Chapter Text
Ow, Hawke thought. That was… ow.
One minute, he was tracking down a lead on some survivors from the Starkhaven circle; the next, he was lying on the ground somewhere he’d never seen before with the worst headache of his life. It was worse than that time he lost a bet to Isabela, who then got to choose all of his drinks for an hour. Anders had given him a severe lecture at home, but he did teach him several new spells to help with the unpleasant aftereffects. Who knew that a hangover wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after a night of drinking.
Wherever he was, it seemed to be evening. He rubbed his temples and passed some healing magic through his aching head, then sat up and looked around. He was in a courtyard with a bronze statue of Andraste off to the side, casting long shadows on the otherwise plain lawn. A large gate to what seemed to be a castle’s interior loomed to his left, and beyond that was a crowded space for a few workshops. After a few seconds, he heard voices coming from around the corner of one of the buildings. He placed a hand on his staff and slowly crept his way to the edge of the wall, trying to make out the voices. The Starkhaven mages, perhaps?
“…not my problem. She’ll have to drag my cold corpse to that marsh if she wants me to go again.” He didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but it sounded Ferelden. Another man spoke.
“Isn’t that what the spirit feller is? He still gives me the creeps.” This one was older and slurred, the sort of voice one grew accustomed to after frequent visits to the Hanged Man.
“But he’s not a mage. She’s going to drag at least one of us along, and I’m tired of getting roped into all of these ‘grand adventures’. I’ve got better things to do.” Anders! Finally, a familiar voice. His partner’s voice sent a wave of relief washing over him as he took his hand off of his staff. He wasn't sure how or why they were separated, or why Anders had left him lying over to the side, but if he knew these people, they must be safe.
The young man spoke again. “Right, right, because we all know what you want.”
Hawke stepped around the building and began walking towards the small group. They were standing at the entrance to another large gate at the courtyard’s exit. The young man was a human with long, brown hair tied back and a staff strapped to his back. The drunken voice came from a red-headed dwarf who looked like he hadn’t slept since the fourth blight. Anders was standing with his back to Hawke. Maker, what was he wearing? Hawke must have been out longer than he thought. Maybe his clothes were too badly damaged, and he had borrowed some from the Starkhaven mages? He hoped not; Anders adored that feather coat. That would make the dwarf a mercenary. Perhaps they had mistaken Hawke and his friends for intruders and knocked them out before realizing their peaceful intent.
Anders sighed wistfully. “That’s right, a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools. Surely that’s not too much to ask for.”
Hawke froze for a moment and frowned. A pretty girl? If Anders had seen him and said that, Hawke would’ve assumed he was joking, and he was sure Anders would have given him a smile, or a quick kiss, or something to reassure him that he was just teasing. But behind his back? It wasn't like they were keeping their relationship a secret; everyone knew that the Champion and the other apostate were living together.
He cleared his throat and slid an arm around Anders as he walked up. “Does it have to be a pretty girl?”