"Well, it's not a good story unless the hero dies." –Varric Tethras
As Varric Tethras sat in the chair next to Marian Hawke's bed, he was filled with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. The self-proclaimed opportunist had nothing to gain from being here (other than a legitimate excuse for skipping a guild meeting, not that he planned to use it). Years back he would never have come to wait by a sickbed, let alone a deathbed.
Yet, somehow Hawke managed to overcome his fear of commitment. He really wasn't sure how. Without persuasion or guile she had attached herself to him. Or, rather, attached him to her. It was always him doing the following after all.
Varric looked over at her. She looked so pale; so small. He didn't like it; didn't like to see her like this. Where was the woman who laughed as she ran forward, ax raised high, as her short black hair fluttered in the wind? Where was the woman who always took charge; always led the group? Where was the woman who had changed his life?
Seeing her lying there, Varric could only see a slowly dying body. He'd seen plenty of death—caused plenty of it too—but this was the first time he actually felt sick. Hawke wasn't supposed to die. She was his immortal hero capable of tearing doors from their hinges or arms off ogres. There was no way she could be defeated, no matter how great the enemy. Surely she couldn't fall to something so trivial as an illness.
Suddenly her eyes opened. Even as emaciated as she was she still could startle him.
"Varric?" she asked. He smiled at her but it was clearly forced. Hawke regarded his nervousness with sympathy. She was the first friend that he'd had to lose.
"How are you feeling?" he asked her. The level of concern in his tone was uncharacteristic.
"I'm fine," she said with a wave of her hand. "More importantly, have you written the story yet?" Though she asked this to dispel his nervousness, there was genuine curiosity in her voice.
"Which story?"
"The one where I die." Varric swallowed painfully.
"You aren't dead yet."
"When have the facts ever held you back?" she asked sardonically. She paused a moment before another comment came to mind. "And since when do facts have any bearing on your stories?" For the first time in a long while, Varric laughed.
"Never," he said confidentially. "No one would believe it!"
"I want to hear it," she urged.
"What?"
"My death. I want to hear it." The prospect did not seem as sickening now. Varric settled back into his chair to think.
"It was very heroic," he told her. She sunk further into her blankets as though he was telling her a bedtime story.
"With a high dragon?" she asked, almost like a child.
"Four, at the very least," he agreed. Slowly they worked together to create an adventure to rival that of any hero before her. Once they finished she lay back further and told him to start at the beginning. He did.
"It's a good story," she said tiredly.
"You like it?"
"I do," she replied confidentially with a smile. Her eyes began to drift shut contentedly. They remained in silence. Varric felt as though some icy hand was grabbing at his heart.
"You can't leave, Hawke," he burst out suddenly. Her smile dimmed and eventually dropped off her face altogether. The expression that replaced it was not one of sorrow or anger. Her face looked blank but Varric could clearly see the emotion in her eyes. The expression was fierce and hard, yet somehow sympathetic and caring; it was uniquely Hawke. Varric immediately understood that the Hawke before him was no different that the warrior he'd known for years. The only thing weak about her was her body, everything else was perfect. Perhaps she couldn't rip the arms off an ogre in her current state, but then, she never could.
"Bianca would be bored," he said, attempting to bring back their joking mood. Hawke giggled, but it was softer—weaker—than before.
"I think there are thugs enough to keep her satisfied. You'll just have to work a bit harder." Varric smiled at her. It was a sad expression, but it was a smile nonetheless. She pressed further back into her pillows and closed her eyes and, after a moment, began sleeping peacefully. That was how Varric left her. Someone else would come by to watch her—maybe Aveline, maybe Fenris.
But, that would be the last time Varric would see her alive.
He spent the better part of his future traveling and earning his keep from the wild and fantastic tales he told, every single one about the great and heroic Hawke. But, no matter where he went it was always the same. The story everyone requested was the most fantastic of them all, the story of Hawke's death.
Hawke was right, of course, it was a good story. It was one sure to have his audience on the edge of their seats; the kind of story to leave them all in tears. Varric was certain he'd never written a better story and he probably never would. There was nothing wanting; it was perfect.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.