Ten years. It had been ten long years since they had met. When she walked into his clinic, he had no delusions that she would remain in his life. He was an apostate, a warden on the run, and possessed. To be detached from a normal life was his sentence, his new, damned existence, from the moment he had invited Justice into himself.
The life that replaced the fragile romance he had attempted with the Warden Commander, the Arl of Amaranthine, the Hero of Ferelden and its queen. She had once told him that to have so many titles was embarrassing. He had barely gotten over the urge to flinch every time he thought about it, but back then, he was suave, witty, and she agreed with his ideals. She had even given him Ser-Pounce-a-Lot. In his mind, he had been irresistible, but he realized now how foolish that notion was. He had seen the king, and had seen the love between them and had still thought himself Alistair's equal. He still shook his head at his foolishness. He was damned lucky that she had let him down as easily as she did. After that, though she did not treat him differently, he left. Not leaving merely from the rejection of his advances, for she was still a valued confident, but he found that, freed from the constant need to run, he thought nearly constantly about how mages such as himself were treated. He was no maleficar and in fact hated the very idea of them, but the Templars seemed content to brand anyone who refused to submit as such and that infuriated him beyond belief. From those thoughts came the first pages of his manifesto.
He had left with the purpose of bringing the plight of the mages to light and righting all that they suffered simply because they had the power to destroy when desperate, just as any man might fight for his life. Something he had not considered after he left the wardens is the possibility that he would once again be branded an apostate. He was captured twice more, only a royal pardon sparing him from becoming tranquil, before he decided to leave Ferelden for good. He decided to go to Kirkwall through the simple reasoning that, because there were so many Templars, that was the last place he was likely to go, and he blended in well with the swarm of Fereldan refugees.
He had been frightened enough when she had first walked in, thinking he had been discovered, but she hadn't even drawn her daggers to protect herself. After the fiasco with Karl, he found that she was surprisingly sympathetic to his cause, which he later found stem from the fact that Hawke's father and sister were also mages who had hidden from the oppression of the Chantry.
Not once in those ten years had he stopped thanking the Maker that it would not be the last time he saw her.
Six years. It had been six long years, and the thought of what had transpired still turned his blood to ice. Hawke had agreed to help him smuggle a mage girl from the gallows to prevent Ser Alrik from making her tranquil. He had known that she would agree to it, still bitter that the Templars had taken Bethany and she had been unable to protect her sister. He had nearly killed the girl that he had come to protect. Hawke had been the only thing that had stopped him. She had faced down Vengeance, for Justice would never have attempted such an atrocity, in an attempt to save him and his sanity. He would never allow himself to forget what had almost happened, but it would have been much, much worse had Hawke not stepped in.
He shouldn't have been surprised all those years ago when she was so set on preventing him from leaving, but he was. He couldn't fathom how someone could have the knowledge that he was an abomination, that they could witness him massacre scores of Templars, turn on an innocent, and still think that he was worth saving, much less holding close. He should have known that Hawke wouldn't choose the clear path. She had always thrown herself headfirst into insanity from the moment that she looked past his possession, ignored his warnings against her feelings, and sneered at his admission that he wouldn't be able to resist her for much longer. He remembered the exact words as if she had just uttered them.
"How long will it take for me to drive you crazy?"
They tore down the steel wall of his will that had been steadily crumbling in her presence for far longer than he cared to admit. He had kissed her for the first time then. She had tasted better than anything he had dreamed of and the returned enthusiasm from her nearly destroyed him. He had to remember that he was being selfish. She didn't deserve the problems that he would drown her in. He gave her one last chance to change her mind. One more chance to reject him and his ridiculous notions that he, an apostate, could deserve to love her. And Maker's breath, but he did love her.
When he went to her mansion, feeling out of place in Hightown, and placed his hand on the knob that had twisted freely in his hand instead of locking him out, and experienced a euphoria that made everything feel like a dream as he ascended the stairs to see her standing by the fireplace, the dancing hues of orange reflected on her pale skin, he had to tell her. To let her know how he felt. How he had felt for so long but he could no longer contain. He simply had to tell her he loved her. He had taken care to burn every detail of that night into his mind. The feel of her skin, scarred but soft, with calloused hands. The most perfect balance of woman and warrior. And he was grateful for every second that he remembered. One of the most perfect nights of his life, and certainly the most important, could no longer be burned from his mind by the ravages of time.
It was one of very few nights where he could honestly claim that the plight of the mages was not hounding his mind. The night where he vowed that no Templar would ever hurt her for helping him, before promptly forgetting that the order even existed. She was the only thing in Thedas for that night, and she would never know how much it had meant to him or how it allowed him to retain a grip on his sanity.
Three years ago. He had loved her so, trusted her with every fiber of his being, and yet he deceived her. The memory still stung, fresh in his mind. He had tricked her, allowing her to believe that he and Justice may be separated. Giving her false hope. The look in her eyes, the one she got when she set her mind to something and the Maker himself could not deter her, almost made him confess his true intentions. Almost. He had been far too selfish, allowing himself to bask in the glow of all that was Hawke when he knew that he would betray her. He would allow no other to shoulder this burden, not even the woman who shared her heart so freely with him. She trusted him, and he deceived her, maintaining a smile and using her to gather ingredients for the explosive he had found; one that could not be detected, and could be activated only by the magic of the one who had created it. Even though it still hurt as it had all those years ago, he knew it had been the right decision.
Six months. Six long months had been spent running. Hiding from the Templars, the bounty hunters, and the Chantry. Six months since she had spared his life and allowed him to fight by her side. Six months ago, she had promised to be a fugitive with him, and her conviction had not wavered. Not when one by one, her companions left. They had taken Isabela's ship from Kirkwall and one by one they had stayed behind to start a new life elsewhere. He had been shocked that Fenris was the last to leave, sure that the elf's friendship with Hawke had overshadowed his hate of her mage companion. The former slave had only stayed with Isabela after Hawke announced her plans to hide in Tevinter, not allowing Fenris to consider following her for a moment.
And thus they had remained in Tevinter for a month, moving from city to city. A mage was hardly an unusual sight, and the war with the Qunari had the Imperium focused on things more important than capturing the Champion of Kirkwall.
They had not relaxed, but they no longer felt the need to run at every errant whisper of the infamous Champion of Kirkwall, and Hawke had remained faithfully at his side. That small fact more important to him than the number of mage uprisings, which had all but destroyed the Circles of Magi and even wore on the Templars.
It warmed his heart to know that his promise to Hawke was set into motion. His promise that their children would grow up in a world where they could be born mages, a likely scenario considering the magic that was in the Hawke bloodline, and himself the most notorious mage in Thedas, and they would be free. He was not confident that the child would be born into the promised world, but they would live to see it. He was confident that they would grow up, protected by himself and Hawke until they would no longer be persecuted and locked away for having the gift of magic.
Anders looked into Hawke's eyes, seeing the trust there that he would never deserve, and the promise of a future that had seemed to be only the far off whisperings of a dream just a few years prior. His hand found her growing abdomen as his other hand cupped her face tenderly.
"Are you ready to go, love? We still shouldn't chance staying in one place for too long." She gently pressed her cheek into his palm and smiled warmly.
"I'm ready when you are," she replied, placing a hand over the one he still held to her stomach. He kissed her gently and wrapped his arms around her, reveling in the feel of her against him, solid and real. He was content to let the world burn for a while longer before they once again set out to face it.
This was kinda floating around in my head while I tried in vain to write something for Alistair. ^^;
Reviews are always welcome, flames or otherwise!
I own nothing. Bioware owns everything. Including my soul at certain intervals... O.O