A/N: Updated and edited this chapter 5/8/2014.
Game: Dragon Age II
Pairing: Anders/F!Hawke
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Absolution
~1~
The Chantry was in ruins.
Kirkwall was burning.
Innocents were dying.
The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander were dead, undone by their own ideals.
And she, by some miracle of the Maker, had survived.
Marian Hawke inhaled deeply, the scent of burning flesh, blood, and waste tickling her nose. It was a nauseating smell, and if it hadn't been something she was already used to, she would have been bent over emptying the contents of her stomach.
The world was swimming before her very eyes, each rock and pebble on the path before her highlighted in great detail. She could see everything but nothing at the same time, the surreal feeling of the situation still numbing her to the horrible reality. She knew it was all real, knew that Kirkwall—the world—would never be the same, but she was having trouble processing it all.
Anders, desperate to end a thousand years of oppression, blowing up the Chantry and destroying all hopes of compromise. Sebastian, overcome with anger and grief at losing the Grand Cleric, threatening to return with an army and kill Anders with his own hands. Orsino, losing his mind and succumbing to the seductive call of blood magic, slain by her sword. Meredith, already on the precipice of insanity, completely losing it and being devoured by lyrium.
It was madness.
Hawke was faintly aware of Anders gasping behind her, drained by their run through what was left of Kirkwall. Her brow furrowed as her temper momentarily spiked and she bit back barbarous words. She was angry with him—unfairly perhaps, but still angry—and in shock, but there was no time to dwell on such things. There was too much at stake, too many lives that could be lost.
She had told him not to come with her, that he should stay at Isabela's ship with Merrill and wait for the rest of them to return, but he had stubbornly refused, a fire in his amber eyes telling her that he would not leave her side. She had been too tired to try to persuade him otherwise, her sarcastic nature failing her for once, and she had simply shrugged while telling him to make sure he kept up with her.
They hadn't spoken since.
Her breath came in short gasps as they sped through alleys and streets, dodging unnecessary fights and climbing over rubble. They had a simple mission: rescue anyone they could. Before they abandoned the city completely, Hawke wanted to make one last valiant effort to save as many as possible.
The war between the templars and the mages had spread to the rest of the city, apostates coming to the aid of their brethren and mage sympathizers either engaging the templars or being slaughtered by them when they resisted arrest.
Maleficarum, many of them once level-headed mages that had opposed blood magic, had sprung up around the city as guards that had sided with the templars tried to corral them. People that had nothing to do with the conflict were being sucked in as well; the lunacy was impossible to escape.
Considering the amount of fighting Anders and she had already been through and the emotional stress they'd endured while waiting to see whether or not she'd run him through with her blade, it was astonishing that either one of them was still standing let alone running.
The screams of the damned and dying surrounded the warrior and she swallowed hard, her keen blue eyes searching the destruction of the city—her city—for anything or anyone.
This was worse than the Qunari invasion had been.
Her two-handed sword, the Hawke's Key, was clutched tightly in her hands as she ran. Her fingers were cramping but she refused to let it go or rest for a moment. There was no time to stop, no time to think or even breathe.
She vaguely remembered telling her companions to retreat to the docks, Anders, Varric, Aveline, Bethany, Isabela, Fenris, and Merrill all hot on her heels as they ran like demons newly escaped from the fade. Cullen had let them go, the templars all backing away slowly as she had glared them down, the intense battle with Meredith having brought the berserker inside her to life. She had been ready to fight to her last breath if need be, but fortunately for her and her ragtag group, that had not been necessary.
She could still taste the blood in her mouth, could still feel the excitement pounding through her veins as they had fled, her mind blank as her instincts took over and drove her forward. Her companions had followed her without hesitation.
Her decisions had led them all there, all except Sebastian that was, and it was now her duty to protect them. They hadn't done anything wrong except follow her, their loyalty in her and her judgment touching her deeply.
It was she that had refused to kill Anders, it was she that had turned Sebastian and the wrath of Starkhaven upon them, it was she that had sided with the mages and dragged them all into the fray.
It was all her fault.
She didn't regret her actions, not in the slightest, but that didn't mean that she wasn't upset by the loss of life. No matter what side she had taken, war would have inevitably broken out. She had gone with her gut and her heart, even though Meredith had pointed out to her the countless number of times that Hawke and her crew had fought mages and reminded her that all magic users had the potential within them to turn.
Like Anders.
Hawke blinked and shook her head, driving the thought from her mind even as her heart skipped a beat within her chest. No, he hadn't turned. He'd never use blood magic, he would never…
But he merged his soul with a Spirit from the Fade. How is that any different?
Every word of warning he'd ever spoken to her, every doubt he'd ever had about his own humanity pressed upon her. She had never questioned who or what he was before; he was Anders and that was all that mattered.
She could see the reasoning behind his logic, could even understand why he'd done it all. Her father had been a mage for Maker's sake. Her sister—thank the Maker she was still alive—was a mage! And Anders himself was her lover!
Her steps quickened as the anger surged through her, giving her a temporary boost in speed. Her eyebrows were drawn tightly together, jaw clenched shut.
How could he have kept her in the dark? To spare her from taking responsibility? How much of a fool was he? Why couldn't he have trusted her with this? Why couldn't he have believed in her to find a better way or at least have told her what he was planning to do?
How much of a fool was she?
She knew that she was taking this all a bit personally, but at that moment, in her exhaustion, she couldn't help it.
He had warned her—oh how he had warned her—but she hadn't listened because she was Hawke and Hawke did what Hawke wanted to do.
The urge to break out in laughter while her body shook with sobs came upon her and she nearly choked.
A cry from nearby caught her attention and she turned right down an alleyway, her thoughts continuing.
They would be forever on the run, the whole lot of them. Hawke herself believed in the mages and their cause, but she knew that some of her companions did not or simply did not give a damn. But they had trusted her, loved her enough to throw away whatever chances they had at a normal life to follow her.
Bitterly smiling, Hawke reached the destination of the cries. They were coming from a man trapped beneath a broken merchant's stall. Anders ran up beside her, poised to help her if she required it, but she was far too angry with him to accept his assistance.
Even though she was spent, she gritted her teeth, threw down her sword, and pulled up on the board trapping the man, letting out a cry as her muscles strained. The man quickly scrabbled out from beneath the piece of lumber and with a grunt she let it fall back into place.
Blood was rushing to her ears as she knelt to pick up her sword again, barely registering Anders's words as he gave the man directions on how to get to Isabela's ship, his hands glowing that comforting glow that they always did when he healed someone. His hands were moving over the man's body, knitting him back together. How she longed to feel those hands on her skin again.
She closed her eyes and let herself be distracted by a memory of the day she and Anders had first become one. She remembered his gentle roughness, the desperation with which he had taken her head in his hands and kissed her until she couldn't breathe.
A sharp, stabbing pain pulled her out of the memory, and she hissed as she looked down at her left arm. She couldn't help the wry smirk that crossed her pale face.
It seemed that Meredith had managed to get one good blow in on her after all.
"You're hurt."
Anders's concerned voice cut through the chaos and she looked at him, her eyes wide. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the man they had just saved running away, towards the docks and Isabela's ship. A small wave of relief coursed through her, glad that they had been able to save one more life, and she smiled.
Anders frowned at her lack of concern for her own wellbeing and reached towards her. She flinched as his hands—hands that had once traced down her scar covered back, hands that had delved deep inside and lifted her to heaven, hands that had soothed and caressed her—came towards her. He stopped in his tracks, visibly hurt by her reaction.
The muscles in his face tightened, the lines in his forehead deepening. She watched as the guilt crept into his amber orbs and clogged his throat, his next words coming out as nothing more than strangled gibberish.
She silently chided herself.
This wasn't his fault.
It was hers.
Their gazes locked, his eyes searching hers, and she felt her heart do something funny inside her chest, something that hurt.
She should have seen this coming. But she had been too blinded by her love and lust for him.
She let out a breath and closed her eyes, refusing to look at him. She couldn't deal with this now. She was a warrior for Andraste's sake. She was supposed to be strong, a Champion of the people of Kirkwall. She had been fine before him, had been able to move on when Carver had died, had been able to keep fighting back to the surface after losing Bethany to the Wardens. And after her mother had been killed, warped and tainted for that bloody mage's devious needs…
She bit down hard on her lip, drawing blood.
She had been slowly slipping since that day, becoming more bitter and depressed. How could she not? Her entire family had been ripped from her. The very people she had sworn to protect, all gone or dead.
And that was why she hadn't been able to kill him, why she never would.
"Hawke…"
Her eyes snapped open again, sharp and in focus.
This wasn't the time for moping. This was the time to fight, to flee, to survive.
"Come on," she said darkly, turning her back to him as she faced the blazing city. "We're not done yet."
Isabela was rounding up a crew to sail her ship.
Varric was gathering his earnings for them to use on their journey.
Bethany was going to save her uncle and cousin.
Aveline and Donnic had gone back to the Viscount Keep to rescue the guards that had pledged themselves to the mage cause.
Fenris was helping Isabela, keeping all threats off her back.
Merrill was guarding Isabela's ship, helping those that came to her and killing those that meant to do the group harm.
And Sebastian….Sebastian had abandoned them all. Yet even he was more useful than Anders was or ever would be.
The mage stumbled along after Hawke as she tore through Kirkwall, trying her best to right the grievous wrong that had been thrust upon the city. No matter how many they saved it would never wash the crimson from his hands, his hands that had delved into her chest and ripped out her still beating heart.
Anders felt as if he could die right then and there. He didn't need a dagger to do the trick; Hawke's disappointing stare, the hollowness with which she had regarded him in those moments following the Chantry's destruction, and the sorrow with which she had spared him.
She had had every right to kill him. She had had every right to spill his blood. He had killed innocent and holy people. He had killed the Grand Cleric. He had used Hawke, had banked on her trusting him and doing what he'd asked.
And she had.
He closed his eyes, still remembering her questioning face as he had asked her to distract the Grand Cleric. He remembered Sebastian's wondering eyes as the two had left the Chantry, seeing the perplexing look on Hawke's face and mirrored it in his own.
Her love for him had taken its toll, her heart had been broken. She had shared with him everything she was, had given him her body, mind, and soul. He had tried to as well, he really had, but it was something that he had been incapable of doing. Even now that all was said and done he couldn't.
And it killed him.
He had done what had had to be done, had understood that he needed to be the cog that got the machine going, and yet…
He felt his throat tighten uncomfortably, all the misery and pain he'd endured in the last decade of his life not even coming close to the agony he felt at that moment.
What he had done…he didn't regret it. Not one bit. It was the change the city—no, the world— needed.
He didn't regret setting in motion the events that would lead to the freedom of the mages. It had had to be done. The injustice of the Circle had to be made known; the citizens of Kirkwall, of Ferelden, of Starkhaven, Orlais, of every great city and nation on the face of Thedas had to have their eyes open to the horrors mages were expected to endure, of the freedoms that those blessed—and yes, they were blessed—by magic had stripped from them.
Just…why had he had to fall in love and complicate the matter?
He could never give his mind, his body, or his soul to Hawke because he was no longer just Anders, apostate mage. No, he was Anders and Justice and Vengeance, an abomination. He had changed the very core of his being, had violated the very laws of nature.
And now he was paying for it.
His amber eyes traced along Hawke's form, noting her slowed movements. He had seen blood decorating the chainmail of her champion armor, and while that sort of injury wouldn't kill her, it couldn't be allowed to go untended. She was a hell of a woman, of a human really, but even she had her limits. Blood loss and infection could take her just like anyone else. An arrow to the head, an axe to her throat, a knife to her heart, an arch of lightning striking her core, and she would be gone forever.
His chest constricted tightly under his black robes, his lungs burning and heart racing. He needed to slow down and take in a breath, but he dared not slow his pace lest he lose Hawke to the destruction around them.
I should have trusted her.
He had been a healer and now he wasn't even good for that. The way she had backed away from him when he had approached…he had certainly made a mess of things.
She had agreed unhesitatingly to be a fugitive with him and loved him despite what he'd done, but that didn't mean that she wasn't upset. She wanted to keep him alive, wanted to stay at his side, but that didn't mean that she wasn't also mad.
Hawke…
He hadn't always been this way, so moody and temperamental, and he wished that she had been able to see him as he once had been, back when he had served under the Warden-Commander of Ferelden.
His lips quirked in a smirk as a memory of that life that seemed to have happened so long ago came back to him unbidden.
His phylactery had just been destroyed and he was free, freer than he ever had been before. The world had seemed new to him, every sight, sound, and smell fresh and bright. Yet, for all his cheer, the fact that there were still so many trapped and doomed to a life in the Circle had upset him. The part inside of him that was a decent human being refused to let him fully celebrate the moment, spoiling what he'd dreamed of for years.
"All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools," he had grumbled to the Warden-Commander. "Is that so much to ask?"
He had regretted the words the second they had left his mouth, realizing that they could be misconstrued as flirting. The Warden-Commander was happily married to King Alistair for Maker's sake; she was the Queen of Ferelden! She had killed the Archdemon!
Instead of anger or reproach, she had raised one red eyebrow at him, a gleam of mischief in her green eyes, and he had breathed a sigh of relief.
"That seems reasonable to me," she had laughed.
He had joined her in relief, the trepidation he'd felt washing away in an instant. The rest of that day had been glorious, as he had been able to put the thought of the mages' plight from his mind, and he'd gone about chasing down criminals and preforming strange deeds for a group of alleged orphans.
He sighed.
If only Hawke had been able to see him as he had been then. Happier, lighter, sassy and sarcastic like her, younger. Perhaps she would have even been able to save him from his fate as host to a Fade Spirit…
He shook his head sadly at the thought.
Maybe. Perhaps. If only. All unknowns that would do him no good now.
"Hawke! Anders!"
Merrill's voice cut through his thoughts and he blinked, realizing that they had arrived back at the place where Isabela's ship was docked. He looked around at their surroundings, trying to bring himself back to the reality that he had created.
The sky was still lit up with red and orange flames, the moon hidden behind clouds. The air was still thick with the stench of death, the cries of the lost still filling what would normally be quiet. The waters were angry with waves as ships tried to leave the doomed city as fast as possible.
Are you happy now? You caused this. You and that blighted Spirit.
"Have the others returned Merrill?" Hawke asked the elf.
"Yes. No. Some of them," she stuttered nervously. Her large eyes were looking everywhere, peering into the shadows for enemies.
Hawke's shoulders slumped and Anders could only imagine the expression on her face as he came up behind her. She probably looked exhausted and worn out, stretched thin and laid bare, her emotions raw and stinging.
"Who's here?"
"Oh, um, Isabela and Fenris," Merrill responded quickly. "Not sure where the others are. Probably all safe. I hope. They have to be."
Hawke's gloved hand gripped the small elf tightly on the shoulder. "They'll be fine. They're just running a little late, that's all. No need to worry."
Merrill smiled weakly. "Yes, you're right of course. I'm…" she paused, as if searching for words, a light crease appearing on her brow. "I'm sorry, Hawke. About what's happening. I know it's not my fault, but still…" She let out a breath and looked down at her twined hands. "Kirkwall. Everything. It's horrible."
"It's not that bad," Hawke joked, surprising Anders. "Nothing a fresh coat of paint and a few dozen mops won't fix. We can just sweep all the bodies under a rug. No one will ever know."
Merrill frowned. "It would have to be a large rug. A very large rug."
Hawke sighed and shook her head, putting her hands on her hips. "Oh Merrill. Never change."
"I wasn't planning on it, so no need to worry," Merrill responded seriously, which caused Hawke to burst out in laughter. The elf just blinked and tilted her head to the side, lost once again. "What did I say?"
Anders couldn't help but smile at the little exchange, his heart warmed by the scene. He was glad that Hawke's compassion, buried beneath her seemingly indifferent exterior and clever words, was still intact. Her laugh was strained and had a haggard quality to it, but he was grateful to hear it regardless.
The Hawke he had fallen in love with was still there beneath all the dirt and mud, valiantly fighting the current in the ocean of blood he had willingly drowned her in. Even if she had lost herself to the waves and gone under, he would have swam out after her and dragged her to shore, pushing his lips to hers and breathing life back into her, because she was his, his Bright Light of Kirkwall. She had given him this second chance at life and he was bound to her, for better or worse.