Varric had always been good at telling stories. From the childhood memories that occasionally flooded his mind of a younger Varric implicating his brother in whatever scheme the two had jointly hatched, to more recent times: A suave surface-dwarf entertaining respite-seekers in the Hanged Man with tales of the Grey Wardens of old charging into battle on valiant feathered mounts and the victory of the Hero of Ferelden against darkspawn, werewolves, demons and undead. The Hero of Ferelden's tale was special indeed, a rare story which was already unbelievable enough to be exempt from his "artistic interpretations". It got the job done, so to speak; it restored some hope in the hearts and mind of the populace, and provided the dwarf with a decent return in royalties. The same could not be said for the fabled tale of the Champion of Kirkwall, a beautiful warrior who sought to liberate the mages of their oppression even though she was not of their ilk. The courageous young woman who escaped her forsaken, blighted homeland atop a dragon, plundered the deep roads to restore her nobility, defeated dragons, freed slaves, aided the Dalish, all of it, all of it, required a bit of doctoring. Maybe the punters at the Hanged Man would love the truer story all the same, and the ladies love a good bittersweet ending, he thought. But maybe it just wasn't damn fair. Maybe to recount the tale of the Warden enough times you could sodding tell it backwards, a tale so perfect it puts the work of Orlesian bards to shame, and then go on to remember how the next chapter really happened, is just too damn painful. Hawke's should have been like that too; it could have been glorious, no mourning, no death, no disappearances: Just a jolly troupe of friends and a land in political turmoil. So that was how he told it.
But just this once, he'd write it down. How it actually happened.
Marian Hawke was, no, is an incredible lady. Smart, attractive (even for a human) and a talented mage to boot. She had an enigmatic presence about her, a strong will and a sarcastic wit. The story, and all its variants, always began the way the same way each time Varric told it. Arriving in Kirkwall with the aid of Flemeth, the mythical Witch of the Wilds, she had to build herself from the ground up, thanks to good ol' Uncle Gamlen being rather frivolous with the family riches. Aided by a legendary shapeshifting swamp witch, arriving in a new town with nothing barring the will to survive; it sounded like the making of an excellent story. On his good days, he'd speak of Bethany's brush with death in a bloodlust-fuelled battle with an ogre, and the victorious departure of the Hawke family to lands new. In reality, he heard Bethany died protecting her family, but Hawke never talked about her much. He'd ask questions and sometimes the young woman's face would light up as she spoke of her sister's good nature, her skill as a mage, how kindhearted she was to the people of Lothering, and how well she could hold her own in a fight between siblings.
Soon after arriving in Kirkwall she caught word of some mad dwarf Bartrand planning an expedition into the deep roads. Thanks to a little persuasion on Varric's end, he gained a valuable business partner, and the rest was history. He'd reminisce on the alliances Hawke made, his acquaintance with her, the friend she found in Anders, an apostate mage, ex-Grey Warden, and abomination (failing the use of a politer term). He would spin stories of Hawke's adventures with Merrill, a Dalish mage seeking to restore the knowledge and culture of her ancient people; of Fenris the escaped slave and skilled warrior; Isabela, a quick-footed and nimble pirate who was more than satisfactory with both a dagger and a helm; Aveline the strong-willed guardswoman whose sense of justice seconded none, and Sebastian, prince of Starkhaven and devout Andrastean.
The dwarf signed as he recounted the events of the years past. Of Carver, the damned idiot, who deserved much more than to perish in the deep roads as a result of his own sodding pride. Ancestors, the look on Hawke's face was one he hadn't seen the like of in a long time. Her voice was shaking in anger and trepidation as she begged, no, ordered him to just do the sodding ritual. The Wardens were silent, their gaze unwavering; becoming a Warden was a grave decision to make, even if it meant surviving the Taint, for some the price is always too high. Except Hawke must have known what the true deal breaker was. Unable to live in his older sibling's shadow any longer, to no longer feel like flotsam drifting in the waters of his sister's whim, the warrior made the decision to die a free and stubborn man. Sometimes he'd tell a tale of a headstrong young man, who sought his own destiny in the Templar Order. Or a full-fledged Grey Warden, sobered of his anger, who would carry on the legacy of the Wardens of old and the Hero of Ferelden alike. But not the true story. Not the look in her eyes, or the cries of her mother upon returning to the surface, or the weight of the guilt that burdened her. None of it, none of it was worth telling.