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Varric stepped out the door of the Hanged Man into the questionably fresh air of Lowtown. He had no particular destination in mind—he hadn't had since Mina Hawke slipped out through the gates two weeks ago. There had been no word of her. Not that he'd expected any; it wasn't safe. But he worried for her, out there alone.

And he missed her. Missed her desperately.

As they so often did these days, his feet took him up the Hightown steps and to the door of her mansion. It was empty now—the servants were long gone, as well. Bodahn and Sandal off to wherever they had come from, and Orana now working with Daisy in the Alienage. Varric had no idea why he was still standing here, except that it was the only place left in Kirkwall that held any vestige of Hawke.

Besides his bed, that was, and he hadn't slept in it since, choosing instead to huddle in his easy chair and not think about that magical night together, and all the nights they could have had if things were different. If he were different.

He should write a new story, Varric thought suddenly. A tale of the Hawke, of her adventures post-Kirkwall. Something so impossible to believe that no one would consider wondering where she had gone, because they were too caught up in the story. That's what he did, wasn't it? The gift he gave, because it was all he—

The thought was cut off sharply as his arms were grabbed from behind and he was lifted bodily and carried away from her house. He squirmed and fought, but nothing could loose the grip of the … Templars? Yes, they were Templars. Here in Kirkwall.

So. It had begun. They had come for Hawke, and instead of Hawke, they had found him. Well, weren't they lucky.

Varric stopped struggling and allowed himself to be carried somewhere deep in Kirkwall. Possibly the Templars thought he might be lost, but he knew this town like the back of his hand. He was in the office of a factory on the waterfront. He was pretty sure he had looted the chest behind the desk himself, during some adventure or other with Hawke.

And a woman was in front of him. Tall. Dark-haired. Beautiful. Forbidding. She spoke in a thick Nevarran accent. "Do you wonder why you are here, dwarf?"

"Not really. Let me guess: You're looking for Hawke."

"Yes. Where is she?"

Oh, this woman was going to be fun. No humor at all, straight to the point. Varric could talk circles around her. "I don't know. She's gone. Ask anyone."

"You were one of her closest companions. She would tell you."

"No, she wouldn't. Precisely because of that. And because of this." He gestured to the dark room, and to the Templars who flanked the door. He probably could have gotten out if he'd wanted to, but he didn't, really. He wanted to stay and confuse this direct woman, and put her as far off Hawke's scent as he could.

"Tell me where she is!"

"I don't know. And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Do you know what she's done?"

"Yes, I do. Do you?" He could tell his calm was irritating her.

"She destroyed the Chantry! She was responsible for the death of the Viscount, and of the Viscount's son. She—"

"Whoa!" Varric held his hands up. "Stop right there. You've got it all wrong."

"I know what happened here. All of Thedas does."

"No, you don't. I was there, and that's now how any of that happened."

"Then you, dwarf, are going to sit there and tell me exactly how it all happened, step by step."

Varric nodded. "Yes, I am. I want this story to be told—the right way. You're not the first to misunderstand it. And her. So I'll tell you. I think I owe Hawke that much." And more, but that part was going to be left out—of this story, and any other.

So he began. With seeing Hawke in the Hanged Man, with hunting her down and talking her into becoming part of the Deep Roads expedition. Then the red lyrium, and Bartrand, and Sunshine being dragged off to the Gallows.

And after that Hawke's mother, destroyed by that mage, and the rising unrest with the Qunari, and the way Hawke had tried to quiet it. He finished telling the story of the Qunari uprising, and of the duel the broody elf had set up between Hawke and the Arishok. While he was drinking the glass of water one of the Templars had brought him when his voice started to hoarsen, the woman shook her head.

"The Champion killed the Arishok in single combat? It just seems so …"

He wondered what word she would say. It would tell him so much about her.

So he was startled and privately pleased when she ended with, "Romantic." So. She was one of those, was she? Caught by improbable tales of daring? He could give her those.

He leaned back, smiling. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd developed a case of hero worship."

"Why? Because I have respect for a woman who built herself from nothing?"

That was exactly why. Not that Hawke didn't deserve it.

"Continue!" the woman demanded.

"Why? Why am I telling you all this? Are you— Is the Chantry out for revenge? Is that what this is all about?"

"It's not that simple. Tell me what really happened. I need to know!"

Varric sighed. "What's left to say? The Arishok was killed, and a Champion crowned."

"That is not all there is to the story."

"Isn't it enough? Can't you see already that she never intended … any of this?"

The woman leaned over him, her golden eyes blazing at him. "Where is she?"

"I don't know."