Chapter Text
This wasn't happening.
Anders held his breath as the Arishok's blade swung towards Hawke, missing her face by a hair's breadth. He looked down to where she had encased the Qunari's feet in jagged boots of ice. She can do this, he told himself. She's the only one who could even entertain doing something so brash, so foolish, so…brave.
Hawke was fiery in a way he'd never encountered among circle-raised mages. She knew neither limits nor confinement; a wild and terrifying thing as free as her namesake. Morgan Hawke fought fiercely, loved fiercely, and she would survive this. She has to.
In the heartbeat before Hawke took cover behind one of the hall's pillars, Anders watched blood begin to trickle from a fresh gash across her cheek. His heart pounded. She hadn't dodged the Arishok's attack as cleanly as he'd thought.
"Maker, please–" he breathed, but before he could finish his prayer he felt the telltale pulse of Hawke's magic. The air shimmered in the makeshift arena, and the crowd watched as the Arishok slowed. His movements became sluggish, as if he were pushing through water.
Hawke was controlling gravity itself to give herself the advantage, Anders realized. He'd only seen her use the spell a handfull of times, and each time it had filled him with awe. In that moment he wondered how he could have ever doubted her. Of course she's going to come out on top. She always does, she always will.
He watched Hawke dash to the opposite end of the hall. She was putting distance between herself and the Arishok. She crouched, her fingers curled into claws. Her palms glowed with writhing red light as fire licked her fingers. Anders' eyes darted from Hawke to the Arishok. The pull of her gravity well wouldn't hold for long, would she have time to conjure her firestorm? Anders' heart raced. It would be close, far too close. Even as black smoke billowed over Hawke's head and the temperature in the room became sweltering, the Arishok was breaking loose from the well. Anders watched in terror as the lumbering Qunari's pace quickened.
Morgan.
He wanted to shout her name. Maybe he did, but his heart was thundering so loud in his ears that he couldn't tell. Hawke continued to channel the storm with her arms raised high and her eyes screwed shut in concentration. Oh Maker, Morgan, open your eyes. He's coming, he's coming.
Finally there was a deafening crack: the first of the storm's molten stones hurtled into the floor. Too close, he's too close!
The Arishok had broken free of her gravity well. He rushed toward her now with his sword raised to strike.
"No!" Anders felt more than heard his voice, the one word tearing painfully from his throat. He surged forward, only to be halted by an arm against his waist. Varric. A half second later there was a hand gripping his shoulder. Aveline.
Why!?
The Arishok's sword moved in a sideways arc. Almost in slow motion, Anders watched Hawke finish casting. Molten stone began pelting the hall in earnest now, but none yet struck the Arishok a disarming blow. Still his sword cut through the air towards her. Hawke's eyes flashed open. They met his, and in that brief moment he saw fear. Hawke–Morgan– was afraid, and that alone turned Anders' stomach to ice.
Anders felt the crack of the Arishok's blade against Hawke's ribs; it rattled in his bones and made him feel suddenly ill. He stood frozen, watching the woman he loved thrown like a ragdoll across the hall. Anders felt the vague sensation of Aveline's fingers digging into his shoulder.
"We can't, Blondie. We have to trust her."
Varric. His voice was stricken with poorly disguised worry. Who was he trying to convince: Anders, or himself?
Anders watched numbly as Hawke's firestorm rained down now in earnest. Each stone seered flesh from its target, but still the Arishok pushed forward, albeit slower than before, each step now an effort.
Please.
He wouldn't watch her die like this. Damn the Arishok, and his Qun, and all of Kirkwall. This damned city had already taken Karl from him, he wouldn't let it have her too. He would not watch her die. Neither Varric nor Aveline would stop him. He reached for his magic, felt his power build.
Then Hawke stirred. Blood streaming from her nose, she pushed herself to her hands and knees. Anders didn't dare to breathe. How many of her ribs had broken with that blow? Was there internal bleeding? He had no way of knowing just by looking at her. She managed to get her legs out from under her, and Morgan Hawke stood to face her opponent once again.
A gasp rippled through the awestruck crowd, and amidst his own roiling terror a trill of warmth flitted through his nerves: a fierce pride. Hawke, his Hawke, with steel in her spine and fire in her heart, would stare down her foe, unblinking. She raised her staff. She sucked in a deep breath with a grimace. And then, when she brought the butt of her staff down against the stone floor, Anders watched her bring the fist of the Maker down upon the Arishok. Bones cracked and muscle tore under the force of her magic coming down like a massive hammer.
Dead. The Arishok was dead. It was…over. Anders broke from the cheering crowd and was beside her in and instant. He could have wept at the sight of her standing before him, alive, but now was not the time.
"Morgan," he gasped, only to be promptly interrupted by the slamming open of the keep's doors followed by the last person's voice he wanted to hear.
'Is it over?' Meredith asked the question so frivolously, as if she'd missed out on a party. Nevermind that Hawke, a mage had nearly died for this ceasefire. Justice roiled dangerously in his core. Not now, not yet. Meredith would get what she was owed, but right now Hawke was more important. Anders stepped forward, shielding his lover's smaller frame with his own. Her fight with the Arishok was enough, a fight with Meredith was the last thing she needed. Anders moved to pull his staff from his back when a hand laid on his shoulder.
"It's over," Hawke replied from behind him. How could she breathe, let alone speak? And yet here she was with her head held high, staring down Meredith as she had stared down the Arishok only moments before. Fierce, free–
Champion.
The word rang out through the hall to a cacophony of cheering voices. Just like that the bubble of tension burst. Nobles cheered, wept, many rushing out of the keep alive and free once more. Meredith stalked out of the hall with her cadre of templars and the First Enchanter in tow.
"Help." Hawke's whisper cut through all of the jubilant noise in an instant. Anders' arm wrapped around her waist mere seconds before her legs buckled. Isabella rushed to Hawke's other side, slinging the injured woman's arm over her shoulders.
"The barracks," Aveline ordered quietly so as not to be heard above the relieved chatter of the nobility. Carefully their party slipped blessedly unnoticed from the hall, and into the privacy of Aveline's office.