
Heroes are for Tragedies - DA
It's a cruel fate, that of heroes. Varric has written enough stories to know that.
She's not wearing her fancy armor when he meets her. She doesn't look like the statues and pictures and stories would make her out to be. Her face is gaunt, she cut and dyed her moonlight tresses. He recognises her anyway. It's her eyes. He's seen that look in the Inquisitor's eyes, in Hawke's. That bone deep weariness that you'd see in the eyes of veterans. So he doesn't say much, doesn't ask questions even though he is curious and just buys her a drink. He listens to her stories and tells his in return and for a couple of nights, neither has to feel alone.
You don't get to be a hero and come out undamaged. Any hero's tale is also a tragedy. They're all broken, each in their own way.
Like Maria, who slept in too big, cold beds every night, yearning for a certain pair of arms around her, arms whose owner had marched on her city for one impossible decision.
Like Evune, who could never go back to her clan after all she discovered and who was with child and whose lover was bent on destroying the world.
And like Ana, who could not forgive herself for all she did during the blight and who wished for a man whose heart she'd once held and who she knew could never accept her now.
No, a hero's fate is not a desirable one. Varric is grateful to whatever higher power might or might not be out there that that is a cup that had passed him by.