Chapter Text
Carrying her spluttering torch, Hawke made her way through the musty cellar that wove knots beneath the foundations of her Hightown estate. The scuff of toughened boots echoed with the scampering of mice and what have you. It never ceased to surprise her, just how little light shone in through the tiny windows of her buried storerooms.
Upon discovering that the farthest corner of the mansion’s basement was a secluded and well forgotten doorway serving as a portal between her comfortable home and dangerous Darktown, Hawke made sure to utilise it. No more would she need to hold her breath and hope the local gangs wouldn’t notice her in all her armed glory. The traditional warrior getup never was the epitome of subtlety. For once she could venture into the perilous district in something that was actually comfortable.
Pulling up the waistband of her trousers, she hooks her torch into the iron claw not far from the dusty door. She grounds her feet and grips her fingers around the lip on one of two barrels that block the entryway. Scratched floorboards moan under the heavy shift of weight, the contents sloshing loudly within the cask as it is bodily moved. Hawke groans as she hauls the second to join it’s partner at the side of the room.
Hawke is greeted by the familiar smell of Darktown when she peeks her head through; damp, rot, and sewerage. She finds herself stifling a throaty cough behind her fist.
Tucking a fallen lock behind her ear, the warrior steps out into the draughty alleyway. Hinges moan behind her before the wood meets the frame with a loud slam. Hawke grasps the familiar hilt of her blade strapped to her waist and makes her way into the open street. She’s concerned to see it devoid of life, but continues forth towards her destination: Anders’ clinic.
Hawke watches the dusty shadows that pass her as she lumbers along the familiar path. Far off conversations echo their way between the bricks and mingle with the calls of scavengers picking through the scattered rubbish heaps. The fine hairs on her neck stand on end.
Thankfully the walk is short, and Hawke counts her blessings once more. The sun is still up, and will be for hours more, but that was never enough of an excuse to keep the coterie thugs at bay.
Surprised, Hawke sees Anders outside his clinic when she rounds the last corner a few feet away. He is knelt over, his back to her, cooing gently to bright golden eyes glistening in the nearby shade. His hand is outstretched and he rubs his fingers together to hold the feline’s attention. Hawke can hear him clicking his tongue.
Careful to not startle the frightened queen, nor the rugged mage tempting her, Hawke skulks over. She is thankful for having not been in her heavy armour. You’d think such a grand cowl of feathers such as Anders’ would tempt a simple alley cat.
Hawke whispers his name as she comes to a stop close by and crouches on the balls of her feet beside him. Her sheath groans against and gouges into the hardened ground. She grips his shoulder for support when she wobbles.
“I’ve seen her lurking around and peering in the windows a few times, but even though I brought out a saucer of milk for her, she’s too scared to come close.” Anders pats the earth in front of him. He had hoped a new tactic would coax the grey tabby closer.
Hawke steadies herself. “I think having a grown man waving his hand at me and making silly sounds would drive me away too,” she giggles behind her hand. “Come on, she’s seen you now. Maybe she’ll try approaching you again another time.” With that she uses Anders’ shoulder to lever herself up and holds a hand out to heave him up in turn.
Disappointment is evident when the mage sighs in defeat once he is back on his feet. Anders holds the door to his clinic open to allow Hawke through, the woman’s arm brushing against his as she passes.
“I miss having a cat around.” The pair wander further into the old clinic and Hawke stops just outside the stockroom. “I think the refugees have scared them all off… or maybe,” Anders’ form goes rigid and his eyes narrow, “eaten them.” Hawke offers a sympathetic quirk of her brows.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Anders continues, his idle pacing coming to a halt before her, however his feathers continue with the momentum. “You don’t need to stick your neck out for the mages here.” The tension in his jaw draws deeper for a brief moment before the muscles loosen and a hint of colour rises in his neck. “But you have.”
Hawke shifts her weight between her feet in silent nerves and drums a calming rhythm on the hilt of her blade. She did not ask for nor expect to be praised when she came to visit her dear friend today. Whether he didn’t realise, or simply ignored the uneasy waver she held, she doesn’t know.
“You let those apostates from Starkhaven start over. Maybe they can be an example for the world,” Anders continues with thoughtful reviere. He was amazed when it happened, and still held in awe when he thought of someone allowing such a thing for an apostate like him. They were mages who had escaped their own ruin, just like any other wishing to live free of the Circle.
Hawke decides it goes without saying that what she decided was for her father, her sister, and the man before her. Having lost Bethany to the Gallows still burned with a deep pain, raw and festering just as harsh the day she was taken away. It cut her to the core to think of her sister locked away, fresh air and daylight becoming a luxury in her new life. But today was a day to be happy, today was another day that Hawke drew breath and had people she cared for and who in turn cared for her. She decides to reply with humour, not wanting to let the bitter memories stain her friends good intentions.
“I always had a thing for scrappy underdogs, I must admit,” Hawke shrugs indignantly, the corners of her mouth pricking upwards. Her mind conjures forth a vivid image of her hound jumping onto her bed with his slobber flying any which way.
It’s when Anders’ pleasant smile falters and the air about him shifts that Hawke’s own face falls. His eyes flee to her side, seeing beyond the material world and sink into the surging depths of his mind. His chest stills momentarily, lungs ceasing all function for but a moment.
When he draws his next breath, it is calm, controlled. The ever instant words of Justice reach and gripe for influence; it was a nagging sensation. Anders frowns as a headache murmurs behind his eyes and in amongst the thoughts cascading between his ears. He refuses to acknowledge the concern plaguing Hawke’s handsome features once he brings himself to look her in the eye.
“I’ve tried to hold back,” he mutters, shame tightening its vice about his gullet. “You… saw what I almost did to that girl.” Suddenly the palms of his hands are a fascinating plane for his caramel eyes to rove. Anything but Hawke’s hurt look.
The pair are silent, the empty room compliments the atmosphere they share.
Anders opens his mouth to speak, but hesitation seizes him.
“You’ve… seen what I am.” Justice, Vengeance.
Hawke watches the broken mage before her. Often she sees glimpses of who he was before he offered himself as a moral vessel for the spirit he once called friend. There was much laughter in his memories that surfaced between glances, a humour that shielded the hurt and fear and searing pain that ate at his soul. It hid the little boy once dragged from his mother’s skirts. Her brows knit together when he finds the strength to look at her once more.
“But I’m... still a man, Hawke,” comes the weathered confession as carefully laid bricks of fortification and refusal begin to waver. “You can’t tease me like this...” He swallows the thickness in his throat, the swell forming, choking him of his thoughts and his speech. “I can’t resist forever.”
It is in this moment that Hawke realises what is happening, what she’s witnessing.
Before her stands a splintered being, divided between purpose and desire. Her eyes burned as she stood frozen, her mouth agape and her thoughts quivering. She’d never outright told him the affection she held, she understood he felt them too but he had made the decision time and time again through how he carried himself and spoke, that a companionship like that between them was not for him. It’s not what he wanted for her.
Releasing clenched fists, the woman hesitates. Words forming on her tongue die like a match in a gale.
Does she now take up Justice’s shield and bar Anders from the feelings he can bear no longer? Is it now her role to recoil from his voice like he had hers, because in this moment of weakness, he himself cannot?
What would hurt them more; to lie or truth?
Hawke’s nostrils flare as she draws a scorching breath; she flexes her fingers that hang by her sides, her gaze fixed before her. She pauses a moment before her meek voice is found once more. “I don’t want you to resist.”
She takes a step towards him, and his hand rises for a beat before falling back. They are consumed by shared disbelief.
Then every nerve in Anders’ tired body ignites with renewed purpose. Reaching for Hawke, he gasps with effort as his lips find the hot embrace hers in urgent greed. Endless dissent, demur, all swallowed up by his hands on her arms, her sides, her hair. He cups her flushed cheek as her neck cranes for him, and only him.
Hawke opens the floodgates of her passion and holds Anders’ stubbled face between her warm hands. She does not stop, nor does she wish to stop their long deprived kiss. The guilt bubbling in her stomach is pushed aside as her mind opens its senses and consumes selfishly, every touch and sensation. They have wanted this for too long.
When they part, it feels as if it were too soon. The scant distance is like a gaping hole between them. Breaths are short, and grasps unreleased. Hawke smooths circles over Ander’s growing caramel beard with her thumbs, a sweet caress that cannot hide the cold sensation returning to his lips.
He watches his hand, marvelling, as he embraces the curve of this woman’s waist. Anders feels the fleeting joy die as the absence of her form returns to his anxious being.
“This will be a disaster,” he remarks with confidence. He drums a pattern with his fingertips. “But I can’t live without it.”
Hawke runs the ends of her fingers along his jaw as he speaks to her, idly listening, and ghosts them across his lonely lips. “We could die tomorrow. I don’t want it to be before I tell you how I feel.”
Anders worries that she is not listening, and grabs her wandering curiosity by the wrist. He stares into her deeply. He is sincere and vulnerable, his heart still regaining composure.
“I’ve never felt this way,” Hawke whispers. She is scared. Terrified that the decision she made was the wrong one.
“... About anyone,” she continues, determined to not back away, not shy away from that cannot be undone. It hurts her to imagine retracting from his warm touch.
Voice rasping, Anders’ speaks with tumultuous aching. “I thought with Justice,” disappointment and frustration, lingering feelings of the ever present spirit, trickle into the pool of his mind, “... I thought this part of me was over.” The comfort, the desire, the selfishness.
“I can’t give you a normal life, Hawke. If you’re with me, we’ll be hunted,” his fist balls against her waist,“hated.”Of course, she did not understand where these whispered promises grew from, no one could ever comprehend it but him and Justice alone. Anders would never be a simple apostate living cowered in fear, not with a spirit who demanded action and had means of taking it.
“The world will be against us,” he breathes.
Hawke watches on in bated anticipation, frantic to hear where she stood now that the ultimate boundary of lucid touch had been broken and burned before her. They could not turn back, not now. Not ever.
“If your door is open tonight, I will come for you.” The promise brings a spark of fear and of hope. “If not,” Anders sighs, unsure of himself and hesitant, “I’ll know you took my warning at last.” He doesn’t know which he’d rather her take.
He was in two minds; to be with Hawke, or to protect her. These could not be shared; coexistence was impossible. He sees it in his dreams, it burns into his minds eye when he is awake. He will watch it; with his bare hands he would one day tear the skin from her body and bathe her in the salt of Justice’s vengeance. This is the only promise he can ever make. He will burn them to the ground, Hawke and he.
He will be her demise, and he is powerless to deny her.
Like suddenly she was licked by Holy flames, Anders released Hawke and stepped back, the flesh of his hands engorged with an invisible burning that is not there. He dared one look at her before forcing himself to turn away without a word, head hung low.
Hawke knew she needed to leave.