric finished, raising a mental eyebrow at his own deluded optimism. "Besides, it's not like you didn't work for it."

Another snort or cough or something vaguely guttural echoed from behind her fingers and, if possible, Hawke's head sunk lower to the table. "I certainly did work for it, running in continuous circles around four pillars for the better part of an hour. Maker, my thighs were practically burning from all the effort I went to for my victory."

"You say 'running in circles, I say 'defensive manoeuvres'."

"That's the difference between you and me: I specialize in the art of 'defensive manoeuvres' and you specialize in the art of bullshit."

"And that's why we make such a good pair," Varric declared with forced cheer. He brought his mug down and clinked it against one of the empty ones by her elbow in a mock salute to her misery and his tireless attempts at changing the mood. Three pints down and she was still sulking? Maker's breath, it was going to be a long night. "Here's to the winning combination of beauty and brains and not worrying about something that's already so far in the past, a Rivaini seer would have a hard time remembering it."

Her fingers slid open and he found himself under the intense scrutiny of one squinty eye. "You can't possibly be trying to find the bright side in all of this."

"Bright side of what? The fact that you single-handedly took down the Arishok?" This time it was Varric who snorted. "If that event in itself isn't the bright side of all the political crap we've dealt with over the last few years, then I don't know what is."

"I'm not sad about the demise of a rather large, big-horned pain in the backside, only with the glaring error in your last statement." The squinty eye, if possible, narrowed further. "I don't think 'single-handed' is the best descriptor for my battle with said pain in the backside."

"So you had a little help from your dog." Varric shrugged. "The Arishok had help from not one but two big, pointy swords that made your daggers look like sewing needles. The way I see it, your Mabari's teeth just balanced it all out."

Was that a sigh he heard drifting through her fingers? Apparently his mighty efforts to brighten her up were failing miserably. He took a swig of his ale and tried his best to keep his sympathetic grin plastered to his face. The things he did for his friends...

"I would agree," said Hawke morosely, "if not for the simple fact that my Mabari got more hits on the Arishok than I did. In fact, my dog's teeth are the reason why the Arishok finally stopped participating in my elliptical shaped running drill long enough for me to get one good backstab in."

"Actually, I think it was your little exercise routine that brought him to his knees," Varric commented absently as he remembered that particular moment in the fight. "The guy barely knew up from down after fifteen laps around the pillars."

"It was seventeen laps, actually." Hawke sighed again. "And he wasn't just on his knees, he was dry-heaving too. For a moment, I thought the Archdemon had decided to join the fight with all the noise he was making." She shuddered, finally lifting her face from her hands. "Maker, if I never see a retching Qunari again, it will be too soon."

Varric had to hide his wince at her bleary-eyed, pale appearance. He'd seen five-copper whores who looked better than Hawke did right now. "Your strategy was admirable. Brilliant even. How many people would even think to use the Qunari's inability to deal with continuous circular motion against them?"

"I didn't think, I ran. In sheer terror. And hid behind a pillar. And then ran some more. Then I had to change my direction and run the opposite way once he smartened up and realized my pattern and started waiting for me on the other side of the same pillar."

"Letting him charge into the wall so he would get stuck and give you a chance to attack was also a great idea," Varric soldiered on, valiantly continuing in his attempts to put an impressive spin on what had otherwise been an awkward, embarrassing scuffle.

His efforts were beginning to show too. There was a definite gleam in her eyes as she mulled over his fanciful declaration. "Actually, I think letting him charge into Fenris was the greatest feat that I unintentionally achieved. His pointy armour did do a number on that tough skin." She bit her lip. "Do you think Fenris will forgive me once he regains consciousness?"

"For letting him help you defeat the Qunari scourge?"

"For making a beeline in his direction only to change course at the last minute and let the Arishok plough into him instead?"

Broody? Forgiving? Sure, the same day Blondie finally sobered up from his 'Crazy' bender. "When you put it that way, not a chance. Try using my version instead. Or, even better, keep it out of the story all together. Honesty might be the high road but it's not always the smartest way to go."

"Or I could just pray that the concussion wiped out his memories of the battle," Hawke said with just the smallest inkling of hope. "Anders believes that Fenris will suffer from just some sort of memory loss once he wakes up, seeing as his head did make such a crack when it hit the floor. I guess I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed because if Fenris remembers anything, he'll never speak to me again."

"Because he's such a regular conversationalist now." Varric finished his ale, setting the empty mug down on the table with a decisive thunk. "Look, Hawke, aside from your dog taking a few chunks out of his leg and from Fenris' notable contribution and from your vomit-inducing jog, you did the impossible. You. Defeated. The. Arishok." The last few words he emphasized with jabs of his finger. "And no one, not even the prissy nobles who witnessed the actual fight in all its glory, can deny that."

Hawke pursed her lips, then lifted her eyes to his, the smallest, faintest of smiles ghosting along her lips."I did sort of kill him in the end, didn't I?"

Varric's shoulders sagged in visible relief. Finally, finally they were getting somewhere. He wanted fun and witty Hawke back, not this mopey, I-want-to-crawl-into-a-hole-and-die-from-shame Hawke that he'd been dealing with for two days. "Of course you did. You even have the shiny new title to prove it."

The edges of her lips quirked. "'Marion Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall' does have a ring to it. Even if it was achieved through the sad and painful death of my dignity."

"Don't you worry, I'll make sure your dignity is immortalized," Varric reassured her, reaching out and giving her arm a pat. "By the end of this month, everyone will know how just how brave you were, standing alone against the Qunari leader, your daggers gleaming in the firelight and your eyes sparkling with defiance."

"Throw in my heaving bosom and the Arishok's excuse for smallclothes and you may have a new story for your other collection," Hawke said with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows. "I'm sure your imagination can come up with the rest though. I'm never good with details."

Varric grabbed two more mugs of ale from Norah's loaded tray as she sailed by and passed one to Hawke. He met his friend's brightening gaze, grinned—a true grin this time—and raised his mug high. "Cheers, to your everlasting success at defeating whoever stands in your way, no matter what strategy you may use.

Hawke raised her own mug and let it bang against his. "Cheers to deadly armour and loyal dogs and dwarves with silver tongues."

As they drank, Varric's mind was already at work, omitting most of the truth in the story, choosing instead to enhance it with poetic fighting and heart-wrenching sorrow and steely courage until the tale that eventually emerged would be one that could live up to the word 'epic'.

Hawke's dignity deserved nothing less.

end