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Her head is pounding from running so far. Merill is running point, and Hawke is half-carrying Fenris, who is debatably conscious. Carver blocked the templars as they turned to run; she caught his eyes and nodded to him. She had never felt more pride to know him than that moment.
Varric is keeping up admirably, despite his stature. Anders trails them all like a shadow.
She wanted him dead-- most of them did-- but Hawke sided with Merrill. From the look in his eye, Aveline had understood: killing Anders wouldn't solve anything. One more body in a hopeless fight that none of them ever wanted.
Besides, Hawke was never one to let anybody take the coward's way out. He fought the Arishok in single combat because it was the only way to spare them all the consequences of Isabela's-- mistake.
They have been running all day now. She would ask where they're going, but she thinks she knows. She saw the maps to the deep roads in Hawke's hands. They stop on the beaches when the night grows too dark to stumble along without tripping over themselves, and catch their breath; Anders quietly lights the way for Merrill while she collects firewood, Varric starts the fire.
She finds herself patrolling, eyes to the city and the sea, watching for ships approaching, watching for bandits, blood mages or worse at their backs. Nothing is coming, nothing she can see.
Hawke's exterior is perfectly calm as he sets Fenris down at last. His hands tremble a little with exhaustion as he checks the lump on the elf's forehead, then the cut that's been bleeding him pale, gaping along the bottom of his foot. This will slow them down dramatically. This is a problem.
"Everything all right?" She asks, and Hawke, who has still not looked back at Kirkwall, shakes his head once, sharply. "What do you need?"
"Spindleweed," Hawke is hoarse and still short of breath from running. She can almost see the tremors of exhaustion and shock catching up to him. "Elfroot. Some not far up the path, last I checked."
"Oh, let me get it," Merrill chirps, flustered. She has never seen Hawke be anything but charmingly protective. All of them remember his horror-- the same as their own-- and the scowl of something almost like madness on his face when he first turned and they fled.
He has not looked back once. It's making Aveline uneasy. It reminds her of old stories, unhappy legends from Orlais and Tevinter about going into the Fade to bring back loved ones, only to find oneself ensnared there forever. She shakes it off as she kneels beside them both, offering Hawke a flask of lager she had tucked away for just such an occasion. He stares at it at first, not comprehending; takes it clumsily, and drinks, only a little.
"Thank you."
"Not a problem."
"Give some to Varric," he says vaguely, brow furrowed in thought. "Then have some for yourself. Where is Anders?"
Hearing his name, the mad mage freezes, looking eagerly, nervously up from where he had been occupying himself, preparing food to cook over the fire Varric is now tending.
"Behind you, Hawke."
"Good. Stay there."
The significance of the trust Hawke is affording Anders seems to be wasted on him, but Aveline watches carefully, sees the shame etched into his posture and hopes for the best. She passes the flask to Varric, then drinks the rest. Merrill shouldn't be drinking, it's true; she saves a sip for Anders and gives it to him wordlessly.
His expression of gratitude and apology doesn't reach her; she is looking back again at the city. Where is Donnic? She doesn't know. She doesn't know if she'll see any of her guardsmen again. She doesn't know if she wants to leave Kirkwall. The mess back there needs someone to fix it and if it can't be Hawke, it might as well be her.
"You'll need to go back for Donnic," Hawke is saying. Did he mention Donnic before she'd been thinking about it? She can't be sure. "Anders will have to stay with us. Varric-- Can you-- come to the deep roads with me? Help me find a way out somewhere else in the Free Marches?"
"It'll take months," Varric answers gruffly, but the taste of lager has returned his spirits. "I'm game."
Merrill returns with spindleweed leaves and elfroot clutched in her hands; Hawke takes them with a quiet word of gratitude and speaks to no one for some time. Fenris's color does not improve right away, but the bleeding has stopped. He is still breathing. The smell of herbs is so potent it makes her eyes sting.
"Will we see you again?"
Hawke smiles lopsidedly, his eyes tired and thoughts faraway, already planning how to navigate the Deep Roads while carrying Fenris along.
"That's how all the stories go, isn't it?"
She would believe anything he says, when he says it like that. She just nods. This is her place. She must go back to it now that they are safe from its teeth. Once upon a time she might have wanted to leave Kirkwall for good, but there are too many things that tie her there. She would have to bring half of the city with her, at least as she is now.
She says, "Good luck, Hawke."
He nods, and then she is gone.
***
Six days and something like four hours after they went underground, Fenris finally stirs. He's weak and malnourished-- they've only been able to force-feed him so much in his state and he lost a lot of blood-- but his eyes open and, aside from being terribly sluggish, he seems to be fine.
"...Hawke?" He asks, when he is able to see the glimmer of lyrium crystals nearby and recognizes the wall along which they creep to be dwarven-made. It was Varric's turn to keep watch over him, so it's Varric that grabs his hand and helps him sit up.
"Careful, grumpy. You might hurt yourself."
"I seem to have done so already." He feels dizzy and his voice is reedy with weakness, but none of this bothers him as much as the fact that Hawke is nowhere to be seen. Their promise is fresh in his mind. He swallows down his emotions, blinking until his eyes adjust to the piercing glitter of a particularly large growth of lyrium and his headache begins to recede. "Where is everyone?"
Oddly, he is not proud of himself for his ability to avoid asking after Hawke in particular. In some ways, he feels like it is a failing that he is more concerned with appearing unbiased than indulging in his panic.
Varric either doesn't notice or doesn't think it's worthwhile to tease him about it:
"Everyone's a pretty tall order, elf. How about we start with who's not around? Aveline went back to Kirkwall. We'll meet up with her some other time."
It's odd, how the air down here is different. He is reminded of the taste of blood when he smells this musty stone; flashes of the profane and the demon that led them skitter through his memories. That battle had somehow seemed much worse at the time. Now he thinks on it with almost fond familiarity. It did not involve tarnished statues of slaves and their guards, stepping from the very walls to fight them. He was still unsettled by the- thing?- that Meredith had become in those last moments of his consciousness.
"You following me?"
He pulls himself from futile attempts to remember how far he got before he had fallen into Hawke's support and an almost impenetrable sleep. He remembers trying to wake up many times, and being unable to. Those memories are chilling, as well. There had been no dreams or sleep, but voices, distorted by distance and rendered unfamiliar, speaking in a language unlike any he knew. His skin had prickled and he had worried he was dead. Waking up was a tremendous relief.
"Yes." Fenris shakes his head, wincing and feeling the bruise that lingers there with ginger, iron-gloved fingers. It is difficult to be mindful of his claws, feeling like this. "Merrill and Anders?"
"Scouting."
"Hawke?"
Varric's smile is gentle and for a split second, Fenris's stomach drops, anticipating the worst. The words penetrate his thoughts and he is so relieved he clutches at his chest, surprised by his own fears. "He's cleaning up. We found an underground river earlier today and he waited to wash until everybody else had had a turn."
"I must go to him."
Varric laughs. "Sure thing, but your foot's infected so be careful putting any weight on it. I'd offer to help, but you're not that short."
It takes doing; for all that he acts like he won't, Varric is at Fenris's side, jovially badgering him and offering what little physical support can't be garnered from the wall. Fenris makes it to his feet and realizes just how tired and hungry he is, dizzily leaning there.
"I think I'll escort you," Varric says easily, smooth as silk. It is no wonder he prefers the surface. His unique talent for diplomacy would be wasted on other dwarves. Fenris reels, distracted by his own thoughts and the glimmer of the lyrium crystals around them. Whenever he stumbles, Varric steadies him. It is a long trip.
He is very grateful.
"After all, we'll only be stuck down here longer if you hurt your other foot. I know it's like it's only been a day for you, but I'm already pretty tired of not seeing the sky. Come on!"
They reach the underground river before Fenris's hunger overwhelms him. He would even eat something Isabela cooked, at this point. Even food poisoning would be better than starving.
Hawke is sitting on a flat stone by the underground river, and Varric glances surreptitiously away, mumbling that he has to go check up on Daisy and Blondie to be sure he's not done her any harm. Fenris doesn't understand at first and clutches the wall, surprised by how much effort it has taken just to walk this far.
He realizes, eventually, that it's unusual for Hawke to be naked-- even though it seems such a natural thing to him-- and Hawke is sitting there without any clothes on, dripping wet and shivering a little in the underground chill.
"Hawke?" He calls, unsure of himself. He begins to wonder if, maybe, he is imagining this being awake and the sleep from which he cannot free himself has not yet parted.
Tension catches in those already tense shoulders, and Hawke is on his feet and hastily stumbling into his wet pants in mere moments. He darts across the cavern to Fenris's side. His skin is still damp but he is warm, and his embrace is only a little tighter than normal comfort would dictate.
"Hawke," Fenris says again, confused. Did he black out for a moment? He's never seen anyone move that quickly. It occurs to him, many seconds late, to lift his own hands to return the gesture. Doing so brings him an odd sense of satisfaction, and he feels himself relaxing.
"Don't worry," Hawke says, and his lips are very close to Fenris's ear, and his breath tickles, and Fenris remembers now: falling down, staring at his foot in confusion after he realized he had been bleeding for some time now without feeling it. The templar's club had not been swayed by his confusion, followed through, connected with his head. He remembers Hawke more or less dragging him along-- and he is heavier than the mage, though Hawke is taller-- he remembers mumbling It smells like heather? and seeing the sky tinged yellow. "Don't worry, I keep my promises. I'm still here."
"Yes." There is also, sharp and clear, the memory of how Hawke would not make the promise to live unless Fenris did as well. The courtyard had smelled less like chaff and ash, he had felt a fierce joy, had known they would live or die together and been happy. "I am, as well."
"Barely," Hawke chuckles weakly. He lets Fenris go to lean back, to have a look at him now. Checking the bruise with one thumb, Hawke chews on his lower lip, thinking ahead even as he addresses the symptoms he surely planned for yesterday. "A dip in the river might be good for your foot-- it's infected-- but the cold's a bit of a shock."
Fenris wants to ask about their plan of escape; he can tolerate a wound, even an infected one, if it will speed their steps. But the hunger still gnaws at his gut and his foot is stinging, now that he remembers it should. All he would accomplish by arguing is their delay. The idea of bathing in an icy river does not particularly appeal to him. He eyes the river dubiously, then Hawke's earnest expression, and sighs.
"I accede, but I will need assistance."
"You have it." Hawke smiled, some distantly remembered humor lurking in the depths of his sharp green eyes. "Let's do that quickly so we can get you something to eat, then, shall we?"
Fenris has long since stopped being surprised when Hawke anticipates his thoughts. He only nods his agreement and lets Hawke lead the way, not too proud to lean on him when the steps are too far.
***
Six weeks have passed since they left Kirkwall, and Fenris must stop to sharpen his blade. While he does, Hawke goes on ahead to scout out any newly collapsed passages with Anders and Merrill. Varric is adjusting Bianca's screws, so they sit together in amiable silence for a short time. The sound of the whetstone on his long, black blade seems to send Fenris into a reverie: so Varric asks.
"What're you thinking about, elf?"
Uncharacteristically startled, Fenris frowns as if not quite recognizing Varric for a moment or two. "A party," he says at length. "It was not a pleasant memory."
"No?"
"No. A celebration Danarius hosted to honor the spring equinox. I was shackled to a pillar and mages were permitted to draw excess power from me to create their finery." Fenris's face is so dark Varric half expects him to storm off.
But he doesn't; he just shuts his eyes and after a while sighs, letting go.
"That sounds distinctly unpleasant," Varric says, when the silence starts getting to him and he realizes he is actually finished tightening Bianca's screws. "Did you escape after that?"
Fenris shakes his head and sets to work again, dragging the whetstone along the edge of his blade. "Not for quite some time. The experience left me incapacitated."
"Yeesh."
"Mm. It is not a memory I care to dwell upon."
"Can't stop, though?"
"Not at the moment." Looking up, he catches Fenris glowering off into the dimly lit corridors ahead of them. "We shouldn't have split up."
Varric privately agrees, but he'd like to think Daisy can keep Blondie in check, even if Hawke can't. He stands up, eyeing Fenris speculatively. "Well, if you're almost done, we can head up to the fork and wait for them to come back."
"I suppose I am." Frowning at his sword, the elf slips the stone back into the folds of the red armband he wears around his gauntleted wrist, retying it to keep the tool close at hand. It had taken the better part of an hour to find a stone of the correct composition that was flat enough to do the job. They both stand, stretching until tired joints pop and their muscles protest continued abuse.
Silently, they begin walking in the direction the others had left, keeping abreast of each other subconsciously, speaking in low voices. "If you don't mind me asking, what do you mean when you say they used it to create their finery?"
Though he makes a face at Varric's insistence on prying, Fenris does not deny him the answer. "Magisters often dressed in underclothes or nothing at all for such occasions. It was a signal of their finesse and power to create facsimiles of clothing through the use of magic alone."
"Interesting. Weird, but interesting."
"Not the word I would have chosen," Fenris admits wryly, "but not inaccurate, either."
They walk in an amiable silence, Fenris steering clear of the lyrium deposits around them, Varric occasionally casting speculative glances at the ruins they pass. For runes, he slows but never stops. Farther along, they begin to hear the soft sound of bare feet slapping stone.
Ahead, Merrill reappears, skipping back to them as cheerily as if she has always lived in tunnels and enjoys their clammy darkness as much as dwarves are supposed to. Varric envies her that cheerfulness.
"Oh!” Breathless, she comes to a stop before them, smiling at Varric. “You finished. Good! We found a collapsed tunnel and Hawke decided to try to fix it, since it'd take a few more weeks around. He's working on it now!"
"Is that so?" They share a glance. "Can he really do that?"
"Yes, but he said he'd probably be too tired to walk, after. I thought maybe you could carry him. Anders offered, but... Hawke said no."
Fenris snorts, annoyed. "And well he should. Let us join them." Musing whether the elf realizes how badly he's smitten or not, Varric falls into step behind the two of them. It’s precious, the way Daisy still tries (and cheerfully fails) to make normal conversation with their single-minded, sword-wielding friend.
They can hear the crumbling sounds of rocks being rearranged long before they reach Hawke and Anders; and when they do, it's to the surprising sight of Anders diligently moving rocks out of the way as Hawke steps shakily forward, arms outstretched, pushing the walls back up into place and reshaping the stones into something sturdy enough to pass through without incident.
Already, the earth that Hawke has just pushed out of the way is crumbling, preparatory to falling back in. They rush to follow him closely, joining in the task of moving rocks away from his feet as he pushes up the weight of the earth and keeps it above their heads long enough to pass through. It seems like they are here forever, walking half-crouched beside him in a cluster as he steps doggedly forward. Sweat-soaked, he stops at last at the edge of a corridor glittering with lyrium. Anders quickly runs forward into the passage and they follow suit, when they realize he is standing there, shaking, because he is waiting for them.
Seconds could be hours in those moments, and then Hawke follows, stepping over the threshold of dust where the cave-in occurred. He lowers his hands and the earth he was still supporting comes crashing back down with a short, sharp, thunderous sort of bark.
Hawke stumbles and falls to his knees, exhausted; Fenris is at his side immediately, picking him back up and helping him along as Anders, wordlessly, takes his position at Hawke's back.
Varric can take a hint; he follows Daisy, scouting ahead.
Fenris glances over his shoulder at Anders, displeased by the man's continued presence, but does not comment on it. Instead, he asks: "Are you all right, Hawke?"
"I--" Hawke is out of breath and has to stop, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Don't-- think I want to do that again," he grumbles, refusing to stop when Fenris slows his steps to make the suggestion.
"You need to rest."
"Later."
"Very well."
They are silent for a time, and Fenris glances at Anders, feeling dreadfully uncomfortable. At last, he has to ask:
"Why did you do it?"
Anders blinks, seeming surprised to be spoken to again. Most of them have been avoiding it; some, like Hawke, don't even look at him.
"...the bomb?"
"No. I know your motivations for that. Even if I hadn't known, you made your intent abundantly clear." Shifting his grip to better support Hawke's weight, Fenris notes Anders' red-rimmed eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in ages. "Why did you give in to your spirit?"
Anders is taken aback, then angry, then seems as though he will weep. He does; he laughs as he is weeping. Fenris feels the hair at the back of his neck prickling in discomfort and mistrust, but holds his ground and tightens his grip on Hawke.
There is no answer. They walk until well past Hawke's limited endurance, until even Fenris is beginning to stumble with weariness.
"We should make camp here," he suggests urgently to Hawke.
Hawke sleepily agrees, and they do; Merrill and Hawke fall asleep immediately, and Varric either pretends at sleeping or actually slips into the realm of slumber while still sitting up with his arms crossed over his chest.
Fenris is left with Anders.
The tunnel they are in used to be the room of a more modern thaig, with richly painted walls now scuffed and chipped in the long years since their abandonment. Trees of lyrium have also sprouted here; Fenris is seated as far from them as he can manage and it has yet to consciously occur to him why.
The faint blue glow gives Anders a sickly meekness.
It is Fenris who speaks first.
"What will you do now?"
Hushed as they are, dim as it is, the faint gleam off of lyrium tattoos and spirit-washed eyes is clear to them both. "What?"
"Do you plan to ask Hawke's forgiveness?" Fenris shifts uncomfortably, one hand resting on Hawke's shoulder in case he should need to wake his sleeping comrade. "Or to run?"
"I don't know."
He tastes fresh air and snaps to attention, his entire body turned a little skyward and to the right. Salt; the smell of the ocean. Distantly he can hear waves crashing. Are they far enough to surface yet? Hawke predicted it would be another week and Varric, more practical, said three at minimum.
Anders has not noticed, but watches Hawke, not Fenris. "He doesn't understand, does he? How important it was."
"I think you underestimate him." Fenris answers, distracted by thoughts of the surface, of seeing Hawke's face in full sunlight again. His stomach twists for some reason and the emotions that rule him are confusing. He does not understand: why such sorrow at the thought of a happy sight? Is this regret?
"Do I?"
"There is no man more compassionate in this world." Now, Anders has his full attention. Fenris stares darkly at the madman Hawke has spared, but without malice or fear. It is his unshakeable calm that unsettles Anders. "If you had not forced his hand, I sincerely believe he would have found a better way."
"Well, we'll never know now, will we?" Anders grimaces, looking at his hands as if expecting to see they have shriveled into nothing more than bone.
Sea air; Fenris wants to rise and investigate, but he is too tired. He will look in the morning. Maybe they will find themselves further along than they'd thought.
"Do you really think he would forgive me?"
Fenris shrugs. The lingering animosity in his heart for this shadow of a man is not as fierce as he would have thought; but maybe that is because he has Hawke. If he didn't, perhaps he would be the one gone mad. "You are punished already for your crime; what more would he want?"
To that, Anders says nothing; and in spite of his best intentions, Fenris falls asleep in the silence that follows.
***
When they surface, it’s been so long since he saw the sun that his eyes sting. Justice has been an ache in the bridge of his nose all these weeks, nudging him mournfully like a lonely dog, trying to reassure him that they’ve finally succeeded, that now, something can be done for mages. Hawke's dedication to the cause can no longer be questioned. They sacrificed their friendships and all those people, yes, but it will be worthwhile: hundreds of years from now, when people are only people, it will be worthwhile. If only he could at least let himself take comfort in Justice! But it’s not easy to put stock in a future Justice may never have truly seen. Perhaps they only dreamed it together. Perhaps that future is their delusion, an expression of pride.
All that’s left, when he looks to those around him, is an aching resentment. They are people who were once his friends, each accepting of him in some special way that he never, in all those years, appreciated before. Now they can never trust him, and all of them, even Isabela and Carver who have long since gone their separate ways, are closer to Hawke than Anders can be. It’s his own doing and it’s very hard to tell himself that. Still, he’s been trying. It dulls that dream of the future he had been fighting for, but he wouldn’t dare try to blame anyone but himself for what he’s done.
Not even Justice.
The sun is proof that the world has not changed so much in those endless weeks, while they crept along doggedly through that murky, tomblike underworld to find their way free of pursuit. He had not realized how much he hoped the world would look, or smell or feel different when they emerged, that something would have notably changed: but the sting in his eyes gets worse, not better. Anders eventually realizes that he’s crying and claps a hand over his mouth before he can make too much of a fool of himself.
"You okay, Blondie?" Varric asks. Varric is in the business of noticing things: while Merrill skips ahead into the beginnings of a forest and Fenris announces his intent to go hunt for game while Hawke is busy, Varric is marking their position, facing Hawke in case he needs anything, and watching Anders all at once. It seems somehow likely that, as Hawke unrolls the maps he has brought and the wind blows, Varric is aware of how many of the gray-downed birds are flying overhead, which trees have squirrels in them, and exactly how many steps Merrill has taken towards the bear cave nearby.
Digging into his eyes with his knuckles until the tears stop, Anders coughs a bit and pulls out a shaky grin, from someplace deep in his heart. He doesn’t want to burden them. When he first challenged Hawke to kill him, he would have tried to look brave to the end and declared himself a martyr. Two months spent in their company, weathering those withering looks that occasionally get sent his way and, even worse, the kindness- the pity- has taught him that Hawke was right not to kill him.
That would have been getting off easy.
"Sorry," he says, when he can speak, but Varric shrugs it off. "I don't mean to make a scene."
"In robes like that, I imagine you can't help it." A hawk flies by overhead and they both glance up to follow it until it dives. Is it going for the same prey as Fenris? If it does, who will win?
For a moment, he tries to apologize: opens his mouth and sees the way Varric patiently waits, the perfect gentleman. Varric never did like conflict. Still rubbing at his eyes, he swallows the lump in his throat, tries to take comfort in the fact that at least he’s being given a chance to talk, even if he probably doesn’t deserve it.
In the end, he doesn’t know what to say and so says nothing. Varric clears his throat as the silence is getting awkward. "Daisy’s going to get into trouble if I don’t go catch up."
"Oh." Strange, how he feels nervous, not so different from the way he felt as a little boy, first being introduced to the other young mages at the Circle. If only he and Varric had that much in common—but then, maybe they do have a lot in common, and Anders has been overlooking everything else simply because Varric isn’t also a mage. "Okay."
Turning, Varric steps into the thick of the woods, pausing with his hand on an ash tree. The wind stirs its gray-green leaves and the smell of fresh water not far is carried to them. Varric’s eyes close in appreciation, and Anders understands. They both love this world. That’s something; something important they share that he has always overlooked. The dwarf turns back to him before he’s quite out of reach for conversation, and smiles.
"Talk to him, why don't you?" It seems like the tone of Varric’s voice says, it’d make you feel better.
He would answer why he doesn't, but Varric doesn’t linger. There seems to be a spring in his step, and he surely missed the fresh air as much as anyone else. Maybe more.
It’s only a beat later, with even Varric vanished among the trees beyond this little clearing, when Anders realizes the others have all endeavored to be away from Hawke. He wonders if it’s safe to leave him alone with anyone, but they have had no choice until now. Now, they could tie him to a tree and walk away if they wanted; but they haven’t, and they have made a point of leaving himself and Hawke alone.
If he plans to make amends, now would be an ideal time. Presuming he has the slightest clue how to try. As they’ve fled, these mindless weeks, Anders hasn’t even considered the possibility. His chest feels tight when he glances over to where Hawke stands, with one map open, braced against a large grey boulder at the foot of a hill. His hands are dusty and his fingers leave smudges on the yellowed paper, but he doesn’t seem to care. Telling himself that that is an infatuation best forgotten, Anders tries to set his selfish desires aside, and approaches Hawke diffidently.
Hawke shows no sign of acknowledging Anders' presence anymore than he has for the last two months. It is difficult to speak to him without meeting his eyes but, remembering the stipulation given on the beach, Anders stands behind the other man. Working up the temerity to speak, he swallows down his trepidation.
"Hawke?"
Hawke flips over the map, fumbling with it when it tries to roll itself back up, growling softly until he gets it spread open enough to actually see what he was looking for. With one dusty finger he traces the line of the coast, comparing distances from their current position to Antiva, Orlais-- even Tevinter. Each path leaves a reddish smudge of the lyrium rich dirt from which they have just made their escape. Anders thinks unhappily of dried blood, and from there thinks of the mages who doomed their fight at the Gallows, and his confidence abandons him again. He hunches up his shoulders, flinching in preparation for a reprimand. But all Hawke says is:
"Yes, Anders?"
Then, a little more softly, "Is it Anders, or Justice?"
"It's m-- It's Anders," he stammers, guiltily looking down at his hands. The question rattles what little certainty in that answer he has gathered. When he thinks about it too much, he becomes unsure. It is impossible to say anymore. He is both and neither, all the time.
"What do you want?"
He is smart enough not to say 'forgiveness'. He doubts he will ever earn that, though mysteriously the elves seem to think he could, if he tried enough, if he asked. But aside from forgiveness and freedom for all mages everywhere-- really, he's not certain what he wants. Nothing attainable, that’s sure. "To-- apologize, I guess."
Hawke straightens, staring down at his map intently. From over his shoulder Anders can almost glimpse his expression: pensive, carefully controlled. Angry. Since he does not speak, it seems appropriate to go on.
"For-- for taking advantage of you. Your-- friendship. And. Your trust."
His throat is too dry to continue, and Hawke interrupts him mercilessly: "Took you two months to feel like apologizing, did it?"
Somehow it didn’t seem like he had the right to apologize before now. Maybe, to some degree, he didn’t feel at first like he should have to apologize. He wishes Hawke had just punched him in the gut, in either case, and doesn't try to argue. "...I'm sorry."
"Is Justice still inside you? Or Vengeance, I suppose?"
It takes him a long moment of staring, open-mouthed, to realize that Hawke is actually still talking to him. Longer to find an answer. "Y-yes. In a sense. I-- I would have to deny him to separate, I suppose. Or if I died; then he might be free."
"And you wouldn’t deny him."
"I—I didn’t want-- Haven’t. Wanted to."
Hawke leans back down and returns to his perusal of his maps. "I see." There is such finality to the words that Anders half expects to find himself excommunicated from the group, left to fend for himself in relatively unknown wilds. Above them, the sun goes behind a cloud for a moment, and all the bleached greens of midday grow soft and rich in the filtered light. He hadn’t noticed the yellow flowers in the grass before, and wonders how he could ever have missed them, now.
Hanging his head, Anders wonders if he can do anything useful for the camp. He has tried to anticipate Hawke’s whims—tried to do things for him as a servant might, not because he was asked but because it makes him feel a bit better, when it seems he is helping. Now there are no obvious obstacles to Hawke’s path for Anders to move.
“Was that all?”
In being merciful and kind, Hawke leaves Anders hating himself all the more. It would be easier if he could hate Hawke for not understanding, for being an apostate all his life and never really experiencing what it was like to be torn away from his family: but he remembers how each member of Hawke’s family was plucked from him, no matter how closely he guarded them. It must be worse, to know them and lose them even when it should be possible to save them. It must be worse, just as living with his decision is worse than dying.
And suddenly Anders finds himself removed from himself by another degree, because he can’t feel his fingertips and the world he had been admiring, softer and richer when brought out from the sun’s harsh glare, is tinted blue.
“I wish to speak to you, Champion of Kirkwall.”
Justice’s request makes Hawke turn around, surprised as Anders. There were birds singing before, but if they continue Anders can’t hear them. The smell of the grass beneath their feet is gone. He is a spirit in a body, and the body might as well not belong to him. It is cold here and vague, and murky: like the deep roads. It could be a thousand years, between one breath and the next, and he would never know. He can see things that have not yet happened, and things that will never be.
Anders is terrified, but Justice does not relinquish his hold.
“Then speak,” Hawke says at last. Anders can hear his voice, even though the image of his face is distorted, as if he was looking at it through a thick layer of crystal. “You’ve never bothered before.”
“I did, once.” Justice rumbles with displeasure. “And when I did, you left and did not come back for a very long time; you had no need of Anders’s aid. I know this was my fault.”
“I am sure,” Hawke snaps, and his voice is a feral growl, “I would have discovered reasons to be wary of your host even had you not surfaced that day, spirit.”
“This is not so; I am confidence and regret, and I see the world as a long path when you see only the world.” Justice turns up one of Anders’s hands, palm to the sky, and in his palm there is a leaf, and on the leaf is a drop of dew. Anders can see in the dew reflections of a thousand faces, but all of them belong to Hawke: women, men, with long hair or no hair, beards, smiles, frowns, eyes that burn with hate and gentle eyes, soft with regret. He has never been more terrified in his life, and he begs Justice to let go: he can’t let Justice harm Hawke. His misery is unimportant. He can’t sanction the death of his friend, not when he—
Not when he was the one that was wrong.
But Justice does not let him free, only whispers to him, a thought in a mind that is usually his mind. I speak; I will not falter.
Hawke is looking at the leaf, his brows drawn taut and the Hawke that Justice speaks to, the Hawke that Anders recognizes, seems puzzled. He looks up. “Do you mean to say you see into a—reality where you might not have existed?”
“If that reality is the Fade, in which all things are always true, then yes.” Justice closes Anders’s hand into a fist around the leaf and the dewdrop, and only the possibility of the Hawke before them now is real. “I will not be distracted. I wish to speak to you for a reason.”
“Then I won’t divert you from it. What do you want?”
The beat that Anders hears, pulsing quicker and quicker, must be his own blood rushing in his ears. “To apologize.”
Disbelief catches hold of them both; Hawke is not alone and Anders is almost shocked to hear Justice echo his own sentiments. Surely this is a joke—though he has never known Justice to have a sense of humor—
“I find it difficult to believe you’ve had a change of heart.” Hawke looks grim, and has rolled up his map again. He waits, but looks weary, now, and Anders wonders if that is how Hawke always feels.
“I have not; but the scope of Justice is never one of joy. The means to serve my end are rarely pleasant, and the lives that are lost are poorly spent. Worse, that this is only the beginning; you will not see the balance of this grievous act in your lifetime, Champion. Nor will this man, or children of the world’s children. In time, I know, it will be as this man dreams: the futures have changed.” Justice lets go the leaf and Anders finds himself drowning in the sorrow that could not be held in his simple mortal body. He might regret his actions, yes, but he will never know regret as Justice does. “I wish to apologize for what could not be stopped. When I met this man, all futures I knew were diverted to this time. They flow like water to the easiest path. What we desired might have been possible, another way, but it is not a way I know. For that, I am sorry.”
It’s strange, feeling Hawke’s hand on his shoulder when Anders is only a spirit caught within himself. Callused, dirty fingers squeeze once, maybe trying to reassure. Hawke is looking Justice in the eye, and nods once. He may be tightlipped and anxious, still. He is planning their route and has no time to be forgiving when he hasn’t even had time to work out his full feelings on the matter.
He doesn’t look away when Justice lets go, and it is only Anders he is looking at. He lets go Anders’s shoulder, and looks down at the map clutched in his other hand.
“I’m sorry, Hawke.”
“I know.” Hawke doesn’t smile, but he seems more at peace. Could be wishful thinking. “Both of you, just...trust me, now. Will you, please?”
“I—We will.” The sun comes out from behind its cloud, and Hawke squints, frowning up at the sky as though this is a personal affront. He is haloed in the light.
When they make camp that night in the heart of the forest, Anders goes to Fenris’s side, since they are tending the fire and Hawke has long since drifted to sleep. Varric is teaching Merrill a song that is ostensibly about flowers.
Fenris looks up, suspiciously, and raises an eyebrow when Anders sits beside him.
“Do you need something?” he asks, a little of the disdain Anders remembers so well coloring his voice.
The night is thick with the sounds of life around them. Fox eyes glimmer just far enough from their fire to let them know their unexpected audience will leave at the slightest sign of aggression; owls call, and the moon is out. It smells like wet soil. Anders laughs a little; he hadn’t realized how he missed these things. “I just wanted to tell you that you were right.”
Fenris stirs the fire idly with a small branch before tossing it on top of the embers, and seems very distant. When he twitches at a particularly questionable line in Varric’s song, Anders realizes the elf is eavesdropping. Is he looking out for Merrill, or amused by Varric? Hard to be sure.
Abruptly, Fenris turns back to him and hands Anders a small book. Where it came from is a mystery, though he thinks maybe it was tucked into the elf’s breastplate.
“What’s this?”
“A—gift.” He glances at Hawke, then back at Anders. “I doubt he’ll mind if I pass it on to you.”
“Hawke gave you this?” His breath catches in his throat; it’s not the same helpless adoration Merrill seems to feel, or the frustrated sexual temptation Isabela suffered, but Anders can’t imagine parting with any gift Hawke might ever have given him. He stares at Fenris, not comprehending. “Why?”
“I have memorized it.” The answer is as dry as any of Fenris’s jokes, but his expression is oddly serious. “That aside, it is a reminder, I think, that we are never too old to learn new ways of seeing the world. You—might benefit from such a reminder.”
He finds it suddenly difficult to meet Fenris’s eyes.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
For the next several days, Anders reads the book, even though it is dog-eared and tattered with many re-readings. Some pages are already loose before he starts, and the subject matter is something he read about briefly while hiding in the archives, once. He doesn’t care.
And Anders, who had long forgotten the taste of fresh-picked berries and the mornings he spent finding bushels of them, begins to remember.