A/N: Originally written for the following kink-meme prompt:
"Hawke and Company kill a lot of people over the course of the game. How do they feel about this? Regrets? Justifications?"

Varric writes stories about her and she can't seem to get him to stop; they're good stories, she supposes, about glory and bravery and battles, about her sword and her shield - exciting stories, stories people like to hear.

But the real story is afterward.

.

"We bury a lot of people," he casually mentions, watching her lay the bodies out side by side, eyes closed and arms folded.

She pushes the dirt back into place and says, "I know."

.

Father is buried in a grave she digs with her bare hands.

Carver carries his body; Bethany wraps him in a shroud; Mother weeps; Marian digs.

.

"Messing with us is suicide," he says and she can't tell whether or not he approves.

Either way, he isn't wrong.

.

An ogre crushes her brother, so she kills it.

She piles the stones high, a cairn on a hilltop that overlooks the pillar of black smoke in the distance that used to be a town.

.

"I've got three - how many have you got Hawke?"

She knows he's trying to be funny, to keep the mood light in the way he does, but the only response she can think to give is far too many.

.

Her sister's veins are full of black blood; she holds a vial filled with poison and compassion for her to drink from.

Rivers of molten stone flow like slow moving water, and Bethany sinks in a veil made of flames.

.

"Maker's breath, Hawke, you do get results, don't you?"

Results are inevitable, she wants to tell him, but good results - like intentions - are mostly wishful thinking.

.

She is always too late; the pieces have already been cut, spells cast, blood spilled, and her mother is gone.

They build the pyres high, pyramids of oiled wood and straw to make the flames catch; she holds the torch, kindles the first hungry sparks, and stands back to watch them feed.

.

"What's the plan, Hawke?" he asks as the water churns roughly beneath the hull of the ferry and the sky burns with red light behind them.

"We save who we can, and we bury the rest."

.

The real story is all shrouds and coffins and numbers she is afraid to tally, faces she remembers when eyelids close, at night, in the darkness, or in the span of a blink.

The sword means nothing - the shield is only there to keep her alive; the real tools of the Champion are common things, inevitable things.

Death, a torch, and a shovel.