Disclaimer: Yes, this is fan fiction. The setting and most of the characters belong to Bioware, except for the ones who are mine and big scary lawyers lurk in the Fade if anyone tries to make money from this stuff and so on and so on.
This is set not too long after the events of Dragon Age II. Feynriel is mentioned, if not by name, and if you look closely you can spot Sten as well.
Surrender
Twining through the ugly melody of the harsh qunari language, Gaelen Hawke can hear birdsong and the rustling of the wind through the treetops. He thinks he can smell thyme. He tries to concentrate on that rather than the sun beating down relentlessly, turning his skin red and raw even though it must be late in the afternoon by now.
Birds. Leaves. Thyme. And, damn them all to the Black City and back, the deep voice of the bronze-skinned giant readying the Champion of Kirkwall for the Qun. He has seen him – when he could still see, that is – a big, armoured bastard with violet eyes and no sign of horns. He recalls Fenris mentioning that qunari born without horns are special, meant for some important religious or emissary role. Damn them all.
Several years ago, the defeat of the would-be conquerors of Kirkwall and their Arishok had gained Hawke his title, but after they left Kirkwall he and Anders, now the most hunted mage this side of the Free Marches, had hardly given the qunari any thought. But then these 'Beresaad', as they called themselves, showed up looking for the Champion, as dogged as only qunari could be, and what with respectively the Chantry, the Seekers, the Templars and Andraste knows who else out to hang him and Anders from the highest tree, Hawke didn't need a pack of qunari bloodhounds hot on their heels.
As far as he knew, the only way to get qunari off your back was to give them what they wanted. Answers were what these Beresaad were after, at least according to Varric's note, not revenge, nor punishment. Hawke vaguely wondered if this expedition of theirs was to provide their religion with a new tome sporting a picture of Gaelen Hawke and a manual of operation. Avoid approaching with overly large ugly swords, that sort of thing.
He told them the full story with much less flourish than Varric would have done, including his duel with the Arishok. Still quite the tavern tale, he has heard versions of it that make him shake his head in disbelief, or in some notable cases, cover his face with his palm in despair. The first time someone insisted he beat the qunari leader in a fistfight, he intervened: "No, it wasn't barehanded, but yes, it was single combat. Yes, I did beat him and afterwards spent two weeks being hospitalized." No one ever listed that.
The qunari listened patiently and then decided the best course of action was to have this Champion of Kirkwall submit to the Qun. Because of that damned title – where a Champion goes, many of his people are bound to follow – but also, paradoxically enough, because of his adamant refusal to surrender his freedom. Hawke has never been much good at surrender. This face, his face, is in a manner of speaking on the other side of the qunari coin, and they have responded by deciding not to waste him.
Fighting his way out would be suicide, and the only compromise he's achieved is Anders. The qunari have little experience with mages who are not bound and broken, but if they pull off any of that Hawke has made very clear he will die on his feet instead of kneeling to their blighted Qun. He has also tactfully refrained from mentioning his friendship with a Dreamer mage most recently from Tevinter who can hopefully help his lover master the vengeful spirit inside of him. Somehow he doubts that would go down well.
If anything the qunari are all about choice. He's wearing chains, but his weapons are close at hand; a fighting man's blade is his soul, In addition to the chains he's been ordered to keep a strip of cloth over his eyes 'until he can see properly.' It would be easy enough to free himself, but there might be a chance they'll remove his eyesight in a more permanent fashion. So far, he has chosen both captivity and blindness.
"You have duelled the Arishok for the sake of a thief," the qunari states levelly. Birdsong. Thyme. Hawke licks his dry lips. Qunari courting must be the most terrible in all of Thedas, he reflects wryly, although Fenris did say they do not so much court as have a mating schedule. Of course.
"Why did you fight for the thief?" the deep voice asks sternly.
"Isabela." Hawke tastes the name as he would a good wine, though he's still thirsty and his throat feels parched. Using names, a decidedly un-qunari practice, is a secret pleasure.
"Why were you willing to die for the thief instead of her submitting to the Qun?" the hornless qunari presses.
"Isabela is a friend," he replies. "A friend who happens to be not so willing to submit to anything." He smiles and briefly, regretfully, wonders what Isabela is doing. Or knowing Isabela, who she is doing.
"You speak as if this friendship with the thief gave you strength."
"It does. It did."
"And your... bond with the mage?"
His voice too is now cracked and dry, but still steady. Or so he hopes. The rustle of leaves.
"You derive strength from it?"
"Yes." He's tempted to say 'I also like to nibble his ears' and wait for the reaction. It's either that, or say something equally stupid, or break down, and that doesn't seem particularly appealing.
Another unbidden memory.
That first nightly visit despite Anders' warnings that he'd break his heart. They eventually landed on his bed. Swept up in a rush of familiar desire and unfamiliar bewilderment, he looked up at Anders, his thick black hair now a tangled mess. "You do know that I never-" he began, and gave up. He was never any good at surrender, not even to his own apprehension. "A pretty girl, a decent meal and the right to shoot lightning at fools. How exactly do I qualify as a 'pretty girl'?"
A genuinely suprised smile lit up the mage's hazel eyes. "You're deflecting!"
"Oh yes."
"Not a single oneliner," Anders murmured, "amazing." He ran his sensitive hands over Hawke's shoulders, down his back."No need to worry," he whispered. "We'll be fine." Hawke could feel the smile widen wickedly. "You'll just need to let me have my way with you."
Gaelen Hawke closed his eyes, and surrendered.
The severe qunari voice forces him back into the present. Hawke can almost hear the frown of disapproval. "You speak of strength, yet he has also wounded you. You are wounded still. Suffering of the self brings suffering into the world, Champion."
"I'll try to suffer less, thanks."
Sensing this discussion is at an end, the qunari rises to his feet and leaves Hawke to his blindness and his sorrow. Praised as he is by his men for his knowledge of these people, he will never fully understand them.
Anders' makeshift prison is a tent where the qunari keep their provisions. His hands have been roughly tied behind his back. Captured. Again. The time he met this with a carefree, laid-back attitude has well and throughly ended. It didn't change after his seventh escape from the Fereldan Circle of Magi, when they dragged him back to spend the better part of a year in solitary confinement. It changed when he changed, when he merged with a spirit from the Fade.
He has always chafed under Chantry rule, but now the easy temper that kept him safe from execution and made him more of a Circle legend than a true menace is gone. The man who swam Lake Calenhad. What would the First Enchanter make of him now? Best not think of it.
The magic churns within him. It turns him lightheaded with anticipation when a spark of it sears through the ropes around his wrists. The qunari guards are stunned when the tent suddenly catches fire, until they are swept off their feet by a blast of invisible energy and the hungry flames leap onto them in an instant.
On the other side of the camp Gaelen Hawke lightly lands on his feet, throws off the blindfold and brings up his crescent blade and the slender curved one. The chains part like silk before the enchanted metal. Before they fall to the ground Hawke is already on his first qunari, and despite the the qunari numbers and their skill at arms he fights magnificently.
Anders has only seen him fight like this once before, back in Kirkwall. Hawke cuts tendons, severs arteries and moves like a rushing river, his every move fluid and graceful and utterly ruthless. He dodges massive sweeping strikes and manages to turn those that do catch him into glancing blows. Most of them.
For a blood-drenched stretch it looks as if they might make it out alive, but Hawke's endurance is not endless. It simply takes too much to fight them all off, every single one of them stronger than he is, their reach larger. He knows how to battle opponents like that, but he also knows all too well those tactics take time, and space, and energy. He can't hold out forever, not like this.
The space between attack and sidestep shortens to a hair's breadth, sometimes even less. His parries become more ponderous. Blood is dripping into his eye from a gash on the left side of his forehead. It doesn't take long before he's limping and quick feints and flashy kicks are no longer an option.
Anders is struck dumb with amazement at seeing all the fallen qunari, but he is also losing his focus. It's too hard to keep his fragile balance between fending off a particularly persistent axe-wielding warrior, maintaining his protective glyphs, channeling healing energies and – most important of all – restraining the spirit of Justice, or Vengeance, before the camp reduced to embers.
Suddenly one of his paralyzing wards collapses. Blast it, he has to renew it before – A soldier with vivid, blazing orange eyes towers behind him and grabs a handfull of the mage's hair. The triangular blade of the qunari's spiked dagger bites deep; it would have nearly decapitated him if he hadn't escaped the qunari's grasp by slipping free of the little band that ties back part of his hair. Anders hits the ground hard. He is dimly aware of the blood streaming down his neck, soaking his coat and leaking into his shirt. The glyphs are failing.
Through a mist of pain he hears Gaelen's scream of rage. The qunari facing the Champion of Kirkwall is done for. His big hand has so far kept his insides from slipping out, but when Hawke's attention is diverted for just a heartbeat, the qunari grips his sword with both hands. With injury and fatigue slowing him down Hawke's attempt to dodge isn't fast enough. All of the qunari's dying strength spills out into a single fatal blow. When the vicious two-handed sword runs him through, Gaelen Hawke makes just a small, strangled sound.
Anders lets go of his tenuous hold on the spirit that is now furious and howling inside of him, hungry for revenge. A roaring ball of fire crackling with blue and white lightning unleashes itself to consume the last qunari standing. Time comes to a standstill.