Hawke likes to think that he’s good at taking bad news. Maker knows he’s had enough practice at it over the years. Father, Bethany, Mother… Each loss was devastating in its own way, but each time he forced himself to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on. He grieved in private, away from the eyes of those who needed him to be strong. They were relying on him, and he couldn’t let them down.

Now is different. Now, he has no one to be strong for. He knows from the look on Emmrich’s face—dismay, trepidation, but most of all pity—that he won’t like whatever news the other man is about to give him. He expects something awful: Kirkwall in ruins, his friends rounded up like criminals for their part in the mage rebellion. And yet he never, not for a single moment, expects to hear that Varric is dead. The very notion seems impossible. Varric is as canny as they come. The dwarf can talk his way out of nearly any situation and shoot his way out of the rest. Hawke always knew with a bone-deep surety that the sly little bastard would outlive him.

But now he’s dead. He’s dimly aware that Emmrich is trying to fill him in on the current state of affairs in Thedas, but he can’t hear most of the words over the roaring in his ears. Varric is dead. With nightmarish clarity, Hawke recalls their last conversation over drinks in Varric’s tent just before the assault on Adamant Fortress. It had been casual—trivial, really. They had both seen so many battles that the prospect of another was hardly worth any dramatics. If only Hawke had known. The things he would have said—

He buries his face in his hands, a muffled, choked sound escaping his lips. To his great mortification, he realizes that it’s a sob. With great effort, he manages to gather himself and face Emmrich once again. It’s not the Nevarran’s fault that this happened. He shouldn’t have to watch Hawke fall apart.

“Thank you,” he manages, his voice unsteady. “For telling me. It can’t have been easy.”