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Varric paced miserably outside the door of Hawke's mansion. He was unable to stop thinking of the horrors of the day—from the discovery of the dead body of the Viscount's son, killed by a Chantry mother in order to start a war with the Qunari, to the tunnels beneath a deserted factory, where a grotesque creature made of the body parts of murdered women, wearing the face of Hawke's mother, had come to her final end, along with the blood mage who had made her.

Hawke had caught the failing body in her arms, cradling her mother's head as the enchanted life ebbed from the body, leaving Varric and Anders and Aveline helpless and unable to do anything to stop it, or to bring the last of Hawke's family back.

And when it was over, Hawke had gotten to her feet and begun issuing orders—for the care of the mutilated body, for the burning of the body of the blood mage and all the shades and demons he had summoned, for the collection of the mage's papers. Aveline had taken those, over Anders' protests, to look over later, hoping to find the names of the other women who had been killed in order to recreate the blood mage's wife.

Varric had been left with nothing to do except watch Hawke be strong, the way her mother had known she would be. Whatever she felt, whatever she suffered, she had kept it in, and he dreaded the moment those feelings would burst free.

Which was why he was standing outside her house, pacing back and forth, right now. Because he wanted to go to her, to be with her, but he didn't know if he was capable of being there for her the way she needed someone to be there.

Footsteps rang on the cobblestones, and he looked up to see Aveline approaching. "I thought I'd find you here," she said.

"Hovering outside?"

"Exactly." She looked down at him, clearly expecting him to say something more. When he didn't, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Waiting? I'm not waiting."

"No. You're stalling."

He wanted to explain, but for once the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Fortunately for him, Aveline had words enough for both of them. "Look, Varric, we all know you're what she wants. And we also know that for whatever reason, you're not going to be what she wants. And that's all well and good any other day of the week. But right now, whatever your problem is, you need to get over it and go in there and be what she needs. Whatever she needs. Because she's not going to make it through the night alone in there."

It was the longest and most impassioned speech he'd ever heard her make, and it was pretty magnificent, he had to admit. Even as Varric stared at her open-mouthed, some perverse little corner of him was noting down the speech for a future chapter of Hard in Hightown.

"Well?" Aveline demanded.

"You're right, and I'm going." He kept it at that, no matter how much he wanted to argue that she should go and he should stay out here where it was safe, because he knew she was right.

Far below her, the door to Hightown opened and closed, the sound echoing through the empty house. Emptier, Mina amended. Emptiest? She supposed it wasn't as empty as it could be—Bodahn and Sandal and the elf Orana were still here, although their quarters were far enough away that she couldn't have heard them if they were tearing down the walls with sledgehammers.

Which was, in fact, what Mina wanted very much to do right now. She wanted to attack this house and tear it to rubble and never have to step foot in it again. But she couldn't. This house, and the nobility and status it represented, were her mother's dream for their family. She had already lost her father's dream. With Carver dead and Bethany a prisoner and her mother— They would never all be together again. The only thing Mina could do for any of them now was to stay here and try her best to become what her mother had wanted her to be. Little as she wanted to.

Footsteps up the stairs. Firm footsteps, nothing like the halting, dragging sounds that had come from that … that thing that had worn her mother's face. And then a familiar and, yes, well-loved voice from the doorway.

"How are you holding up, Hawke?"

She wanted to make a joke, say something sarcastic, keep things light, but the sound of Varric's voice undid her control completely and she burst into tears.

And then he was there in front of her, as she sat on the side of her bed, his arms around her, her tears running down her face and staining the leather of his coat, and he didn't even seem to notice. That wonderful voice was whispering comforting syllables into her ear, nonsense about being fine and being strong and not to cry, and that only made Mina cry all the harder, clinging to Varric for dear life.

At last the flow of tears seemed to stop, but she couldn't seem to make herself let go of him. "Varric?" she asked into his shoulder.

"Hm?"

"What am I going to do now?"

His arms tightened around her. "You're going to—keep doing what you've been doing. Making a legend. Kicking ass. Showing Kirkwall who's boss."

She tried to smile, but in truth, that sounded exhausting. "Why?"

"Because I need you." His voice was even rougher than usual, and she could feel in the way he shivered as he said it that it was nothing more or less than the truth. Rare from him, like diamonds.

"I need you, too." It was easier to say it here in this moment, when she couldn't see his face. "Don't leave me, Varric."

"Never." His hands were in her hair now, his voice fierce. "Never, Mina. I promise."

It didn't make the pain go away, or fill the shadowy corners of the empty house, but, for tonight, it made it bearable.