Note from the author: This is an ongoing, original story based on Dragon Age 2 that takes place immediately after the end of the game. The main characters in this story are F!Hawke and Anders, but others will make appearances (possibly even some original characters). Varric, in particular, plays a large role in this first chapter. I plan to do my very best to stick to and utilize the Dragon Age lore, though I may make take some creative liberties. BioWare owns all rights to Dragon Age and associated characters, lore, places, etc. and I could never thank them and their amazing writers enough for being my muse. I'd also like to give a shout out and huge thanks to the amazing Anders fans on the official BioWare community forums. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy my story as much as I have (and will) enjoyed writing it! Reviews are extremely appreciated and welcome!
Redemption
Chapter 1 - The Aftermath
"It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly." - Flemeth
Everyone has a breaking point, and surely this was hers. When Hawke returned to her estate, her ears were still ringing from the blast and the horrible, chaotic clash of magic, metal, and flesh that followed. Never before had she seen such destruction, such pain, such confusion…such death. She felt so heavy, so physically and emotionally exhausted, and sick to her very core. Every muscle in her body still trembled and ached from the effort of just staying alive and protecting those who stood beside her, unfaltering, even when they had no reason to.
And then there was Anders…oh, Anders. The mere thought of his name unleashed within her the worst torrent of uncontrollable longing, self-loathing, and heartsick pain she'd ever felt. This betrayal...she felt like she couldn't breathe. She had always unconditionally supported, loved, and encouraged him, all these years. She knew he wrestled with his own inner demons and convictions (and who didn't?), and he had his faults like anyone else, but beneath it all he had always been such a gentle, kindhearted, good man. That's why she fell in love with him. This man she'd shared her life with the past few years, he'd tended to her wounds and her heart, shared countless tender moments and quiet evenings with her, shared her entire world…she knew him. What she saw today wasn't, couldn't be, him.
The man she knew, the man she loved, was a healer, a protector, someone who treasures, saves, and restores life, not the man she saw destroy the entire Chantry district and all within it today. It went against everything he stood for to kill so many innocents. It was all too surreal—a nightmare—how could he do this? Why? Was it even him, or was this Justice's doing? How was he even capable of this? Was she the catalyst, or would he have done this regardless? The Champion, for all her heralded strengths and accomplishments, did not feel much like a hero today; she felt herself being pulled in far too many directions to bear. She cursed and slammed her fist down on her writing desk, scattering parchments in every direction. Feeling her frustration rising, she started pacing across the estate's great room in long, purposeful strides.
The frantic, endless stream of questions banging against the inside of her mind like a wild, trapped bird made her head spin. Hawke abruptly stopped pacing and buried her face in her hands, but the visions of mutilated and charred corpses, those horrified, twisted expressions forever frozen on their faces, were burned there. It was dizzying, like flipping through a picture book too fast. She knew it would be quite some time before she would be able to close her eyes and be free of everything she'd stood witness to and played a key role in, today.
Hawke clenched her shaking hands into tight fists and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until all she saw against the black canvas of her closed eyelids were flashes of light. Exhausted, she let out a rasp of a sigh and dropped her arms to her sides. Hawke opened her weary, smoke-stung eyes, and scanned her estate's great room—this may be the last time she had a chance. She was relieved Bodhan and Sandal had already left for Orlais; she didn't need anyone else being pulled into this and placed in danger's path, especially not them. She begrudgingly admitted she also didn't want anyone else to have to see her like this. Her inner voice of reason interjected, interrupting her runaway train of thought, and reminded The Champion that she was doing no one any good just standing there, unmoving, like a discarded, broken doll. She had to pull herself together, so she mustered what little sense and focus she still had left and resorted to what she always did when faced with something she couldn't yet emotionally cope with—keeping her hands busy. She had to pack light, smart, and most importantly, fast.
Methodical, swift, and silent, she gathered a small collection of items from the great room and study. Even with trembling hands, her every movement was one of agility, precision, and speed. A small tent, a few blankets, two bedrolls, a simple apothecary kit and vials to mix her potions and poisons, a pouch of various herbs, a few poultices, a collection of tiny throwing daggers, a trap toolkit, some bandages, a tiny leather-bound journal, a whetstone, a waterskin, some tomes and notes scribbled on scraps of paper she had collected around Kirkwall that she hoped may help on their journey, a few small trinkets and gifts, and last but not least, her blades. Anders was, presumably, packing their things from the bedroom upstairs. Anything else she found need or want for, she'd have to gather on the way. Much to her dismay, that task didn't take as long to finish as she'd hoped.
Now left to her own devices again for a few quiet moments, the gravity of the situation was finally starting to really sink in. Hawke folded her arms across her chest and stared blankly at the dancing flames that licked at the cold stone hearth walls, eyes open but unfocused, unseeing, fixated on the turmoil within. Lost in the flashing visions from earlier in the day, she clutched the silver locket around her neck—her mother's locket—so fiercely that angry, red crescent moons were left imprinted on her palm. She felt like she was watching a stranger's life unfold, not her own. How did it come to this? The Champion tried to re-trace every path, every decision, trying to pinpoint where it all began and what more she could have done to prevent the final outcome. Perhaps it was inevitable. It made her head swim and her heart heavy. How did everything go so horribly wrong?
How does one put into words that critical moment when you realize your entire world has collapsed beneath you? That you've lost everything? No, but that wasn't entirely true, she tried to reason with herself. She hadn't truly lost everything. She still had her life and her friends, at least for now, and him.
"Oh, Anders…" she whimpered to herself, with a frown and a shuddering sigh. How many times could he break her heart before she couldn't remember how to put it back together again?
A wave of…what was it exactly? Desperation? Fear? Anguish? Disbelief? Loss? She couldn't put it into words—there were no words for this—but each time the maelstrom assaulted her, it sent her body and consciousness reeling. She feared she'd be physically ill, faint, or worse. It was all she could do to clench her teeth, bite her tongue, dig her nails into her palms, anything to fight against the stinging that pricked at the corners of her eyes, and will away the overwhelming desire to completely lose herself to it.
The more time Hawke spent wandering the ruined halls within her own head, the harder it was to pull herself back to reality. She hoped he would be there soon. She hated to run away like this. She never ran from conflict. It wounded her pride and went against every fiber of her being, but they had no other choice this time. They needed to go.
An old familiar voice gently cleared his throat from what sounded like only a few steps behind her. How he always managed to sneak in to the Amell estate, she'd never know. She smiled fondly and her heart sank, causing her to hesitate for a moment. How could she face him after everything that transpired earlier that very same day? It already felt like a lifetime ago. This was only the beginning of many things that would not be easy.
Hawke had no misgivings that she looked a wreck. There she stood before her hearth, still in her under-armor, spattered with remnants of their earlier "victory" (truly, it was a massacre, and nothing less), with red-rimmed eyes that were no doubt a telltale sign that she wasn't quite as strong as everyone believed her to be. She took solace in the fact that there would be no fooling him even if she wanted to. She could always be herself around him; she'd grown to treasure him for that rare quality. Hawke drew in a deep breath that rattled in her lungs, mustered what ruse of composure she could, and slowly turned to face her old friend.
"Maker's breath! What a story that'll make one day, eh? The Champion of Kirkwall slays the knight-commander and the first enchanter in the same day, and all in time for dinner!" he said with a hearty laugh and sweeping gestures. "Bet you didn't think you'd be doing that when you got out of bed this morning."
She visibly cringed and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don't feel very Champion-like today, Varric."
When he saw the crestfallen, pitifully miserable look on Hawke's face, he realized his mistake. "Sorry, Hawke. Too soon, I guess."
She didn't have the heart or the energy to further chide him for his poor taste in a humor topic right now. She smiled sadly and struggled to find her voice. "Varric…" she whispered, and her voice cracked, "…thank you for coming."
"Hawke, listen…I know you're one for bravado, narrow escapes, and impossible odds, and Maker knows that makes for some legendary storytelling," he said with a playful wink and smirk, "but you really need to get out of here."
Varric walked up to Hawke and took her hands in his, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically serious, brotherly tone before he continued.
"Please, Hawke. I've bought you a little time by telling the templars that I spotted you and Blondie fleeing toward the docks to catch a ship out of town. It won't take them long to search the docks and outgoing ships, and realize you've given them the slip. You can bet your pretty little head this'll be their next stop. You two can't be here when they do."
"I know…" her voice trailed off as she faltered for a moment and slipped under the rising tide of emotions.
"Varric, I'm so sorry. You all didn't deserve to be dragged into this," she croaked as her throat tightened and she fought back the burning tears that threatened to blur her vision.
"Hey now…," he hushed, "enough of that; you know I can't handle seeing humans cry, especially you, Lady Hope. We all willingly made our choices and sacrifices, knowing full well what the consequences would be. Never forget that," he said with a heavy sigh as he reached up a gloved hand and gently brushed away a tear as it trailed down her cheek.
"Besides, there's no time for that now," he smiled sympathetically, and surveyed the great room and the upstairs landing. "Where's Blondie?"
Hawke motioned toward her bedroom with a slight nod of her head. "He's upstairs, packing."
"Packing?" Varric scoffed. "But he has less to his name than a Darktown orpha-"
"I know," Hawke interrupted and almost grinned. "Trust me, Varric, I know."
The darkness crept over her face again. "The walk back here together was…" she searched for the right word, and shook her head when she couldn't find it, "…unpleasant. Uncomfortable? That doesn't even begin to describe it. I…needed a few moments alone, as did he. I'm grateful he knows me well enough that I didn't have to ask."
Varric nodded in understanding. "Hawke, tell me something. Do you blame him?"
"No," she replied without thinking, but paused. "Yes. Maybe? Blast, I don't know…" she said with an exasperated sigh and tossed up her arms. "It's not that simple."
"Nothing ever is," he said knowingly. "Are you angry with him?"
Hawke pursed her lips, cast her eyes downward, and searched herself for a moment before answering. Unraveling the tangled knot of emotions she was struggling to come to terms with was an impossible task at present, and she knew it. She cast an upward glance at the bedroom door, where a sliver of golden candle-light was the only indication that Anders was still within. Whether or not he was listening, she didn't know.
"I can't put into words what I'm feeling right now, Varric. Anger is in there somewhere, yes, among other things, but I can't really say if it's toward him," she paused again and bit her lower lip, visibly wrestling with something internal.
"I love him, Varric, desperately, painfully so. I think that's the hardest part for me to accept. It consumes me. Sometimes I hate myself for it. He stirs something in me that I can neither deny nor control. I can't explain it. I…can't help myself around him. I'm sorry."
"Shhh…I know, beautiful. We all know, always did. Good thing he has you, right?" he said with a warm smile and another wink. "He needs someone, you, to be strong for him right now. You know that, right?" Varric offered up what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and squeezed her hands.
"Yes, Varric, I know…and I will. I just…who will be strong for me?" she looked down at Varric with a desperate pleading in her eyes that pained his heart. "That has always been you. And Aveline. And Isabela. And Fenr-"
As she listed off the names of her companions, those who had become her support and family over the last few difficult years, she remembered their faces and all they had been through together. It all came flooding back with a force she wasn't prepared for. Their unfaltering loyalty, their friendship and camaraderie, the laughter, the tears, the comfort…each memory was like one of Bianca's bolts hitting glass. One after the other created vast cracks in her already weakened defenses until something deep within Hawke utterly and completely shattered. She lost her voice and collapsed to her knees, defeated, undone, both unable and unwilling to struggle against the undertow of emotions that grabbed hold and pulled her under with a vengeance.
And all her carefully constructed walls came crashing down. Hawke's body shook violently from the unrelenting fit of sobs. It felt good to let go, but even then she knew she had to fight to regain control, and soon.
In all the years Varric had called Hawke a friend, he had never seen her fall apart like this. He'd been at her side when Bethany left to become a Gray Warden, and when she'd lost her mother. Neither was like this, not by a long shot. She had always been their beacon, their cornerstone, their strength and most importantly, their hope. Now, she looked so small, so vulnerable, so wounded. He prayed to the Maker this was the first and last time he would see her like this; seeing the most bright, unshakable, and hopeful of them defeated like this…well, to call it unsettling was about as grievous of an understatement as he could think of. It broke his heart, truly.
For all of his sharp wit, easy joviality, cleverness, and silver-tongued charm, Varric was never very good with this sort of thing, and it pained him more than he would ever admit to, even years later. So, he did all he could think to do and wrapped his arms around his dear friend, gently stroked her hair, and quietly hushed her until her trembling subsided and she was breathing steadily again. It didn't take long, but that was precious time he knew his friends couldn't spare.
Varric wasn't sure how long Anders had been standing on the balcony, but he looked like death warmed over. His robe was caked with blood, soot, and Maker knows what else. The shadows under his eyes made him look more like a broken, empty husk than a man, especially with the tear-streaked stains trailing down his cheeks. And the pain in his eyes was unbearable, even for Varric. The severely grief-stricken, guilty, and utterly defeated and lost look on his face suggested he'd been watching long enough to see Hawke finally reach her breaking point, and succumb to it.
Though he wanted to rush to her side, to comfort her, Anders couldn't will his legs to move. Seeing her, his love, like this…it broke him in ways he never thought possible. He'd endured much in his life—poverty, solitary confinement, unspeakable abuse at the hands of zealous templars, the Joining ritual, Darkspawn, demons, and even the perverted rituals of blood mages—but this? This was worse, far worse. Had he let Fenris rip his beating heart from his chest, he imagined it would have been less painful than seeing Hawke like this.
"Maker's breath," he murmured in a barely audible, vacant whisper, "What have I done?"
Justice had been unusually silent since the incident at the Chantry, but Anders could still feel him there in the folds of his consciousness. Yet, something had changed. He felt…remorse? Sadness? Loss? But not entirely for what they had recently done. No, this was rooted in something else, something older. Somewhere, deep within, the name "Aura" repeated a few times, along with feelings of boundless emptiness and regret.
Varric cursed under his breath. They were running out of time. He cupped a hand to Hawke's ear and quickly whispered to her.
"Lady Hope, listen to me. You may not be able to save him, but you have to try. If anyone has a chance at succeeding, it's you. What you two have, it comes once in a lifetime, sometimes never for truly unfortunate sods. You. Must. Fight for it."
He placed his hands on her shoulders, gave them a gentle squeeze, and carefully let go. Varric stood and spun on his heels to face Anders on the balcony. Hawke remained on the floor, not entirely returned to her senses still. She was lost within herself again, staring blankly at her trembling blood-and-tear stained hands. How could hands that had done such good, built so much, saved so many, have dealt so much death in one day? And for what? At what point does the cost outweigh the reward, and who was to say exactly when that happened? Maybe it had been that way from the beginning and she was simply blind to it. She wasn't sure.
Varric very calmly removed his gloves, brought his hands together in a single thunderous clap that echoed through the estate, and roared up at Anders, "Snap out of it, Blondie! Get your ass down here. She needs you."
That was the jolt they needed to come back to the present, to face the grave and pressing matters at hand. Both Anders and Hawke blinked, wide-eyed in disbelief at Varric. They would later both laugh and marvel about this moment, as neither had ever before (or since) heard Varric raise his voice in such a manner. Not when Bartrand betrayed them in the Deep Roads, not when he lost a hefty sum in a game of diamondback, and not even when Isabela fondled Bianca.
Anders nearly toppled down the stairs in his haste to fly to Hawke's side. He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around her, and frantically whispered into her raven hair, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll fix this somehow. I promise." Hawke couldn't, didn't want to, fight anymore. She let herself fall into him, allowing his warmth and comfort to surround her. They clung to each other with such desperate intensity that one might think their lives depended on it, and to them, it did.
He may never be able to fully change the plight of mages, but Anders knew that Hawke would remain by his side to try, come what may. Maker be damned if he wouldn't do something right in his life for once and fix things with her somehow. When she held his life in her hands and was faced with exacting justice—just as he had—she chose to instead show him more mercy, love, and compassion than he felt he ever deserved. When he lied to her, she was clearly hurt but found it in her heart to forgive him. When he betrayed her trust, she stood, unfaltering, by his side. When he broke her heart so many times before, he always expected her to finally realize what a hopeless, broken case he was and turn her back on him. Yet, she never did, and it made his guilt that much worse. Every time he hurt her, she surprised him and, against all odds, drew him in even closer, loved him more deeply than before.
After all that had transpired, all she had sacrificed for him, forgiven him for, and stood by him through, he owed her this much. Anders was filled with a new sense of purpose. He resigned himself to be strong for her now, even if he hadn't the strength to be strong for himself.
"I'm going to leave you two to talk for a few minutes—seems like you might need it," Varric said with a knowing grin. "Rivaini's on her ship in the harbor, keeping an eye on the templars searching for you two on the docks. She's going to send a signal when she sees them leave. I need to see if I can spot her signal from here. I should be able to see it from one of the upstairs windows or balcony if I'm lucky, the rooftop if I'm not."
Varric narrowed his eyes in a mock glare and waggled a finger at Anders. "So help me, Blondie, if I fall, I expect you to kiss it and make it better."
The three friends allowed themselves the first genuine laugh for what felt like the first time in ages, and Varric strode upstairs, feeling quite proud of himself and energized with a renewed sense of hope.
Anders knew that Varric was right—the templars would be banging down the Amell estate door, and soon, but he allowed himself a few sweet moments to lose himself in Hawke's eyes. Those stormy blue eyes and the power they had to see right through every ruse, every defense, straight into him. He loved her more than he could ever express for that. Anders felt like he was seeing the woman who held his heart, really seeing her, for the first time. And in turn, as if seeing his own reflection for the first time, through her he was finally seeing himself as she did.
Why it had taken him this long to open his eyes and truly see, or what changed, he couldn't really grasp, but Maker was he glad for it. It was exhilarating, liberating, and terrifying. All in one day, he had gone from resigning himself to death, to feeling reborn. Perhaps it was the hopeless romantic in him, or what she instilled in him, but for once in his life he dared to believe that maybe this would last. Perhaps he could have happiness, and…dare he even think it? A future. Hope—it was always an unattainable, forbidden thing for Anders, like freedom. It was like a butterfly, beautiful, always out of reach, and so delicate that a single touch, let alone holding it too close, would undoubtedly destroy it. Was all this too much to hope for? Perhaps, but she gave him the will to believe in things he once thought impossible. Lady Hope, indeed—Varric's nickname for Hawke suited her more than she'd ever know.
No words. Sometimes the very language we use to futilely attempt to convey raw emotions steals their power, and Hawke knew this was one of those times. She gently cupped Anders' weary-worn face between her palms and tenderly kissed trails down both cheeks where tears had dampened his skin. Anders returned her affection, holding her face in his hands he pressed his lips to hers in kiss they would both come to remember as the moment that bound them forever. He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, "I love y-"
Hawke wasn't ready for words yet, so she silenced him with another kiss, which she felt him smile through. They held onto to each other for a few more precious moments, before Anders nuzzled her soft cheek with his nose and stood, and offering a hand to her.
Hawke took Anders' hand and rose to take her place by his side, smiling in adoration. That characteristic spark of fierce determination he so admired was reignited in her eyes. In him, she had found her strength and Maker save anyone who would stand in her way. Hawke's face lit up as she remembered one of the main reasons she had asked Varric to the estate. She snapped her fingers and dashed for her writing desk, all the while Anders looked on with something between a puzzled and a bemused expression.
"Where are they, where are they…? Ah! There we are," Hawke exclaimed and she spun around and triumphantly held up three small velvet pouches, swinging them from their drawstrings.
"Aaand, those are…?" Anders asked with a quizzical look.
Hawke saw an opportunity to lighten the mood a little, something she was always quite good at, so she ran with it. "Well, last I checked, they're velvet pouches, with silk-thread drawstrings. You know, you put things in them," she said in a snarky tone. She almost couldn't contain her mirth and keep a straight face, but she was having fun playing with him.
Anders snorted indignantly, and planted his hands on his hips. "I'm not blind; I know what they are. What's in them?"
"Maaaybe I won't tell you!" she sung, with an impish grin, egging him on more.
Anders momentarily forgot his troubles, happy to give in and play along. "Oh really! Is this a guessing game then? I like guessing games. Let's see, they each hold some priceless family heirloom, right? Or perhaps something more scandalous," Anders teased.
Hawke laughed and spun the pouches around her forefinger. "Well, both could be correct, in the right hands."
"What about the left ones?" he joked and wiggled the fingers on his left hand.
She groaned and laughed at the bad pun. "Maker, that was terrible." She strode over to Anders and took his hand. "Here, hold out your palm."
He quirked a brow at her and feigned suspicion. "Sweetheart, you aren't going to drop a spider or some small rabid beasty into my hand, are you?" he said with a roguish smirk that made her heart flutter.
Hawke rolled her eyes and smiled. It was so good to see him acting himself again, even if it just for a little while. "Oh, please. Even if I did, we both know you'd be fine."
He quickly withdrew his hand, pouted, and narrowed his golden-brown eyes playfully. "Just because I can heal myself doesn't mean you should do things to me to make it necessary! You're a very bad girl sometimes, you know that?" he scolded and tapped her nose with his finger. "Isabela has had too much of an influence on you."
She grinned and grabbed his hand. "Oh, you love it and wouldn't have it any other way. Don't lie."
"No spiders or other biting things. I promise." Hawke said as she loosened the strings on one of the pouches, and shook the contents of it into his palm. What dropped into his hand was a small, but heavy and ornately crafted metal key with the Amell crest imprinted on it.
Anders held it up to examine it. "A key? Is this to…?" and he gestured all around him.
"This estate, yes," she answered, and some of the light faded from her expression as she plucked it from his fingers and returned it to its pouch. "I'm leaving it to the others."
Anders caught the hint of sadness that returned to her voice—without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, drew her to his chest, and lovingly kissed her temple. He knew how hard this must be for her, to give up her family home. It was all she really had left of her parents.
A "thud" that they could only assume was Varric jumping down from somewhere, followed by the sound of hastened footsteps from upstairs, alerted them of the dwarf's return and brought them back to the task at hand. Moments later, Varric was striding down the stairs at full clip.
"Time to go, lovebirds—Isabela just sent the signal. You have eight minutes, maybe ten, before the templars get here, and they're not going to want to come in for a friendly chat and pie."
The soon-to-be fugitive couple exchanged worried glances. Hawke smiled up at Anders and gently caressed his cheek with her palm, which he turned into and kissed. "Alright, let's do this," he whispered in her ear.
Hawke nodded and asked him for a few moments alone with Varric, to settle the final estate details. Anders graciously obliged and returned upstairs to gather the rest of their meager belongings.
"Varric, there's no reason this estate needs to remain empty in my absence. I would have it enjoyed by those I trust who have need or want of a little more comfort. It's the least I can do," Hawke explained to him as she placed the three velvet pouches in his hand, and continued, talking a little faster.
"Three keys—one is for you…" and she placed the first pouch in Varric's palm, "…one is for Fenris…" she placed the second pouch in his hand, "…and the last one is for Uncle Gamlen," she said as she placed the last pouch in his hand, atop the other two.
Varric tried to open his mouth to protest, but she put a finger to his lips, shook her head, and kept talking without skipping a beat.
"I know how much you enjoy the Hanged Man, Varric, but if you ever need another place to hang your coat, please consider my estate your home. Fenris…," she pursed her lips and sighed through her nose remembering their complicated history, "…I'm not fooling myself into thinking Fenris will accept the key, but please do try to talk him into it. Maker knows, the City Guard won't allow him to stay in that wreck of a mansion he's been calling home for much longer, even with Aveline on his side. I won't see him turned out on the street, even if he does still wish to rip out the beating heart of the man I love."
"He still cares for you a great deal, Hawke," Varric reminded her. "And every time he thinks Anders has hurt you…," he shrugged, "…well, you know how protective he is."
"I know…" she sighed, a part of her still regretting that part of her past, but grateful for Fenris's fierce loyalty and reckless protection. "And Uncle Gamlen, well, what can I say? He's family, even if he is a grouchy old bastard. I take care of my own."
She paused for a moment, looked around, and tapped her lips with her forefinger, trying to remember if she'd forgotten anything.
"Oh, Orana. Maker's breath, that poor, sweet girl needs to get out more. She'd be better off in the alienage, if you ask me, or with Merrill. She's free and welcome to go live her life, but if she truly wishes to stay, let her."
"It sounds like you've got this all figured out. Anything else? Are you taking old Slobbermaw there?" Varric chuckled and gestured toward the mabari, who was sleeping belly-up (and snoring!), legs sprawled in all directions, on the rug in front of the hearth.
"Slobbermaw!" Hawke gleefully exclaimed and erupted into a loud belly laugh. "Yes, I'm bringing Riven with us. He'll be good company and protection." Upon hearing his name, Riven lazily half-opened one eye and stretched his legs in the air.
"True enough. Not many folk along the road would mess with an apostate, an assassin, and a mabari," Varric mused. "Hey, that sounds like the lead in to a good joke I once heard, or the makings of a winning tale…or both! I'll have to write that one down."
Hawke laughed, clapped her dear friend on the shoulder, and sighed through a smile. "I'm going to miss you, Varric."
"And I, you, Lady Hope," he replied warmly. He glanced up at where Anders had gone and leaned in closer to Hawke. "Did you tell him?" he whispered secretively.
"Tell him what? My plan?" she questioned, raising a single, dark eyebrow.
"No, about the fact that we're eloping," he teased, and turned his head to whisper over his shoulder, "Just kidding, Bianca." He grinned at Hawke and said very matter-of-factly, "Yes, your plan."
She chuckled at his joke, but answered in a gravely serious tone. "Nooo, Maker, no. He…" she paused and glanced up at their bedroom and shook her head. "No, he would never agree to it if he knew." Hawke felt a sharp pang of guilt in her chest. Admitting her plan of deception out loud somehow made it sound far worse than it had in her head, good intentions be damned.
Varric nodded. "You're right, he wouldn't. It's probably best you keep it from him as long as you can."
"I agree," she said with a slow nod and a hint of regret. "Better to deceive him in the short term and keep him protected, than to be completely honest and risk losing him." She prayed he'd understand and forgive her when the time came.
"You and Fenris are more alike than you realize, Hawke. Minus the glowy fist-through-the-chest thing, of course," Varric said with a chuckle. "Well, Isabela is prepared to meet you on The Wounded Coast in three days should you need her ship. And Daisy went ahead already. She'll be awaiting you two atop Sundermount. Hawke, she's taking a big risk returning there. You know that right? Do you really think this will work?"
"I know. I'll keep Merrill safe. I don't know if this will work or where it will take us, but it's the best lead I've got, Varric. I have to try. And if it doesn't work, I have a backup plan. And backup plan for that backup plan. If all three plans fail, well then perhaps I'll just take a little vacation to the Fade and invite a spirit of something equally as reckless and angry into myself, then Anders and I can live happily ever after. We may both end up crazy, but hey we'll be crazy together!" She was only half joking.
Varric and Hawke joined in raucous laughter as she picked up and shouldered her pack. It was hard to believe she'd be leaving the only life she'd known for the past ten years, but she felt at peace with her decision. This was right. This was worth it. He was worth it.
"Are you ready, love?" Anders said, as he walked down the stairs, his own pack slung over his shoulder. Maybe she was fooling herself, seeing what she wanted to see, but she could have sworn he looked a little lighter, a little happier, a little more hopeful even.
She smiled and nodded, and said her final farewell to Varric. "Thank you for everything, Varric. You've been a good friend. Don't you dare forget me," Hawke said as she gave him a tight squeeze.
"Never," he said with a loud laugh, "How would I continue to write your story if I did? I expect you to come back and give me more material. If you don't, I might have to take my own liberties. You've been warned!"
"I wouldn't have it any other way." She said with a warm smile. Hawke gave Varric a quick kiss on the cheek, grabbed Anders by the hand, and dashed toward the estate cellars with him in tow.
"Maker watch over you, both!" Varric called after them.
Anders and Hawke, with Riven at their heels, silently disappeared through the hidden passage and into the shadows leading to Darktown.
They knew the odds were weighed heavily them, but as long as Hawke had a purpose—no matter how small or seemingly impossible—hope combined with her hard-headed stubbornness and determination was enough to keep her going. It always had been, and now, he was her purpose. She refused to see Anders simply endure anymore. They would live. They would persevere. And starting tonight, they would be free.