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When Anders was a boy, he never thought that he would make it past the ripe old age of twenty. This was true in his mind for a few reasons; first, growing up in a poor family with little access to food or heat, Anders was always surprised when he and his family survived another winter. If the cold or the starvation didn't get him, he thought his father, a trying man who seemed to see Anders more as a burden than a son, might succeed where those failed.
Second was when he was finally taken to the Ferelden Circle; Kinloch Hold had a reputation known across Thedas, and Anders didn't think that the templars there would have much patience with a boy barely older than twelve who had a smart tongue and a bad habit of setting the room around him on fire. He was right, but the templars were experienced, knew just how much he could take, and some of the more sadistic ones seemed to delight in punishing him whenever he got too out of line.
After his first escape attempt, he assumed that all that waited for him back at the Circle was the Rite of Tranquility, a fate worse than death, but when all that happened was Greagoir throwing him in the dungeons for a week, Anders wondered what kept him safe. The templars had not held back when re-capturing him, but life at the Circle quickly went back to normal for him, albeit with a few more templars on rotation anytime Anders decided to leave his room.
(He still doesn't know why Irving protected him, specifically. Apprentices went missing all the time, and rumors went around about how Irving was behind it, how a few sacrifices kept the templars from looking at the rest of them too closely. Anders wished the templars would look at him a little less closely, actually, but - well, he still doesn't understand why he was allowed to get away with so much. Why he wasn't made Tranquil the moment he tried to escape for the second time, the third, fourth, fifth times, why he was just thrown into the dungeons each time. He probably won't ever know, but he still doesn't know if he should thank Irving for it or not. If this small… Anders won't call it a kindness , not particularly, but he's not sure it makes up for everything else Irving may have done.)
And then there was the second to last escape attempt, the one he tried after Karl had been transferred to the Gallows. He thought he'd die in solitary, thought he'd die alone in the dark with no one to comfort him. He still doesn't know if it was exactly a year; there was no sunlight in the room, no windows, nothing to track the days passing, just templars showing up with food and water so that Anders didn't starve before his punishment could be properly completed.
He doesn't know how he didn't go insane. Or, well, maybe he did, and he just doesn't know it. It would certainly explain some things.
Twenty passed, and then twenty-five with Anders still alive, still himself, and then the Grey Wardens came along, and the Warden-Commander gave Anders an out that he doesn't know if he regrets taking or not. He knew joining them was effectively a long, drawn-out death sentence, but even now he can't fault Sansia for conscripting him as a last-ditch effort to get the templars off his tail. They had been reluctant to let him go; they always are, and this particular group had consisted of more than a few of Anders' least favorite fans. Sansia had effectively gotten them off his back, but that freedom had come with a catch. Anders hadn't really expected anything different; after seven failed escape attempts, he'd given up on ever finding something easy.
Still, she'd been easy to work for, until the Wardens decided to send her away and Anders was left working for a man who'd rather see an apostate dead than a Grey Warden.
(It was lucky that Anders had always been good at escaping tight spots.)
And then, there was Kirkwall, and Anders had thought that his story would end there. A city crawling with templars, and even in the slums of the undercity, Anders didn't think he would go unnoticed. One year passed, and then another few, and then Anders was older than he ever thought he'd be, and, worst of all, he was happy, happier than he'd ever been, and the happiness made it so much harder when he started to lose himself.
The last year there is… hard, for Anders to remember. It felt like a frenzy, trying to escape the templars, trying to keep the clinic from being discovered, trying to be human for Hawke, deciding that there was only one path forward, and accepting that he would need to sacrifice all the happiness he'd been given for his cause.
It was… the hardest thing in the world, laying next to Hawke, knowing what he would be putting him through. Knowing that Hawke would be more likely than not putting a blade to his throat in the aftermath of Anders' decision.
He thought he'd die, after that. Either Meredith would finally take her due, or Hawke would finally realize that Anders had to be put down, that the only justice for his actions would be an execution. Anders hadn't lied to Isabela, all those years ago when they'd spoken about action and justice. He knew that what he did made him a murderer, and he was ready to accept whatever consequences came with his decision.
There could not be peace. He knew that much.
Instead, Hawke had snuck him out in the chaos, while Meredith was still cooling on the steps of the Gallows. No one else had followed; Kirkwall was breaking apart around them, and most weren't paying attention to the Champion leading away a random apostate. It hadn't been long enough for word to get around that Anders was the cause, and before the announcement could go out, before Anders became one of the most wanted men in Thedas (and the most wanted criminal in Starkhaven, thanks to Sebastian), Isabela had spirited the two of them away on a boat.
Hawke led him to an abandoned cabin on the coast; when Anders had asked Hawke how he'd known about the place, he'd gotten some vague, clipped answer before Hawke had left him there, saying that he needed a minute to think. The quiet had felt endless, back then, and Anders had wondered if maybe this was the justice he deserved after all, if an execution was too easy, too quick a punishment.
(They hadn't spoken much, in those days. The understanding, the acceptance, those all came later.)
Anders hasn't so much as made the cabin his home as he's made it his penance. The walls are bare and the fireplace remains unlit on all but the coldest nights. It's no less than he deserves, even if he pretends otherwise for Hawke's benefit.
Maybe Anders did die in Kirkwall. A part of him did, certainly, sitting on the crate and waiting to feel Hawke's knife slice against his throat. A part of him died at the look on Hawke's face when he'd emerged from the fog, when Hawke had realized what Anders had done, what he'd helped Anders do.
It's been a few years since then. Anders isn't exactly sure how long it's been; it's hard to track the time out here in the middle of nowhere.
Hawke doesn't come by the cabin often. With Meredith and Orsino both gone, Kirkwall had needed someone to look after it, and as far as he knows, Hawke and Varric have been hard at work doing what they can to mitigate the… fallout.
Anders also knows that Hawke doesn't come as often because he doesn't always know what to do with Anders.
They've spoken about the Chantry, more than once. Of course they have. The Chantry, Anders manipulating Hawke into getting the ingredients for the bomb, Justice's influence, everything up to and including Anders thanking Hawke for not killing him , and they've had blow-out fights and quiet discussions and teary confessions and struggles and - and -
Hawke still loves him. Anders… on an objective level, he understands that, he embraces that, thanks whatever gods do or don't exist that he hasn't lost Hawke to this as well. It's just… harder, to remind himself of this during the long days spent alone at the coast, staring off at Kirkwall in the distance, hidden by the fog and sea, wondering if this loneliness is all he has to cling on to.
He still loves Hawke. He doesn't think there's anything that could happen to stop him from doing that.
(Anders hasn't heard from anyone other than Hawke in years. He can't blame them; from the first moment he'd chosen his path, he'd known what the outcome would be, and he doesn't blame any of them for pulling away. Still. He misses them, especially so when the loneliness gets overwhelming and the cold of the cabin chills him to the bone.)
Regardless, even if Kirkwall wasn't his end, most Wardens don't live to be old. Anders will be no different, he's certain of that.
He's started to hear the Calling.
Sansia hadn't been able to really explain it when he asked; the Wardens did love their secrets, and with Weisshaupt going nearly radio silent following the Blight, there hadn't been anyone else he could ask. She'd guessed that he had most of his life in front of him; apparently most Wardens don't start going crazy with taint sickness until they're starting to get white hair (Anders couldn't tell if it was a joke or not, especially when she'd very deliberately not pointed to her own white hair, unnaturally white for someone only a few years older than he was). Later, Stroud hadn't been any help either, although Anders thinks that's just because Stroud hated him in particular.
The Calling is… it's beautiful and horrific in equal measure, and Anders immediately understands why it's so hard to resist.
He'd already gotten a little taste when Corypheus decided to play with him, on their last descent into the darkness. Thankfully, Hawke had been there to snap him out of it, but Anders had never truly forgotten that feeling.
And now it's back.
The song curls through his mind, through his veins, a haunting melody that he can't even escape when he sleeps. It's started to break through into the Fade, a lilting tune that Anders can't help but be drawn to. Whispers, too quiet to make anything out, tug at Anders' mind until he finds himself staring west, absentmindedly planning out what he'll need for a trip to the Deep Roads once more.
Hawke can't know. That's the first thing Anders decides, once he realizes that there's nothing he can do to escape, this time.
Back in Kirkwall, before the Chantry and the escape and the everything of it all, Hawke had asked about the Grey Warden taint and the Calling. They'd defeated Corypheus, and that night, Hawke had asked. Anders had been honest; the Calling looming over him like a sword of Damocles was just another reason Hawke should leave him, should find someone who's life didn't come with an early expiration date.
Hawke had listened to Anders' entire explanation with a look of determination on his face, putting away the sarcasm when the gravity of the situation became clear. He hadn't said anything at the end of Anders' explanation, not immediately; he'd grabbed Anders face, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones, and kissed him until Anders didn't feel like hyperventilating, until Anders finally felt grounded, until Corypheus' influence was nothing more than a distant memory.
And then Hawke had asked how long he'd had. Promised to follow Anders into the dark. Said that if Anders was going to go face the end in the Deep Roads, that Hawke would be at his side and they could both go out in a blaze of glory fighting off darkspawn and keeping the rest of the world safe.
The memory hurts. And it's for that reason that Anders won't tell Hawke. He's done enough.
Anders settles himself eventually; Justice is determined to fight against the Calling in much the same way that he had against Corypheus, but something about this feels… different, than back then.
Justice is powerful, but Anders doubts how much he'll be able to help once they're in the thick of it.
He resigns himself to leaving without a goodbye, resigns himself to going to face his death alone, and decides to pack.
Which, of course, is when Hawke shows up at his door, a few month's worth of provisions tied to the back of his horse that Anders helps him carry inside.
Hawke looks older. It's the first thing Anders notices, and something about the noticing makes his chest feel like it's caving in. There are gray hairs starting to form at Hawke's temples, and his crow's feet are more pronounced then they were when they last saw each other, and all of it makes Anders realize that they're growing old, apart, pushed back together for a few nights every few months, if that, because Kirkwall needs its Champion and Varric needs Hawke's help and Anders can't be part of either of those two needs, and -
These are the thoughts that catch him in spirals when Hawke isn't here, when Anders is left alone in the cottage on the cliff with nothing but Justice's determination and righteousness as a conversational partner.
It's been a long span of months without him, made longer still by whatever has happened to cause the crack in the sky and the lack of answers Justice has been able to provide. Anders asks, but Hawke doesn't have any answers; he doesn't meet Anders' eye when he says this, though, and the look he shoots the breach in the sky looks almost venomous, as though Hawke knows exactly what it is and what it's causing.
They eat, and talk, and Anders doesn't tell Hawke that he's started to hear music in his mind again. It's easier to ignore than when Corypheus had driven the Calling through his head, and he wonders if proximity to the Deep Roads has something to do with that, but it's still there, a patient and constant companion that even Hawke's presence doesn't completely diminish.
Dinner is… just this side of tense. Hawke isn't telling him something, either. Anders knows him too well, knows his tells, but he doesn't push. Hawke just tells him that Varric's summoned him for another project, and not to worry, but that it might be a bit longer before he's able to return to the cabin.
Anders accepts this with grace - the longer Hawke is away, the longer it will be before his final betrayal is revealed, and the less chance that Hawke will try and track him down.
So, Anders doesn't tell him. Hawke - Hawke has so much in front of him, so much life and so much love and Anders isn't going to be the one to doom him with this knowledge. It's just - it's for the best if he can just disappear, fade into the mist without pulling Hawke along. This can be his final gift to Hawke.
And Anders has been happy . He's been so happy, for longer than he ever thought he would get, and it's okay. This can be it.
He kisses Hawke, after dinner, and Hawke kisses him back, and Anders pretends like this isn't the end, pretends like he hasn't already overstayed his welcome, and when Hawke's arms wind around his waist, so gentle, Anders just pushes further in.
They still always fall into bed together, because even after everything, after all the betrayal and the complication and the self-hatred and the resignation, there's still love there. Neither of them know how to let the other go.
Anders doesn't know who Hawke sees when he kisses Anders, when he presses him back into the bed and runs a calloused hand against his torso. He doesn't know if Hawke sees him, now, years of being a fugitive having taken their toll, tangled hair pulled into a loose braid, or if he sees a younger version of both of them, before Anders turned their lives upside down. If, when Hawke closes his eyes and sinks into Anders, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth with a gentleness that makes his breath catch in his throat, Hawke's transported back to Kirkwall, back to when he was just the man who made survived the Deep Roads and Anders was just a healer who had managed to survive another year in Darktown without the templars coming down on his head.
They kiss and bite and Anders tangles his fingers in Hawke's hair and presses them so close, as if to imprint Hawke on his very soul, and Hawke's hands are like firebrands on his hips, and Anders claims his mouth as though it's his to have, and Hawke gives as good as he gets until he finally has Anders on his back, arcing up and begging for him with a wrecked voice.
When Hawke finally comes, sinking deep inside Anders, his eyes are squeezed shut, hands clutching the bedsheets and rucking them up as he lets out a litany of curses, lips against Anders' neck and hot against Anders' chest, legs tangled together as Hawke pulls out and lets himself fall into Anders' embrace.
Anders holds him for as long as Hawke will let him, trying to hold back the tears that prick at the corner of his eyelids as he tries to pretend that this is just the two of them, years ago, laying sweaty and sated in Hawke's Hightown estate, before the Chantry explosion and the mage rebellion drove a wedge deep into the trust between them.
You cannot escape this, he hears, a low growl from the corner of his mind. We still have work to do.
Justice still doesn't think the Calling will be stronger than him. Anders is tired of arguing.
Please, he thinks, please just give me this. Let me pretend.
Justice backs off, a rare occasion that Anders is sure he'll hear about later, when Hawke is gone. And maybe Justice is right, but Anders doesn't care right now, not when Hawke is laying sticky against him, breath brushing against Anders' cheek. He presses a shaky kiss to Hawke's temple and whispers how much he loves him, over and over and over until Hawke finally kisses him again, to shut him up or to agree, Anders doesn't know.
They fall asleep, Anders tucked back into Hawke's chest while Hawke's arm rests heavy over his waist. Their hands are entwined, fingers tangled together and pressed close enough to feel Ander's heartbeat.
He tries to stay awake for as long as he can, cataloguing the heat of Hawke's body at his back, wondering if he can push off the inevitable end that will come with the morning if he just doesn't sleep, but eventually the exhaustion pulls at him until he falls under as well.
When Hawke leaves the next morning, Anders leans in and kisses him the way he couldn't afford to before he blew up the Chantry. He doesn't care if Hawke knows something is wrong this time, doesn't care if Hawke tries to call him on it, he just… he's scared and so alone and he might very well be dead by the time Hawke figures out what's happened, and for once he wants to pretend like this is something he deserves.
Hawke kisses him back, and as his hands wind around Anders' waist and pull him closer, it almost feels normal. His lips are soft and his hands are warm, and Anders strokes his cheekbone with his thumb, memorizing everything about the way Hawke presses against him, cataloging the drag of his lips and the way his beard scratches at Anders' skin and the softness of his hair that he lets Anders pull out of his sloppy ponytail to run his fingers through.
Maker, but Anders loves him. All of him. The way his fingers press against Anders' hips, the specific way he kisses with earnest determination and lazy understanding, the way his hand catches Anders' and runs a thumb along his wrist at every opportunity, how he'll always manage to tangle them together in their sleep even if they're in glorified cots on the ground. The way he makes Anders feel less alone, the way it's so much easier to bat away the guilt and regret and self-hatred when he's here, when Anders can touch him and see Hawke's eyes light up when they reunite again.
He's going to miss this. More than anything.
They pull apart far too soon for Anders' liking; it's always too soon for Anders' liking, but he knows he should just be thankful that Hawke hadn't slipped a knife between his ribs when Anders had asked, thankful that Hawke cared enough to bring Anders here, to this cabin, and to keep coming around, even after everything.
Anders keeps his eyes closed for a moment after the kiss, taking a shuddering breath that he hopes comes off as regret at Hawke having to leave instead of steadying himself for knowing that this will be the last time he gets to hold Hawke like this, the last time he gets to touch him. He can't break, not now. That would give the whole game away, and he's made it this far without adding this burden to Hawke's shoulders as well; he can make it through a goodbye kiss and pretend he'll still be here in a few months when Hawke is finally able to get away again.
Hawke doesn't call him on it, maybe because he knows if he does, Anders will press on what Varric's asked him for help on this time.
Anders remembers when neither of them would have hidden something like this, when all Hawke needed to do was grin and pull Anders into a soft, gentle kiss to get what he wanted, when nothing was too important to keep from each other.
Well. Almost nothing. He broke that trust first; he can't be upset now that Hawke is paying him back. Secrets swirl around them now, both of them playing cards closer to their chest than they used to.
It hurts. Anders doesn't find comfort in the knowledge that it won't hurt him for much longer.
Hawke leaves, eventually, making a vague promise to return in a few months' time, or send word if he can't. Anders pretends like the world isn't crashing around his ears as he nods and tells Hawke to be safe.
A final press of Hawke's lips to his cheek, leaning down from the mare he'd borrowed from a nearby town, and then he's gone. Anders leans against the doorway and watches, heart aching, until Hawke is swallowed up by the fading morning light.
With a final nod, steeling himself for what has to come next, he shuts the door and steps back into the cabin.
It's a small thing, packing up the rest of his life into a few bags that he can carry with him. A few extra robes, some food for the trip, and his staff. Papers, some lyrium potions and elfroot, and a few other trinkets that he doesn't want to leave behind for whatever adventurer will show up here next.
He pulls the old scraps of his manifesto out of his bag to make some more room; after Varric had gone to the trouble of getting them bound, he hasn't been able to get rid of them. Where he's going, he won't need it anymore. He sets the book on the table and scribbles down a quick note on a spare piece of paper, placing it on top of the book. For a moment, he pauses, fingers resting on top of the paper as he traces the scratches of the last line. With a heavy swallow, he reaches up and unclasps the amulet from around his neck, the one Hawke had given him nearly six years ago. The weight lifts off his neck, and he sets it down next to the note. There's so much more he wants to write. So much more he wants to say, so much Hawke deserves to know, but Anders knows that if he lets himself write all of it down, every single thing he feels about Hawke and how grateful he's been for him every single day for nearly a decade now, he won't be able to stop.
He settles for short; Hawke doesn't need to know about the Calling, doesn't need to know that Anders left him behind to go face his final moments alone against the darkspawn in the Deep Roads.
Love,
Thank you for letting me be happy for a while. I love you, still.
I'm sorry.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and Anders pulls the hood of his cloak over his head. He's not recognizable anymore, at least not compared to the wanted posters Sebastian had commissioned of him. His hair is longer and pulled into a braid, and his beard is more than a few months worth of stubble that he keeps cleanly trimmed.
With the help of some glamours, he should be able to keep his disguise intact until he reaches Adamant Fortress. He's already heading toward his eventual death; he doesn't need templars coming in to hurry it along.
The wind along the Storm Coast is harsh, and while the salt spray of the ocean doesn't reach up as high as the cottage, Anders can still smell it in the air. He glances over toward the meager garden that he'd kept for the past few years, and wishes it was a bit earlier, when he'd be able to take some fresh fruit with him for this long journey. At least he'd been able to talk Hawke out of trying to build a stable and a coop for animals; Anders would have felt much more guilty leaving if he would have needed to leave them behind as well.
The call pulls at him again, the melody almost feeling physical as a warm brush of air runs against his face, turning his head toward the sea. Toward Adamant, toward the other Grey Wardens who may be as eager to kill him as the templars, depending on their persuasion.
He gets a pulse of defiance from the ever-familiar corner in his mind, and wonders if Justice truly believes he can save him from this.
Anders can't help but laugh, bitter and broken and tired. He gets another brush against his mind, an insistent press of concern and confusion, and in answer he brushes his hand against his forearm. His veins haven't turned black and twisted from the taint yet, but it won't be long, he's sure, before his skin pulls taut and thin like Larius' had, back in the Warden's prison.
He lets his sleeve fall back down and swings the bag up over his back. When he gets to a town, he can barter some of the trinkets for a horse; it will take a long time to get to the Western Approach, even on horseback, especially when Anders is going to try and avoid the more commonly used roads.
He doesn't know when Hawke will come next. Doesn't know when his intentional, if necessary, betrayal will be discovered, or if it will ever be. Maybe this is the time that Hawke's finally decided that enough's enough, that Anders' actions were unforgivable, that he was simply in denial for this long and has finally seen the light.
Maybe Hawke will come back. Maybe he'll be relieved.
Anders takes a deep breath against the sudden ache in his chest and closes his eyes.
None of this should matter . Anders won't be around to witness it, not with the Calling feeling more and more like a physical force tugging at him, wrapping bonds around his arms and hands and pulling , until Anders has no choice but to follow.
But, still. He hadn't been lying when he'd said that Hawke was the only bright light in Kirkwall. Hawke had been there for him when the depression had pulled Anders under, when he'd woken gasping from nightmares of torture at the hands of the templars or darkspawn in the Deep Roads. Hawke had been… is everything, and Anders doesn't want to give him up, but he knows he has to. He's already dragged Hawke down once, and he won't be the one to do it again.
If Hawke does come back, if by some miracle he still feels the same way about Anders as Anders will always feel about him, then, well. Hawke will never forgive him for this.
But at least he'll still be alive to hate him. That can be enough. That has to be enough.
Anders takes one long look back at the cottage, dark against the faint light of the moon. He raises a shaking hand and closes his eyes, feeling the magic thrum through his veins and take shape, remake the world. When he opens his eyes, ivy patterned with slowly blooming moonflowers curls across the building, nearly sealing the door shut.
Not a strong deterrent, but hopefully enough to keep any adventurous children or scavengers away. Just enough to protect his final words to Hawke, for better or worse.
Maybe in another life, Anders could have had this. A little house on the coast, the man he loves beside him. No Circles, no darkspawn, a life where Anders could be free to live the way he wants with who he loves and they wouldn't have to worry about anything apart from whether the garden was going to blossom that year or whether they'd get enough rain. Little worries, little concerns, and Anders would be able to kiss Hawke every night without questioning him, without questioning himself, without Justice's head in the back of his mind keeping him inexorably focused on the cause of the mages.
A peaceful life. Maybe in another life he would have done enough to deserve that.
In this life, the music spins around his ears and pulls him forward, away from Hawke, away from everything he's ever known, toward a future he's uncertain of.
Onward and upward. This time, Anders doesn't look back.