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“Something’s going on with the wardens,” she says, her face turned away as she straps on her armor. He raises himself on his arms, reaches one hand out to tug her back to bed –“They can wait for –“ The sleepy smile drops from his face as the sunlight bounces off the metal on her shoulder, illuminates the stripe of red across the bridge of her nose, the set line of her mouth.
She avoids his eyes, remains just slightly out of reach. “It’s Corphyeus, Varric’s raven just arrived.” She is strapping her staff to her back, and he is motionless in the bed, his hand lingering in the space she just left as fear settles low and heavy in his gut. They have carved out their own peace, such as it is, in this hovel, but he knows what waits beyond. Has heard the tales of rampaging Templars, bloodthirsty mages using the rebellion – our rebellion, a voice rumbles deep inside – to explore their darkest whims. He had wanted change, and he had gotten it, but he had not anticipated the cost. And the Champion and her apostate lover were reviled and deified in equal parts. If she left him now, in that damned armor – no. He all but jumps from the bed, removing his robes from the floor.
“So we’ll be leaving within the hour, I expect?” his voice is smooth, not a question but an answer in itself, and she does look at him, then. Her brows lift at the easy smile on his face, his hands pulling his golden hair into a knot at the base of his neck, and she moves to him to place her hands over his and pull them to her chest. His hair falls around his face as the smile falters. He knows what she will say before she does, but still she smiles gently and deals the blow.
“No, Anders. I have to do this, and I need to know you’re safe.” His eyes flash like blue lightning and he opens his mouth again, but she kisses him soundly and feels him sigh into her, the cool brush of his breath and his magic tasting like sorrow. She is still smiling when they pull apart, but his face is blurred and she blinks away tears to drink in the warmth of his amber eyes. She touches his cheek as he turns his face into her hand to place a kiss on her palm. He thinks of smoke and ash and the bite of a knife that did not come, and of mercy and forgiveness and the past year with kisses and smiles he didn’t deserve, and she sees it the moment he accepts, the moment his throat works and his shoulders relax and his stubble scrapes her palm as he nods.
She rests her forehead against his, presses her mouth to his once, twice, and says, “Take care of Malcolm, I’ll be back before you know it.” He smiles weakly as she walks to the door, and says a silent prayer that she is right.
-
She hates the Fade. She hates the green tint to everything, the stone towers with stairs that lead to nowhere, she hates the feeling that her feet are never quite on steady ground. And she hates the booming voice that is somehow outside her head and inside it, scratching at the walls of her skull as it taunts her, Anders will die, just like your family died. You will fail him, just as you failed Bethany, as you failed your mother. And she shakes her head as if to clear it, smirks and shoots back “Is that the best you’ve got?” as if her bravado can ease the twisting in her belly, the gnawing clawing feeling that the voice is right.
And when the choice comes, she does not cry, will not let herself. She looks to the man beside her, his eyes a golden brown almost the exact shade of Anders’, and she swallows around the knot in her throat. This man is a hero, a beacon of hope for the ages, and she knows in her bones that the world needs him more than it needs a plucky mage who found herself in the wrong place too many times. But while the world needs him more, she thinks of the one who needs her and fears that his eyes will never be golden brown again. She chokes on the words as she says them, prays the Inquisitor doesn’t hear the catch in her voice as she promises a distraction, as she turns to face the Nightmare with her spine straight and stiff. She hears them as they scrabble up the cliffside towards the rift, tightening her shaking fingers on her staff until her knuckles burn and whispers, “I’m sorry, Anders.”
-
She has been gone for three months when the dream comes.
The garden is better tended than ever, elfroot and spindleweed a poor but needed distraction. Their hut is neat and near sparkling, but the man sleeping inside is thin and worn. His hair has grown too long without her there to chide him for its tangles, his face covered in thick tawny stubble and the shadows under his eyes a dark purple. He tosses uneasily, the space beside him still strange and far too empty, but eventually, as always, he succumbs to the Fade.
The day is bright, the sun warm on the skin of his face as he feels the slight scratch of grass under his robes. Her hand is small and cool, brushing the hair out of his face and he turns to gaze upon her, eyes drinking in the sight of her too-bright blue eyes and the slight lift of her lips, as if she is trying to smile but it hurts her to do so. He raises his own hand to cup her cheek and freezes – there is no blue lightning dancing across his skin, no otherworldly glow. He feels no echo in his mind, no gravelly rumble of disappointment, and he raises questioning eyes to her.
“I asked him to give us a moment alone,” she explains, pulling his hand to her face and pressing a kiss into his palm. The gesture makes his heart catch in his throat, and as his thumb strokes her cheek he sees tears shining in her eyes.
“Love,” he starts, voice shaky and heart thundering inside his chest. “How did you -? What’s -?” The thoughts will not complete, the words will not come out, and something dark and tasting of ash is at the back of his throat. “How did you find me here?” he finally asks, and her eyes dart to the ground as she blinks away a tear she does not think he sees, before smirking at him as if her cheeks are not ashen, as if her nose is not red at the tip as it always is when she cries.
“Oh Anders, you know my determination is incomparable,” she teases, but there is no life to it, the words ring hollow and her voice is quavering. She sobers, mouth turning down at the edges and her hand reaching to grip the front of his robes. “Anders, I-“ A tear slips down her cheek, then another, and the pit inside his gut grows wider, darkness and fear clawing up his throat, but instead of speaking again, she presses her mouth to his.
The kiss is a bruising thing, all teeth and tongue as she pulls herself atop him and tightens her fist in the fabric of his robes. She kisses him as if she is trying to crawl inside him, and his hands find the back of her neck to twine his fingers in the hair at the base of her scalp. He can taste the salt on her lips from her tears, even as she rolls her hips against his, as she works her free hand to hike up his robes. He can feel the tremble in her hands as she guides him inside of her and hear the hitch in her breath that has nothing to do with pleasure as she rocks atop him. But he says nothing, simply pulls her closer, his arms around the small of her back as she grips his shoulders and her tongue caresses the inside of his teeth. He tries to lose himself in the sensations of their bodies, in the velvet heat of her, tries not to think that this seems like a goodbye. And when he feels his body begin to tighten, he reaches between their bodies to coax her to her own release. They come together, exhaling into each other’s mouths as if breathing life back into a corpse.
Her hands move from his shoulders to touch the ends of his hair and she smiles at him, soft and sad. “You really need to cut this, you know. The renegade mage look only works to a certain point.” Her voice is lighter, but catches at the end.
“Hawke,” he says gravely, almost pleadingly, as his eyes search hers. “What is going on?” As if he does not already know, as if he does not feel it like a cold weight in his stomach, an anchor as he is washed out to sea. His fingers tighten on her hips, as if he can hold her here through sheer physical force, as if this place is not as insubstantial as air and just as fleeting.
“I love you, Anders,” she replies. Not an answer, but it is just the same. “I love you, I have loved you from the first, and you were worth it all. Remember that.” She presses her lips to his, a feather-light touch, and her eyes crinkle at the corners even as tears fall anew. “Now wake up.”
-
He startles awake as if struck by lightning, his chest tight and tears on his cheeks. He brushes his fingers across his lips as if to capture the ghost of a kiss. Dimly, he registers a tapping sound, like small fingers on a table, or a bird at a window –
No. Nonono. His blood turns to ice as he looks to the window, where sits a raven with a scroll tied to its leg and an unfamiliar red crest.
He does not feel his feet hit the floor, does not tell his body to move as he takes the letter and breaks the seal. The words blur as his mind screams, that dark and ashen thing clawing up from deep inside him, swallowing him whole and he knows what he had felt in his dreams, knows the bitter darkness as grief, and he surrenders to it.
The fist that crumples the letter is crackling with azure lightning.
The Inquisition will pay for this loss. We will have vengeance.