His publisher carefully placed the hulking manuscript onto the table, leaving one hand reverently upon it as if it was a copy of the Chant. The other hand pinched at the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply.
"Varric, are you sure about this?" The question bordered on rhetorical, snapping Varric out of the thoughts he had trouble escaping.
"Am I sure?" the words spit from his mouth like the rest of the poison he was trying to expunge from his system.
"I'm serious, Varric. I have no doubt that this will sell. This will be bigger than the Tale of the Champion. Maybe even bigger than the Chant itself." The aging Orlesian elf lifted his open palms skyward before running them both through his thinning grey hair and finding a resting place on the back of his neck. "You'll never be able to leave your home. You'll need a bodyguard, you'll have to hire a Crow. I'd hire a crow now to beat all the contracts they're going to be flooded with."
"I'm tired Evram, I'm done. Anyone worth protecting with the white lies of bravado and heroism is gone. This shit is no longer weird, it's depressing. It's soul-crushing and no one cares. I'm not some naive chantry boy, I know how the world works." He shook his head to chase away the visions that haunt him night and day. "Even I know the rules, to make a good story the hero has to die. I just didn't think everyone had to die along with her."
"I'll work it up, clean up any errors, no editorial license." Evram stood, scooping up the manuscript to place in fine leather bag. He walked past Varric to leave, and stopped as if remembering something important. He placed a hand on Varric's shoulder, leaning down to his ear. "It has been both an honor and pleasure working with you Varric. Maker guide you."
A large thump against the door resounded through the room. Varric had nodded off over his desk, a habit of taking sleep whenever he could find it. He picked up Bianca, handling her with care and purpose, and opened the door. On the floor was a large package wrapped in heavy paper and wrapped in twine. The sounds of the bar patrons a hollow noise in the distance as he picked it up and returned to the sanctum of his rooms.
He flipped the package over and set it on the table. A small piece of parchment peeked out from under the twine. A short note from Evram: I can't keep it in stock, this is the first edition I've been able to send, be well. He left the package on the table for now, more important matters to attend to.
Varric moved to his bookshelf, removing a chest from the bottom shelf. The large, red Amell crest branded on the lid; it's hinges screeched as he opened it. Inside were memories, ghosts. He picked them out piece by piece, treating each artifact as if they were the Ashes of Andraste.
Daisy's scarf. He frowned as he ran his hands over the pale green fabric, frayed and bloodstained. When Hawke stood with the Templars after the Chantry fell, Merrill stood to defend everything she held dear. When the skirmish ended, Hawke held her small elven body close to her chest, cursing the Maker and every damned soul in the Gallows. Two weeks before she was trying to give Varric his ball of twine back, and now this. Instead of picking flowers from noble gardens, her life slipped away on the stones of Kirkwall. Varric mourned her, a soul far too good, but still he kept their secrets.
Junior's ring . Varric pulled the ring from the belongings Hawke left when the fled from Kirkwall. Both Carver and Aveline received them from their service at Ostegar, and it was Aveline that slid the ring off his finger to hand to Hawke before ending the dying boy's life. Hawke beat herself up about it for months. Why hadn't she just listened to her mother? Why didn't she bring Anders? She stayed on a cot in Varric's rooms, refusing to go home to an opulent ancestral home where Carver was never going to live. Merrill mourned him as well. Those kids never had a chance did they?
Blondie's Manifesto . There were pages ripped from it, a reminder of the state of the Darktown clinic after the mage brought the chantry down, all hope of peace along with it. There was a moment, Anders sitting on the crate in front of the blazing ruin, Varric thought that Hawke would let him live, let him leave. Sebastian put an end to that, calling for swift justice or a retaliation that would tear Kirkwall apart later down the line. Strangely, the damned mage looked relieved, none of that blue glowy business. Hawke wrapped her arm around his shoulders before driving the blade through his back, leaving the knife and wrapping that hand around him as well. Hawke may have stood with the Templars that day, but Ander's manifesto outlived him, bringing all the Circles down just as he hoped.
Hawke's Journal. She slipped this to Varric in the Herald's Rest, the night before the Inquisition was to set out to Adamant Fortress. Wrapped in a red ribbon and full of secrets. They drank far past the point of no return, and the look she gave him along with the journal is burned behind his eyelids to this day. He missed it that day, but Hawke never meant to come back from the fortress. The journal confirmed that. Tormented by years of losing everyone most dear. She should have lived a long life, she deserved to be happy. Varric spent most of the years since Kirkwall keeping the Chantry off her scent. There wasn't even a body to pay respects.
Varric almost stopped then. Wrapped up Hawke's journal and put quill to parchment, set to write up the truth to every story and give it to the world, critics be damned. Instead, the words that came out were an apology. An apology to a broody elf about how he couldn't keep her safe, how he couldn't save the tempest that was Marian Hawke from herself. The red ribbon wrapped around the journal as tightly as it once adorned his wrist is the only thing he has of the elf.
He never received a letter back from Fenris, so it wasn't much of a surprise when Aveline showed up at his door to deliver the news. There were several accounts, but Varric didn't question the validity. Fenris was found south of Tevinter among the bodies of several slavers. His body broken and his right hand buried in his chest, evidence that the elf took the slow painful death into his own hands. This was the breaking point. Varric shut himself in his room to write and didn't leave for a week.
Varric slammed his hands on the table, tears that were unbidden and unwelcome covered his face. Everything had been for naught. Sure, the Inquisition saved the world, the mages were free, Kirkwall rebuilt. Varric couldn't find the hope in the celebration, not when the artifacts of those who gave the most sat here, rotting and forgotten by everyone except him. He carefully placed the package containing his manuscript into the chest, placing every memento back on top of it. He closed the chest and left a letter beside it addressed simply "Seeker."
Another knock at the door, a waitress bringing up his dinner for the evening. She sat the stew on the table and handed him the mug of ale. After paying her, he left the stew untouched and carefully considered the brew. He sighed deeply, draining the draught in one gulp. He crawled into bed, setting Bianca beside him on the pillow. His eyes felt heavy as he gave the weapon an affectionate tap. "Only you Bianca, the only story I'll never tell."
Varric stood behind the bar, empty but for a few patrons. He opened the small bar on the Amaranthine Coast, too far out of the way to be frequented by traders to Antiva. He wiped down the bar, watching a dark haired couple canoodling in the corner. The two young lovers were oblivious to the world.
"Another shot of whiskey, if you could." The blonde man at the end of the bar finished two shots already, but was intent on drowning out whatever ailed him. Varric poured a glass and pushed it down to where he sat. The man gave him a small smile before throwing back the amber liquid and stared off to the balcony.
Varric took out two wine glasses and filled them with Aggregio Pavali. He picked them up tenderly and walked out on the balcony overlooking the sea. Another couple sat at the table, a dark haired woman playing a lute for a solemn man reading a book. The man absent-mindedly scratched the head of a mabari at his feet.
"Your wine," Varric placed both glasses on the table and took a seat at a neighboring table, "I'm off duty for the night but if you need anything, let me know."
The couple smiled and both reached for their glasses of wine. Varric watched the pair and sighed, still surprised he had to come so far to find this kind of joy. He leaned back against the balcony and watched the last of the light disappear in peace.