Went back to playing DA:2 - thus the one-shot below! I know I should be concentrating on my chapter stories, but this one "demanded" to be written :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing - except, perhaps, a little of the angst.
His feet hurt. He could feel them blistering, the sores bursting and bleeding in his boots, but he was too tired to even bother healing them. He didn't say anything about it, either, didn't want to draw the attention of the woman driving them relentlessly onward.
He didn't feel he had the right to do so.
They had split off from the rest of their companions soon after fleeing from Kirkwall. Her hound, Jax, had been the only other to join them and was currently acting as both front and rear scout, ranging far around them as they travelled. The dog returned only occasionally to snap up a few pieces of hardtack, and receive her quiet murmurs of approval before vanishing again. It had been like this for three days; not once had she stopped walking, pushing them at a punishing, persistent pace, deeper and deeper into the wilderness of the Vimmark Mountain range.
She hadn't spoken a word to him.
Not once.
Anders had fully expected to be executed after destroying the Chantry; his plans had halted and ceased with the explosion that decimated nearly a full block of the Free Marcher city. The blast had accomplished his goal, changing the world and its viewpoints forever, but he had not thought to look beyond it. That Hawke would spare his life afterward, as well as further aid in his escape and flight from the templars had never entered into his strategy. He was fully and completely at a loss, following her blindly, indifferent as to where she led.
They had journeyed north for awhile, but had shifted westward at some point; the sun was now creeping below the constant edge of grey cloud cover, shining orange in his eyes as it descended. It colored the surrounding trees with an eerie light, lengthening their shadows along the mossy ground. He squinted against the glare and kept his head down, watching his feet as they trudged forward, trailing Hawke by the slight jingling of her armor.
He timed his steps to the sound, thinking of nothing, his mind mute from sleep deprivation and fatigue. The sun set behind the foothills, and he lost the shape of his legs in the darkness. Mist stirred along the ground as the temperature dropped, dulling all noises. He didn't notice Hawke's pause ahead of him; she stopped him with an outstretched arm, barely keeping him from running into her. He started at the contact, whipping his head up in confusion, one hand instinctively reaching over his shoulder to grip his staff with white knuckles, his heart pounding in fear.
He could just barely make out her eyes in the gloom; she waited until he had calmed, her expression as weary as he felt.
"We need to rest," she told him quietly, gesturing at a small clearing. Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual amused cynicism. "At least for a little while."
He almost dropped to his knees to praise the Maker, but was fearful he would be unable to rise again. Instead he nodded his head once, asking hesitantly, "Do you – would you like me to start a fire?" He had to clear his throat, his own voice coarse from disuse.
"A small one," she muttered, glancing away, "Jax hasn't seen anyone in a long time, but I don't want to give our position away." He watched the line of her jaw tighten. "Be cautious."
Annoyance flared. He wasn't a child that she had to scold to be sensible concerning the use of his magic – but seeing the stiff contour of her shoulder-blades, he decided not to correct her.
He drew on only the slightest amount of mana as he called a small ball of fire into his palm. Squatting in the middle of the clearing – ignoring the way his leg muscles screamed in protest – he first used the heat of it to dry some small twigs and branches before setting them alight. The warmth and radiance were welcome; they burned away the churning fog in the immediate vicinity, though the gloom still lingered just outside their tiny circle of influence.
It made the night seem deeper, more sinister.
He crouched next to the flames, keeping his eyes averted as Hawke set her pack down to begin sorting through it. She withdrew a wax-wrapped packet of jerky, as well as two water-bladders; as if on some silent command, Jax trotted quietly into the clearing, planting himself down on his haunches before her, tongue lolling.
From the corner of his eye, Anders saw Hawke's face ease as she looked at the mabari. "Hey boy," she murmured, her voice low, "Did you find anything? See anyone?"
The hound tilted his head, whining softly.
The woman threw a piece of jerky at the dog with a quiet, "Good boy."
Jax snapped the meat from mid-air, then stood, licking his chops. Dark canine eyes briefly considered the camp, and Anders imagined the hound's gaze lingered on him for a long moment of warning. The dog then turned back to his master, emitting a deep woof.
Hawke roughly patted the broad, fur-covered shoulders. "Just keep an eye out. I don't want caught off guard if we need to run."
The hound wagged his tail with another woof, and vanished into the fog.
Hawke stared for a moment at the spot where Jax had been, fingering the edge of her pack in a nervous gesture. With a soft sigh, she shuffled closer to Anders. The mage glanced uneasily up when her hand entered his line of sight.
"Eat," she told him, holding out the rest of the jerky.
He took the dried meat with no arguments, chewing slowly; even his jaw muscles were tired. Though he was uncomfortably aware of her close proximity, he didn't move when she sat on the ground next to him, curling her legs beneath her.
It wasn't as if he was afraid of her. She had, after all, already proven she was not about to kill him outright. No, the issue lay in that he didn't know what she sought from him. Beyond her obvious defense of the mages that night within the Gallows, she was a wildcard, her thoughts and opinions as yet unexpressed. He knew not where her mind wandered as they journeyed, and he found himself hesitant to ask.
He had offered to go his own way when their other companions split off, but she had denied him, ordering him to her side in a tone that brooked no quarrel. She had claimed to see him through to safety, and her word had never been anything but impeccable.
Still, he had his doubts.
It was Vengeance, he thought wryly, the spirit constantly vigilant within him. It always came down to vengeance.
She deserved revenge, and he – neither the portion that was Justice, nor the portion that was Anders – could not understand why she didn't take it. Hawke retribution had ever been swift and deadly in the past, though, admittedly, she had a notable soft spot for both family and friends.
He wondered if he still fell in one of those categories.
Not that it mattered. He had forfeited his life days ago; he knew he was living on borrowed time.
Anders stared into the fire, letting his mind drift. He was settled back upon his haunches, nearly asleep, when Hawke broke the quiet.
"Cumberland," she muttered, almost as if speaking to herself, "We go to Cumberland." When the mage looked around at her, their gazes clashed. Her eyes, normally the stormy grey of a summer thundercloud, were washed out by the firelight; they appeared as orbs of pearlescent silver. "From there, we can take the Imperial Highway north to Tevinter."
"Tevinter?" he asked, his voice betraying his shock at the destination.
Her chin dipped. "You will be safe in Tevinter." One corner of her mouth tugged downward, her tone becoming sarcastic. "Perhaps even lauded as a hero."
He blinked at her.
Is that what she thought?
"I never – I don't want to be a hero," he snapped, his ire rising despite his exhaustion. He shook his head adamantly. "I never did."
"Yet you were ready enough to make yourself a martyr for the cause," she pointed out coolly. One slim shoulder shrugged as he turned back to the flames, and she shook her head slowly, sadly. "I just – I don't understand," she said softly, and the mage knew this was what she had been considering, puzzling out since the day they left the city. "Why? Why did you do it?"
Ten years.
Ten years he had been her healer, her travel companion, her friend. She had protected him, and he had tried to return the favor. They had not always agreed, but their differences of opinion had not been a cause of contention so much as a mild joke between them. Even when she started things up with that mage-hater, the elf, he had held his tongue.
He didn't say anything because even then he thought she had understood.
Ten years – and she apparently understood nothing.
"It had to be done," he told her, and his words were sharp. "Something had to be done. Things could not continue as they were."
"Not like this. This – it was murder, Anders. You murdered those people." She was looking at him as if she still doubted he had done it, as if she couldn't believe he was capable and her very eyes had deceived her.
"Murder?" he spat, "You're going to preach to me about murder? When you've happily slaughtered anyone who gave you a slightly sideways look?"
Hawke scowled at him; for a moment, her eyes glinted with a fierce light that he hadn't seen since before the Chantry fell. "Thieves, brigands, cutthroats, assassins. Murderers," she said with a derisive sneer, "They were all criminals, people that had given up their rights. They deserved to die."
"If that's the case," he asked heatedly "Why didn't you just kill me?" It was as if her accusations had ripped something loose inside of him, had jolted him out of his self-induced stupor, and all of the emotions he had kept pent up for the last few days – for the last few years – were suddenly bubbling up inside of him.
His cause was just; if she despised his means so much – if she truly wished to be judge, jury, and executioner – she should have ended it.
Hawke stood fluidly and paced away from him, her back ramrod straight. For a moment, he thought she was going to keep walking, to leave their camp and quite possibly never return. But she paused right on the edge of visible light, facing away from him. "What good would it have done?" she asked tightly, "What was one more body going to accomplish?"
"What about Fenris?" he asked, knowing it was cruel, knowing he was crossing some invisible line of maliciousness, but doing it anyway.
"Don't." Her voice was low and deadly, and if he had been in his right mind, he would have been alarmed.
He no longer cared.
Anders' rage was an inferno in his gut. He didn't think he had ever been so furious in the entirety of his life – and there had been a great deal of hatred throughout his pathetic existence.
"You were quick to add his body to the pile," he continued his tirade, not even realizing he was standing until he took a step towards her, growling, "What about him, Hawke? Your own lover betrayed you, and you didn't hesitate to slaughter him."
"He – he attacked me," she replied, the strength gone from her tone. She sounded flat again, bone-weary – and so very lost. "What was I supposed to do when he attacked me?"
"And you want to speak to me of murder?" He snorted. "Hypocrite."
He should have been surprised by how quickly she moved, but he wasn't. A part of him had expected her to lash out; it was the same part that had been secretly, steadily drawing on his mana, preparing against the attack he knew was coming, the strike he had been deliberately provoking.
Anders was aching for a fight.
He got one.
The rogue was on him in a flash, twin blades pulled and sparking in the light of the small campfire. Anders threw up a hasty shield, deflecting her blows. Hawke's lips were drawn back in a feral snarl as she battered against the invisible obstruction; he felt her hit the barrier, felt the drain on his magic as she did so.
He drew his staff, slamming it straight down against the earth. The shield fell as he did it, a burst of magical energy slamming outward to knock her off her feet. Her daggers went flying, spinning away into the darkness.
Hawke pushed herself up quickly, her movements sinuous and supple. The mage had never seen anyone move with such perilous grace, had never thought to see that lethal finesse turned against him. He suddenly thought of Fenris, wondered if the elf had seen the same, thought the same of her terrible beauty even as it reached out to take his life.
Just like that, Anders' anger was abruptly spent. He permitted his magic to dissipate, even as Hawke rushed him for a second time; she hit him full force, and the power behind her drive propelled them both to the ground. She landed atop him, and the air rushed painfully from his lungs. He gasped, trying desperately to draw in oxygen even as she hit him, beating him mercilessly with her fists.
In pure self-defense, he grabbed her wrists in a strong grip, yanking her hands away from his ribs. The action drew her body more fully down atop his own, their faces close, their noses nearly touching. They stared at each other, breathing hard; Anders felt blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, slipped his tongue out to taste it.
He was never sure what happened next, never sure if one of them had moved first, drawing the other into copying the action, or if they both moved at the exact same time with the exact same intent. Whatever the cause, the mage unexpectedly felt Hawke's lips against his, Hawke's tongue in his mouth, Hawke's hands grasping at his robes – and he was most enthusiastically returning the favor.
They slammed together, their grappling no less fierce in its intensity than it had been a few moments previous.
He wanted to bury himself in her, to seek solace in the darkest places of her.
Her light armor was removed hastily, the pieces tossed haphazardly away until she sat astride him in naught but her skin, its softness tinged bronze in the firelight. His robes were likewise torn away, the fabric ripping in the swiftness of their need. He would have taken her then, would have rolled them over and driven into her with all the subtlety of a beast – but she took a hold of his arms, pressing him back against the damp forest loam as she stared down at him.
She studied him, her gaze deep with awareness, with a comprehension even he was unable to discern.
For one chilling moment, he believed she saw right into the blackest depths of his very soul - and even Justice retreated under the intensity of her scrutiny.
She stirred, one hand sliding down his belly to clasp around him, drawing him slowly upward and into her body. He tossed his head back, grinding his teeth to keep from shattering, to keep from splintering into a thousand pieces beneath her.
It had been so long –
She released her grip, leaning her lithe rogue's body upward, taking him deeper into her core. She closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself, flexing her thighs as she rocked against him. He watched her in awe, watched the flickering light play over the dips and valleys of her body, his fingers reaching to latch onto her hips.
She flexed further, and Anders dug into her flesh with his hands. She bent her back into a curve, throwing one arm behind herself to balance against his leg. There was pain as she did so, but it was tinged with delicious pleasure; the position maneuvered his body into a place he had not thought possible. His hips bucked helplessly beneath hers, seeking completion.
Seeking redemption.
Anders shouted as he came, the sound escaping him only to die quickly within the mists. He felt her shivering around him, shuddering violently with her own explosion. Her pants were the only noises she made, but they were heavy in the shrouded forest.
He lost track of himself then, drifting and replete for the first time in ages.
He lay there against the forest floor, breathing deeply, reluctant to return to reality. It was only when she shifted above him that he opened his eyes; she was still straddling him, her arms hugging herself tightly, her eyes squeezed shut. Beneath his hands that still gripped her hips, he felt the trembling along her skin.
No, not trembling, shaking.
She was weeping, great, silent sobs rippling along her spine to tear through him as he recognized her distress.
He gently gripped her shoulders in his palms, attempting to draw her downward, against him. She resisted at first, reluctant, trying to pull away. But he persisted and she eventually conceded, leaning down until the length of her body was pressed up against the length of him, her legs entangling with his own, her cheek against his collarbone.
Anders felt her tears on his skin, and what little was left of his heart fissured into pieces.
His anger had never been against her; he had merely vented it harshly in her direction. No, the truth was that his rage was against himself, at his own impotence and cowardice, at the knowledge that Hawke might be right: he had wanted the easy way out, had wanted her to take his life.
He had wanted to die.
But she was Hawke; she had never once taken the easiest path, and she refused to let him do so.
How much has she given up for me?
As if in answer to his unvoiced question, she spoke, her words broken by grief. "I couldn't do it," she said, her breath warm against his chest, "I couldn't – because I had already lost so many people. I couldn't lose another friend – not another –"
She had lost her brother to darkspawn, her sister to the Wardens, her mother to, well – insanity.
She had lost her friends to a cause.
She had lost her lover to his own hatred.
Vengeance, he thought. She deserved revenge for her losses, and he felt only acceptance from Justice.
Her sobs had quieted as he slowly lifted himself, leaning over to look down at her. He had never seen her cry before, had never seen her look so forlorn; she had always been stalwart, even in the face of certain devastation. Among her companions, she had ever been their rock, their force, her ferocity and strength never lacking and never diminishing.
Until now.
"I know it means little," he told her, hoping his words sounded as sincere as he intended them, "But – I am sorry." He reached out, tenderly touching her cheek. "You saved my life, you know, and that demands compensation. A life for a life." She blinked, her lashes still damp, and started to shake her head. But he stopped her. "A life for a life," he iterated, "So I give my life to you – for as long as you will have it."
Hawke sighed. "Anders – this wasn't –"
"I know what this was," he said, cutting her off.
And he did.
What they had done – it wasn't out of lust, nor for love. No, it had been something both smaller and so much larger; he and Hawke had been clawing at survival, searching for proof of their own humanity. They had sought together, pursuing through their pain and their pleasure for a connection, an affirmation that they were not – alone.
What they had done - it had been a validation of their being.
"I know," he told her solemnly, "And I still hold to my pledge."
She regarded him, the bruises beneath her eyes deeper, appearing painful. There were small bruises along her hips, too, that matched the outline of his palm, and multiple lacerations, scrapes and cuts that she had not spoken of. The healer in him cried out to restore her; he could not hold back any longer, lifting one hand above her chest as soft blue light flowed over them both.
Through it all, she stared up at him with grey eyes.
When he finished, his shoulders bowing from renewed weariness, he collapsed onto his back on the ground. He lay staring up at the tree canopy, and finally felt her reaching around him, pulling him close as she laid her head once again along his collarbone. Her breathing steadied; she was asleep in minutes.
Anders stared up into the dark trees, watching the mists swirl along the branches.
Cumberland. And then – Tevinter.
He had once been a man who sought freedom from all ties, hardly knowing the meaning of the word commitment and not caring to learn it. He then became a man somehow chosen to carry the burdens of an entire people on his shoulders, bound to his cause with chains that even iron would envy. And now – now, he would follow Hawke, shadowing her wherever she would lead, until the day came that she discarded him or the Calling dragged him away from her side.
Vengeance – Justice – demanded he do this; he had long ago chosen to obey.