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Afterward, Varric tells the stories and Aveline cleans up the mess.
The two are more related than anyone has any need to know.
In the stories, Hawke is victorious, of course. She is brave and dashing and righteous. Of course she is. She's the hero. It's what she has to be. In the stories, Hawke strides away from the final battle in the Gallows with her head held high, mist and smoke swirling around her, her faithful companions at her back. In the stories, Hawke disappears after rescuing Kirkwall from itself.
The truth is different. Aveline knows the truth. The truth is part of the mess she's left to clean up. The truth is Hawke and Meredith, blade to blade, screaming epithets while fires rage around them and good people die. The truth is Hawke taking a bad blow, falling to her knees with her hand clutching uselessly at her gut. The truth is, it's Aveline who pushes Meredith back. It's Aveline who shoves her shoulder under Hawke's, pulling her to her feet to get her free of a courtyard filling with hostile templars. Meredith dies. That's the truth.
So does Hawke. And that part doesn't make it into the stories. "It doesn't fit," Varric says, without bothering to hide the tears streaking his face. "It's not right. It's not the way things are supposed to be."
The truth is this: Aveline carries Hawke away from the massacre. She knows it's too late. Even if Anders--no. It's too late for that. It's too bad. Aveline doesn't lie, not to herself.
She lies to Hawke, though, whispering soothing words in the shadow of the Gallows wall, far from prying eyes. Aveline says, "It's going to be okay, Hawke. You're going to be fine."
The truth is, Hawke looks up at Aveline with pain in her eyes, and love, and the certainty of her own death, and says, "Thank you, Aveline. For everything. Always. I'm so sorry it came to this."
Aveline presses a gentle kiss to Hawke's brow. A comforting kiss. The platitudes may be a lie, but the kiss isn't. By the time Aveline sits back again, Hawke is gone; her eyes are empty.
Aveline is the only mourner at Hawke's funeral pyre.
The stories need her to live.
And Kirkwall needs Aveline to clean the messes Hawke left in her wake.
Besides, Aveline thinks, as she hears the tales begin to circulate--demons and monsters and glory and triumph--it's what Hawke would want.
Sometimes Aveline touches her fingertips to her lips and remembers the way Hawke whispered thank you and it's enough. It's enough.
It has to be enough.