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Garrett Hawke stood in the Gallows courtyard, looking down at the ground as if it might simply open up and swallow him whole if he wished it hard enough.
Bits of ash and debris fluttered down from the sky like the snowflakes, reminded him of the last time he'd seen snow back in Ferelden, back in Lothering. It was a strange memory to resurface at that particular moment, he realized, and brushed it aside before it could distract him further, let the wind carry it away with the rest of the bothersome soot. The time for nostalgia was long past.
The weight of his years had never felt quite so heavy; He'd never felt quite so old.
A hot breeze blew against his face, and he tasted sulfur in the air. He was covered in armor—spikes and plates and straps and bands and leather and fur and steel and magic—and yet somehow, he felt vulnerable. Exposed. Naked.
He couldn't say he hadn't seen it coming, that he hadn't known. He couldn't say he was surprised.
He just hadn't expected it to hurt quite so much.
Anders was sitting quietly, not saying a word. Not speaking. Not arguing. Not making excuses. He, too, seemed to be staring at the ground, his gaze cold and blank and dead. Perhaps he, too, wished to be swallowed.
Hawke knew time was short—he could hear voices crying out behind him, blending into a cacophony in the back of his head as he tried to make sense of everything. But it seemed overwhelming, that there was no sense to be made, that he was searching in vain for something that didn't exist.
A voice stood out in the din, outside of the mess of white noise everything had become. Anders' voice.
"For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you. It was nice to be happy… for a while."
Hawke couldn't help but think of the last three years.
Anders' voice echoing down his hallways. Anders' muddy footprints on the rugs. Anders' soiled coat testing even Orana's patience with the laundry. His bandages piled on the floor. His herbs dusting the table. His inkstains drying on the desk. Manifestos in the fireplace. Feathers on the furniture. Dirty socks in the bed. Sounds torn from a lute that would turn any musician's stomach.
The touch of his hand. The sight of him holding in anger, holding back tears. A tiny, thoughtful smile. Sadness, and fear, and hope, and despair.
And every once in a while, happiness.
Hawke was suddenly, acutely aware of the knife in his hand, the cold, hard hilt pressing into his palm.
But he paused. He breathed. He let it go.
And then, he did the only thing he could still think to do.
He held out his hand.
Anders looked up from the ground, looked at him. And then, once again, there was life in his eyes.