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19 Cloudreach, 9:55 Dragon | Somewhere in Ferelden
Anders received a blow to the back of the head. The mace connected in a wet, heavy crunch and a lightning bolt of pain cracked through him. It tore like a shockwave, pulsating white hot, and ripped the vision from his eyes. A scream from his throat. He crumpled to the ground sobbing. Blood wept from the wound. It was split to the bone.
A wave of nausea crested over him and he vomited. The stench was putrid, hot brine and bile, and he retched again. His skull throbbed with sharp spasms, vision blacking in and out as the pressure in his head constricted. It was crushing, and Anders wilted into his own sick, desperate to escape the roar of battle above him. He heard a crossbow’s kickback somewhere close by, heavy wood clunking as a bolt whistled thick through the air. Someone shouted and the sound cut through him.
Anders recoiled with a weak sob. He was dangerously concussed. It wasn’t the first time, though the kick to the head in solitary confinement wasn’t as bad as this. The Veil thinned, and a spirit of Compassion pressed against it with alarmed curiosity. A mage in this much anguish always drew attention from the Fade, though she sensed his gift for healing. His intention. She pressed harder, wanting to help.
Your life is devoted to the service of others. Allow me to preserve it.
Anders could feel her reach across the Veil with primordial energy, waiting for him to accept her aid. He couldn’t, even though he could feel the cooling licks of restoration at his fingertips. His mana pool was too barren with exhaustion, and her magic wouldn’t bridge across. Compassion withdrew with worry, and provided an alternative offer:
She could pull him across the Veil and end this suffering. She could heal the hole in his head and tell him she loved him, and that she was sorry his father never did. She could take him from the waking world, and make sure he never felt pain again.
Anders was exhausted. He wanted to accept. To fade from existence in this realm and slip across the Veil. Why did she sound so much like his mother?
Mana trickled in from the Fade, but not enough to conjure a full spell. Anders felt like a dried up stream at the height of Solace, when the days were brightest and longest. He’d never get to experience the warm months again: the taste of dandelion wine on Summerday. Pretty girls in flower crowns twirling round a maypole. Cats basking in the rays of pub gardens. He thought of Karl, sunburnt after compulsory swim class on Lake Calenhad. Warm and pink when the two of them first stole a kiss in the tower library. His heart tightened.
Where was Karl now? At the Maker’s side? Or lost in the Void?
Justice roiled inside him, feverish with the need to survive. This could not be the end for them.
There is still so much to fight for.
He pulled from the Fade, from home, desperate to replenish mana as Anders’ consciousness slipped away. His frenzied outburst spooked Compassion, who withdrew from the Veil. Several other spirits crowded in her stead with mounting curiosity, some offering their services, others perplexed to sense one of their own in the mortal realm.
A spirit of Valour stepped forward, making his presence known. He felt ancient, as if he stepped from the Golden City itself, having outlived every warrior seeking his virtue across the sands of time.
Victory awaits those willing to pay its price. Do you accept my aid, mage?
Justice thrashed so hard with self-preservation that Anders came to, twitching feebly in his own sick. He felt a Templar draw close, the rush of wind as the man swung downwards for the killing blow. The need to survive started as a whisper in the brainstem, then erupted like a pyroclastic flow. In a flash, Anders scrabbled for purchase on the ground and reached for Valour. He reached back, and arcane magic coursed through him like a lightning rod.
The power of the spell ripped from his skull. Scalding pain tore white-hot, wrenching out a scream, but his intent launched the Templar backwards. Caught off-balance, then slammed to the ground by a blade between the ribs. Sunlight poked out from the clouds and Anders recoiled in anguish.
Several spirits remained pressed to the Veil, but he’d used the last of his mana. This was the end. He was sure of it. Anders buried his face into the crook of his arm and tried to remember his prayers. The ones drilled in by the Circle, but his mind blanked. Nothing came, and he wondered if Andraste would forgive him. Hawke pierced his thoughts. His heart shattered. Hawke was like the sun. Bright and solid. Anders wept, not ready to say goodbye.
“Anders,” he heard from the shadows, feeling warmth envelop him. It wrapped around his core and tugged him gently across some unseen barrier. Anders slowly slid out of himself. Out of the Fade and into Hawke’s arms. He blinked him into focus, now back in the waking world. Hawke’s sky-blue eyes were soft in the early morning light. Their noses were pressed together, and Anders trembled with relief.
“You were whimpering,” Hawke murmured, brow knitted with concern. He cradled the back of Anders’ head, fingertips gently brushing his scar. Their limbs were tangled, knotted as one, in the safety of their bed. Anders let out a small sigh and shut his eyes. Breathed him in. He instinctively roved palms up Hawke’s back to ground himself. To make sure that this was real. That Hawke was real, and the past twenty-five years hadn’t been another fever dream cooked up in solitary confinement.
“I had a bad dream,” Anders mumbled, shivering in his hold. Cold bled in from the window. The weather was so variable this time of year; sleeting hail one hour and blazing sun the next. He felt Hawke’s big, comforting hands pull him closer and rub warmth into his back. Anders soaked up his heat and sighed once again. Feeling safe. Feeling seen.
“I know,” Hawke whispered, then nosed him like a mabari stirring with his companion. Anders felt the soft scratch of his beard, ticklish against his cheek, and felt relief bubble inside his chest. He wrapped his arms around Hawke’s neck and squeezed, dangerously close to smiling. Hawke could sense it and nuzzled harder, earning a pliant laugh. Without warning, Anders heard their bedroom door creak open, and Potato was at the edge of the bed. Snuffling with excitement.
You’re awake! Good morning! Hello!
Yes, Potato. Hawke — because who else — graced her with the name. Anders thought it was dumb, but it made Hawke laugh, and hearing Hawke laugh made his heart tighten.
The mabari hopped into bed, despite the not-so-strict “No bed” rule, and wriggled between them. Tail thumping loudly against the mattress as she squeezed her portly frame between their calves. The pair would be his ruin, Anders decided. But the thought washed away when Hawke cupped his face and kissed him. He could feel the cool touch of his wedding band on his cheek, and Anders purred happily into the kiss.
He closed his eyes and his sleep-drenched brain slid back to their wedding day. The swell of applause breaking out as they melted into one other. Both solidly in place, as they had been for decades. Both at peace, after everything they had endured together. Both holding back tears, because nothing had ever felt so right. And just. And perfect.
“Happy Name Day, love,” Hawke murmured through soft kisses, and Anders wistfully dragged himself into the present. Ser Hans, who was curled up near Anders’ head, mewled in passive protest but didn’t budge himself.
“There’s nothing happy about it. I’m old,” Anders whined begrudgingly against his mouth, eyes fluttering open.
He’d stopped counting his age a long time ago. It felt like such a critical fact about him in the Circle, before Karl passed his Harrowing, when every month mattered. Karl was an older boy, and it was important that Anders made up for their three-year age difference with height, aloofness and overconfidence. But with so many years gone, slipped through his fingers like Karl had that night in the Chantry, it didn’t matter anymore.
“You’re not that old,” Hawke teased and Anders pulled off the kiss. He slid fingers through his beard to drink him in with a soft expression.
“I’m fifty,” Anders groaned. Hawke looked older. He was older. He carried it in his eyes, hardened by worry and trauma and exhaustion. Hawke was no longer the carefree, flippant man he had met in Kirkwall. Wisps of white hair flecked his temples. His beard. Anders thought it made him look distinguished, his ink-black hair now streaked with salt and pepper.
Hawke had never looked more beautiful. Weathered and hardened but still bright, even after all they’d been through. Ten years on the run was hard. The War was even harder. Then came Weisshaupt, after Anders nearly lost everything in the Fade. How the Warden-Commander came back to save them all, and pulled them out of the dark.
“Precisely. Did you ever think you’d make it to fifty?” Hawke murmured and Anders felt his despair melt away. Hawke was right: Anders never thought he’d make it to thirty. Let alone fifty. They shared another kiss, which Hawke broke with a twinkle in his eye. He untangled himself from Anders and slid off the bed, onto his feet.
“Come on. I have a surprise for you,” Hawke beamed and bounded out of their bedroom with the force of a mabari. Potato shot off the bed after him and Anders blinked at the door. Mildly stunned. How did Hawke have so much bloody energy? He was old too. Not as old as him, but that right knee should’ve given out by now. Anders’ thoughts flicked to that night in the Viscount’s Keep. When the Arishok caved Hawke’s knee in, and all the air sucked out of the room. He never walked the same after that.
Anders slowly sat up. He certainly felt fifty. Bones creaking. Body aching. A loud pop emanated from his spinal column and he grunted as it cracked back into place. The tabby was still curled up on Hawke’s pillow, and he picked him up for a cuddle.
“Good morning, Ser Hans,” Anders murmured and planted a kiss on the top of his head. Hans vibrated with a heavy purr, nestling in his arms.
Anders’ thoughts drifted to Hans. A young man from Ansburg. Compassionate. Valorous. Just. Once an Enchanter, turned lieutenant in the rebellion. Executed on a cold day in Wintermarch, on the cusp of his thirtieth summer.
Victory awaits those willing to pay its price.
He smiled sadly and slipped out of bed, holding Hans to his chest. The tabby thrummed happily in his arms as he padded through their home, in search of Hawke. Anders loved their cottage: The thatched roof. The cosy fireplace. Even the low wooden beams he’d smacked his head on one too many times. Though he loved their garden most of all. He didn’t think it was possible to fall even harder for Hawke after two decades, but he had, watching him thoroughly tend to the beds and their contents with the utmost care. Marvelling at how those big, gruff hands could produce life from nothing at all.
It was colder than it should be for this time of year, in the transition between the cold and warm months. But the front garden was budding with life: patches of carrots, rows of radishes and bushels of lettuce. The wisteria spidering across the cottage would blossom soon. Several more weeks, Anders wagered. The path leading out the front door was lined with neatly pruned rose bushes in a glorious spectrum of colours. Meandering gently up to their garden gate. A wooden plank was nailed to the gate door. The script, whittled with expert craftsmanship, spelled out Rose Cottage.
Bucolic sounds wafted in from the garden. A pair of magpies chirping. Rustling from a rose bush. The soft whistle of wind against the unlatched gate. The cottage itself was quiet. Or maybe it was just his head, for once. The siren song of the archdemon was gone. As with the whispers; darkspawn gnawing at the edges of his mind. Silenced by the Warden-Commander, who saved them all from the Blight, then returned to save them from themselves. Justice was quiet now too. The seas of their collective rage quelled when Divine Victoria disbanded the Circles and set the mages free. Now a still pond, comfortably merged as one. Settled into one another with the knowledge, the serenity, that justice had been restored to the world.
Anders’ woollen socks were warm against the floorboards as he padded through their home. His eye caught on a letter tucked under the front door. He scooped it up and pushed into their larder. Sunlight filtered in through the window. It smelled like butter and eggs. Bounty from their homestead — provided by the small chicken coop out back and their dairy cows, Daisy and Sunshine. Anders wanted one, but Hawke informed him that cows bond with a partner for life, so they got two instead.
“I made breakfast,” Hawke said, proud of himself. He gestured at the spread on the table. It was a proper fry-up, the kind they used to scarf down in The Hanged Man before setting off on some mad adventure together. Anders’ heart surged. He set Hans down, who slunk over to Hawke and rubbed against his calf. Anders knew the tomatoes would be burnt, but his heart felt lighter than it ever had. Hawke was no cook, but he was a farm boy. Homegrown on Ferelden soil, just like Anders, and they’d fought their way back again.
“And the place is still standing,” Anders teased and took a seat. Hawke beamed, following suit. He glanced at the letter in his hand, noting the tight, fine script, addressed to:
Messere Garrett Hawke
The Champion of Kirkwall
“This is for you, love,” Anders remarked, then handed it to him. Hawke plucked the letter from his fingers and inspected it with careful consideration.
“I don’t go by this title anymore,” Hawke frowned and started tearing the letter open. Hans padded over to Anders’ ankle, then flopped on the ground. He rolled over deferentially, and Anders reached down to give him a belly rub. He purred loudly, vibrating happily beneath his palm, and Potato snuffled over to start nosing into him.
Anders righted himself and noticed that Hawke’s frown had deepened. His shoulders stiffened as he skimmed the contents, posture thrumming with sharpened vigilance. Anders often forgot how gruff Hawke could be. Hardened by time and flame. It was slow, at first. The way Kirkwall chewed him to the marrow. Ate away at his breezy demeanour, then devoured it whole. Anders watched his smile dim overtime. Then the jokes stopped coming altogether. Losing Carver to the Wardens was a shock, but he was never the same after his mother. Something broke in him that day and never came back, the way his gait never did.
Hawke was just another light snuffed out in Kirkwall. As with the rest of them. Then Anders did what he had to. Tied himself to the pyre to set the world right. Looked Hawke in the eye and braced for the blade. But it never came, and Hawke set the world on fire instead.
Anders had seen Hawke brutalise people in the War. The way the enemy would brutalise their own. He was almost unrecognisable from their first year in Kirkwall. How that flippant, cheeky boy was cast into the flames of vengeance and spat out as a man. Teeth bared. Fury roiling down his gladiator frame. Then he became the face of the rebellion, and cut a warpath to Skyhold. Used that rage to tear his way out of the Fade, and crawl home to him.
“What is it?” Anders probed warily, unwilling to face the outside world. He was so used to the safety of their carefully constructed home. The cottage that served as the centre of their universe. How Hawke rolled over and offered his soft underbelly to him, and only him.
“Varric,” Hawke mumbled, brow knitted. Varric had been the Viscount of Kirkwall for a decade, and Anders felt dread curl in his gut.
“He wants me to visit,” Hawke added, then set the letter on the table. Their eyes met. “Is that something you’d want to do? Together?”
Anders thought about Kirkwall. The shroud of despair. The oppression. The injustice. He looked down at his hands, and he could see Karl. Dissociative and bleeding out, slipping across the Veil no matter how tightly he held on. Then it was Hawke, shuddering with raw sobs in his embrace. Disintegrating with grief as he called out for his mother. Anders’ fingers turned red, and he heard the screams. Saw the pieces of rubble in the streets. The pieces of people.
Your life is devoted to the service of others.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the visions. The memories.
“No. I want to stay here. At home,” Anders whispered, eyes pricking with hot tears. Hawke slid a hand over his. Their rings were touching.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Hawke avowed, crumpling up the letter in his other hand. He tossed it over his shoulder and Anders looked at him softly. Blinking back tears, he brushed a thumb over his calloused fingers. Hawke squeezed his hand in return, then winced. Anders’ expression shifted to concern, and Hawke straightened his right leg under the table.
“It’s going to rain,” he sighed, face wracked with pain. Anders leaned across and slid his palm over Hawke’s knee. He pulled from the Fade and they both felt the Veil thin. Anders sharpened his focus, and channelled the kiss of a healing spell. Honing intent to brush away the dull ache that signalled an oncoming rainstorm. The weather was so variable this time of year.
“I had so much planned for today,” Hawke muttered bitterly, but his face softened as the pain began to ebb. Not fully. It would never go away fully. One day he wouldn’t be able to walk, but Anders was prepared for that. He would be there until the end.
“That’s alright. I have everything I need. Right here,” Anders murmured and Hawke smiled tenderly.
The rain started. A soft patter at first, that gradually built into a downpour. Anders felt the Veil thin again, as Hawke pulled from the Fade, and the fire in the hearth bloomed. He removed his hand from Hawke’s knee and stood up. Hawke peered up at him, then back to their untouched breakfast. A smidge of hurt darted across his face, but Anders padded over to him and slid in his lap. Slotting into place. Cheek pressed against the column of his throat. Tucked below the soft scratch of his beard. Arms snug around him, soaking up his warmth. Anders felt twenty-five again. Moulded into Hawke the way he used to in The Hanged Man, half a lifetime ago. Too big for him now, like a puppy who had outgrown her favourite seat. The way Potato did, and Ghost before her, who laid buried in their garden.
Hawke wrapped his arms around him. Fingers brushing over the scar on his back; the steel boot from solitary. The one on his ribs; a Templar’s blade in Montsimmard. The ones on his chest; just another set that made him who he was. Hawke slid a hand through his hair. Cradled his head to his chest. Gently tracing the scar on his head. Anders thrummed happily and melted into him. The rain heightened as Potato curled up at their feet. Hans too, tucked against her, and Anders shut his eyes, disbelieving he’d made it this far. Here.
Anders sank into Hawke with a stilled mind. A singing heart. Fifty years weighed down his weary bones, yet they still felt light enough to take on fifty more. They’d spent half their lives together, and Anders would do it all over again. Would live it twice over, as long as they still had the other half to live. Together.
There is still so much to fight for.