I:

Varric was telling tales again. Hawke could see it in the expressions of the people in Low Town. Awe mixed with admiration, or sometimes, fear. "There's no place in the world more hungry for a hero than Kirkwall," Varric had told him. "When all hope has been lost we are forced to invent."

Hawke wished he could tell his friend that he was simply a random witness to events, not the People's Champion as the stories made him out to be. Just another Ferelden refugee, as lost and as caught up in the whirlwind of daily life as any other drunken sot at the Hanged Man. Too often he felt his words fell on deaf ears, that no matter what he said or did it was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Kirkwall was a volatile powder keg only one spark away from disaster. Mage and Templar, Kunari and Human, the poor and the wealthy...it was only a question of who would ignite the flame of rebellion and civil war first. A hero wouldn't feel so powerless. The version of himself in Varric's tales never did. Even those who knew him best seemed swept up in the dwarf's skillful narrative powers.

Sometimes, just for a moment, Hawke almost believed it himself.

The silence in Dark Town could drive a person mad. People too weary, too hungry, too scared...too broken...to waste precious energy disturbing the deafening veil. Anders lay on the cheap cot, little more than bits of wood and sacking, that served as his bed. Relishing in the brief moment of stillness that the end of the day brought. Dark Town at night was a mausoleum.

It had been a long day with a seemingly endless supply of sick and injured. Refugees, malnourished and covered with lice, with matted hair and sunken eyes. They always brought back the memory of one of his first patients in Kirkwall. A young apostate girl, maybe 16 or 17, who had been brutally savaged and beaten by two templars. It hadn't been the first time this had happened to her she had confided, only the first time that her tormentors had been caught. Her brother was likely going to hang in the gallows for avenging her. She had begged Anders not to heal her. To let her die.

Justice had stirred in his waking dream. Whispering that there could be no peace. No end to this horror until the Circle was broken forever. With each passing day, Anders was becoming more inclined to agree.

II:

The news in High Town was that the Hawkes had rebuilt their family fortune. True, Garrett had managed to re-buy the estate that had once belonged to his grandparents, but he wasn't exactly hobnobbing with the elite and holding tea socials each week. Sometimes Hawke could have strangled Varric for the rumors that he slept on a mattress stuffed with gold coin. It had been Varric's idea to go on the expedition to the Deep Roads that had granted their windfall. He supposed it was the dwarf's tale to embellish, but Maker, not a day went by without someone begging for money or attempting to mug him in the street.

Hawke would have gladly given it all away to have Bethany returned from the Circle. Chasing after lost treasure had cost him his sister, the one person he had vowed to protect. Anders had managed to find agents within willing to pass letters and small gifts, but the templars were growing ever more watchful.

Some nights he would stand outside the walls of the gallows, hands pressed against impenetrable stone. He would imagine Bethany on the other side of the wall, mimicking his actions, their palms touching but for inches of mere mortar between them.

Darkness. The gloom of ancient ruins untouched for eons untold. Slithering horrors lurking behind every crevice. The crushing weight of centuries of betrayal and madness. And the song. Always the song. The taint screaming in his blood, vibrating through his veins, pounding into his ears. Whisperings of demons, laughing, rejoicing, welcoming him as one of their own.

A piercing scream of terror and anger would jolt him awake. Muscles taut, nerves twanging like bow strings. The dawning realization that the strangled cry had come not from some poor soul seeking aid, but from deep within himself. Cold sweat, throat sore and constricted, Anders would rise to find himself entangled in sheets. Remnants of fighting an invisible adversary. Never again. He had promised himself to be rid of the Deep Roads and the wardens forever. Yet he had followed.

Justice rumbled in the depths of his mind. Unsure. Skeptical. A question asked.

"Because Hawke asked me to," was the only answer Anders could give.

III:

A sensitive and romantic man broken on the wheel of harsh realities and ugly truths. That was how Varric described Anders in his stories. Hawke was loathe to over-simplify his friend's character with such statements, but it was an observation hard to disagree with.

If Varric, or any one of his eager listeners had bothered to ask him his impression of the mage he would have said that he saw a man who selflessly gave of himself without allowing for anyone to return the favour. Too many times he had seen Anders near collapse from tending to others' misfortunes and stubbornly refusing any help himself. Hawke would have told how watching the mage at work, pale blue light flowing from his long, delicate fingers, fascinated him. That this slight, fragile-seeming man could harness unimaginable power that could knit flesh and bone whole again. He would have spoken of courage; for all that the man complained, he was the first to join into any fray.

Most of all, he would speak of the fiery passion that threatened to consume Anders whole. When he spoke of his Cause, his Calling, the Freedom Of All Mages, he became truly alive. Eyes smoldering with righteous indignation, hands lively animated as his brain tried to keep up with his body in an impassioned speech.

What Hawke would never admit, not even to himself, was that at certain moments, Anders, with nostrils flaring, hair disheveled, looking for all the world like a tempest trapped in a bottle, was the most beautiful thing the warrior had ever laid eyes on.

The crowds surrounding the clinic were becoming denser. No longer just the unfortunates looking for potions or salves or surgeries. Now there were curious onlookers, adventurers, children wide-eyed with wonder, all wanting to know if the stories were true. Did he really know the great Serah Hawke? Maker take Varric for turning them into small town celebrities.

He had needed to ask Lirene to stand guard at the door and shoo away the more aggressive of the lot. She could be formidable and terrifying when need be. Even Hawke himself was careful not to incite her wrath. She was a mother hen protecting her banty brood of refugees and she had an especially soft spot for Anders. It made him slightly uncomfortable, never being used to having a mother or a sister or an aunt to hover over him and take him under her wing. She was loyal and dedicated, however, and people like that were too few and far between to not be treasured.

Maker, she had a grudge against Hawke for bringing all this attention upon them, though. Anders had tired to explain that it wasn't the warrior's fault. That Varric was spinning tales and Hawke just happened to be the star of them. How could he ever be upset with the man who fought so fiercely to help the mages' plight?

One night, Anders had drunkenly confided in him about the abuses he had suffered during his time in the Circle. Hawke's expression had become grim resolve etched in stone. The things he would have done to the templars if he had only been there. No doubt imagining how easily it could have been his beloved sister in Anders' stead. Fists clenched, he had pounded the table, one mighty blow cracking it in two. The Hanged Man had gone eerily silent for a split second, all eyes upon them, and they erupted into a fit of giggles to see the look of terror on the faces of some of the most dangerous people in Kirkwall. Laughing until they cried or crying until the laughed, Anders could no longer tell.

Justice rose up through the alcoholic haze, seeping into the cracks of his mind.

Wounded. Heal yourself, Mage.

"I am unable," Anders' response echoed back. "There are some wounds which even magic cannot heal."

IV:

Monster. Every bit as loathsome and repugnant as the creatures he claimed to despise. Fooling himself that he could ever go back to being the man he once was. The taint...Justice...had changed all of that. The Voice grew louder in the night. Angry but sure of itself in a way that Anders could never have dreamed himself to be. Fenris was right to call him an abomination, he had simply gotten the details wrong. Justice had not corrupted him, it had been he who had twisted and perverted the spirit into Vengeance. He had almost killed an innocent.

Hawke had charged at Alrik as soon as the gravity and nature of the situation became shockingly apparent to him.

Vengeance had reeled. Disgusted. Inflamed.

Weak. Do you wish her to end up as you did, Mage? Violated. Scarred. Heal her pain forever.

Memories of smirking templars. Of being face down in the dirt, robes torn and bloodied. When he had refused to cry or scream they had started in on him with heavy fists until he did. Cursing himself for being incapable of fighting back. Swearing, with each unwanted thrust, that he would never allow himself or another mage to be used in such a way again.

It was Hawke's voice that brought him back. Strong hands gripping his shoulders. Eyes pleading for him to return. Like a man drowning in icy waters and finally being allowed to gulp down a breath of air, Anders had awoken. Shamed, he had fled.

This time it was Hawke who trailed after him.

Idiot. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? He was a damned fool for not having done something earlier. Anders had exposed his deepest secrets to him alone. Had followed him to the Deep Roads, despite his fears, all because he trusted Hawke. Couldn't bear to disappoint him. Slowly, Anders had let his walls come down, and Hawke had been too blind to realize what that meant.

Maker, Hawke wanted to hold him flush against his body, stroke his hair, entwine those tapering fingers with his own. To tell him he didn't need to fight this alone. He had wanted to for years. Too afraid that Anders would shy away again, retreating into his hovel and throwing himself at his work. Selfish. The man deserved to know how he felt about him.

Just as he feared, Anders was preparing to flee. He seemed forever running. To where or what Hawke didn't know. He suspected neither did Anders.

Hawke could be a smooth diplomat when the demand called but, damn it, faced with Anders' gaze words became useless and trivial. He vaguely recalled blurting something out. Words of endearment. Some cheesy dialogue that would have better suited one of Varric's novels. Face red with embarrassment and frustration. The heady relief that he had finally gotten it out in the open. Before he could catch his bearings, Anders was crashing into him, those beautiful hands cupping his face, mouth against his and there was nothing that needed to be said any longer.

V:

The Champion. The Hero of Kirkwall. A title he felt Varric had been preparing him for since he had first met the dwarf. His story would be forever told alongside that of The Warden. The Warden...who some, like Varric, claimed was a dwarven rogue from Dust Town. The Warden...who others, like Anders, insisted was an apostate mage who fled from the Circle. The Warden who was a female warrior of noble birth if Aveline was to be believed. Hawke personally liked the story of the Dalish elf who had fallen in love with a handsome Antivan Crow and had died tragically fighting the Arch Demon. The only one thing anyone could agree on was that the Warden had owned a loyal and intelligent Mabari hound. Somehow, Hawke was willing to bet that his or her dog didn't leave muddy paw prints on the bed or chew up the furniture as his own did. Would one day his own tale become as equally enshrouded in mystery?

There were already varying tales going around about him as it was. Hawke didn't particularly care, but he really wished they would leave Anders out of it. Gamlen refused to refer to him by name, calling him "that stray cat my nephew picked up. Better watch himself or he'll end up with fleas." Aveline would address them as "the partners in crime". Isabella called their relationship a threesome while Merrill believed them to be the cutest couple in Kirkwall. Sebastian said only that he was praying for their souls while Fenris would just spit on the ground and swear in Kunari if the subject was ever brought up in his presence. Then there was Varric. Hawke had to actually confide some seamier details to him lest he write an entire book about them based on his imagination. Varric's imagination could be a very dangerous place indeed if left unchecked.

There were details, however, that Hawke guarded with a desperate intensity. Moments that belonged to him and Anders alone.

Hawke kissing his lover on the forehead each morning like a magic charm to repel the brand of tranquility from ever touching that spot.

Anders clumsily plucking at the lute, playing off-key love songs he had written just for his warrior.

Hawke relieving the servants for the day so that he could cook a romantic meal and nearly burning the kitchen down in the process.

The look of shock on Anders' face when he woke up one morning to discover that Ser Barks-a-lot, the 150 pound Mabari, had crawled into bed with them in the middle of the night.

The way Hawke would gently remove the band from Anders' hair so that he could bury his face in strawberry-blond waves.

How Anders casually admitted one night that he had never been read to sleep as a child, so Hawke decided to recite one story he could remember from growing up each night until his lover was snoring softly in his arms.

No one would hear of how some nights the pair would cling to one another, limbs entangled, holding on to one another with a fearful need. The unspoken terror that this too would be violently ripped away from them as so many other things in their lives had.

VI:

A cracked mirror was a powerful symbol Hawke had once overheard Varric telling Merrill. A fragmented reflection of something no longer whole. Her attempt to pick up the shards of the Eluvian and piece them back together wasn't so different from what her friends were doing with their own lives. Hawke couldn't help but think of that madman trying to recreate his dead wife...shattering more lives. Could anything so badly damaged ever really be truly restored?

There are things even magic cannot fix. Justice had told him that once, speaking through Anders. Hawke had questioned his meaning but the mage had broken through, holding on to him tightly until the trembling had stopped.

Ever since Knight Commander Meredith had taken over Kirkwall, Anders had been having more gaps in his memory. She had tightened the noose around the Circle and squeezed until the mages had no choice but to suffocate or thrash violently for some release. Lirene had been sent to the gallows dungeons for conspiracy. Hawke had not been able to see or even speak to Bethany in over a year.

He had become a somnambulist. Sleep-walking through parts of his life. Justice rarely spoke to him now. Anders was unjust, unclean, stained by his own failures. When he had anything to say at all it was in a booming thunder that shook Anders to the core.

Atonement. Revenge. No peace.

His blood would run cold, raw fade crackling from out of his pores. Eyes a blue lyrium storm. The howling winds of fury pushed from his aching lungs. Frost forming on his fingertips. Icy steel made flesh and bone...

Hawke's voice. Reverberating through his body, into his very marrow. Every sinew on fire attempting to heed his call. A breathy moan, dry and cracked like the desert wind, pleading for Hawke to breathe new life into him. The spark of desire as skin touched skin. The molten lava feel pooling in the pit of his stomach. The heat of arousal between his legs. The flame in his heart that he would happily let burn him alive from the inside out.

Divided. An internal battle of elements. Of wills. Anders the collateral damage between two opposing but equally matched forces. Hawke trying to softly guide him back to himself, trying to reason with Justice but he was dealing with Justice no longer.

Vengeance rumbled, stilling the cacophony. The calm before the storm.

No compromise.

VII:

People would ask Varric how the story ended and therein lay the magic. They weren't demanding the truth, they only wanted to hear what happened next. In each town, in every tavern or inn along his travels the saga of Hawke's adventures finished differently. Because the world was hungry for a hero and that definition could change from person to person, from region to region. All good tales tend to take on a life of their own and if it just so happened to help obscure the nature of Hawke's location, well, no one could exactly fault him for that...

Hawke had never been on a ship before. Sailing the open seas was a lot like commandeering your own life Isabella would say. The first few days he had spent sick as a dog, throwing up overboard until he managed to find his sea legs. There had been the storm that had tossed them like a children's toy along the foamy spray. Then there were calm nights, where the world became nothing but serene and perfect beauty, the stars surrounding them on all sides. The evening that Anders had crawled into his cabin, saying nothing, their bodies eventually moving in time with the waves beneath them. The first time Hawke had seen Anders smile in so long.

Perhaps there were some things that could never be fixed. Not by magic. Or love. Or revenge. But Hawke firmly believed that a true hero would keep on trying.