In paradise every
the desert wind is rising
third thought
in hell there are no thoughts
is of earth
sand screams against your government
issued tent hell's noise
in your nostrils crawl
into your ear-shell
wrap ourself in no-thought
wait no place for the little lyric
wedding-ring glint the reason why
on earth
they never told you
- Wait, Adrienne Rich
Last Stand
The dry, raw heat billows upward from the craggy depths like a dragon's sour, heaving breath. Gently it bakes the tainted burning blood on her face until the substance becomes hard and flaky, painful in a different way. She pants, streaked with sweat and grease and oil, poison-stained fingers clenching around the worn, smooth pommels of glinting serrated daggers that drip with sizzling blood, heavy with fleshy debris, marrow, and shattered bits of bone. She shifts the hilts in her hands, feeling the tacky pull of drying cranial fluid and blood, the mixture having formed a thin membrane on her armored gauntlets and gloves. There's a slow-building ache in her chest. Two of her toes are broken, long numb in her enchanted boots. Shrieks echo in the distance, accompanied by the distant crash of falling rock and the slow bubbling of the lava below.
She stands on a grand outcropping, the broken remnants of the famed Dwarven architecture eroded behind and around her, submerged in lava, enveloped in bloated, pulsating flesh, permeated with the stench of foul, suppurating wounds. The tunnels stretch on into eternity, branching, breaking off, some caved in, other shut behind beautiful unbreakable doors singing with inlaid lyrium. For miles the glow of molten rock and Darkspawn torches light up the path she has before her. The task is colossal, unforgiving, impossible. The weariness is overwhelming. She stumbles back a few steps and falls, easily, legs quivering until the muscles can no longer strain, abused ligaments refusing to carry on. When she pitches back, she strikes her elbows hard, fingers snapping open, daggers clattering noisily to the stone, sliding from her stiff appendages. The massive, high ceiling of what was left of the Dwarven kingdom is suspended above her, and she suddenly wishes it would come crashing down.
Moments later, he is by her side, warm eyes concerned but haggard, twitching with every Darkspawn roar, fighting not to become lost to the Call. Blood-slicked fingers hover over her, blue light emanating from them, infusing warmth into her cold bones, trying to heal what is supposed to be wearing away. Since their descent, she has been taking most of the damage; she has been keeping the scratching, clawing, screaming, rotting monstrosities off the mage, the healer, the man she loves. "This is my Calling," he whispers to her, voice raw with emotion and hoarse from disuse; it isn't the first time he's said it.
"Mine, too," she tells him, for if he dies, she dies. Gently he maneuvers her until she's lying half-sprawled in his lap, the flowing lava casting them both in an orange hue. "Above they fight for their freedom," she whispers after a moment, their hands entwined, hearts still beating. "Down here, we fight to die."
She speaks of the mages, the uprising, the Inquisition, they call it. For years now, the two factions, Templars and mages, have been rallying troops and allies, fighting in the trenches, killing brothers and sisters, taking children to raise as machines. For the longest time, they were a part of it. Until Anders began to hear the whispers in his waking hours. With Bethany long slain by Templars, Carver dead, her mother gone, her home razed by the Divine…Hawke had nothing left. Nothing to live for. No longer willing to fight, she took his hand and followed him into Orzammar where mages were all humans and elves to them, magic was meant for swords and armor, and no one cared what the Maker thought.
"I would have liked to see it end," he confesses, old concerns in his eyes. She tilts her head and kisses his jaw, tastes the tainted Darkspawn on her cracked lips, doesn't mind.
There is a peace for a moment, sitting for the first time in what seems like years, warmed by the simple heat of one another, the dull thud of his heart a comforting sound; he is still alive, still with her, still breathing and fighting. There's still time. Anders squeezes her tighter to his chest, strong arms seemingly meant for holding and comforting lost, broken women in the dark, setting his chin on the top of her bloody hair, breathing quietly. He smells of lyrium and blood and herbs and magic, of antiseptic and oak and fire and home. Hawke sighs, the throbbing, relentless pain fading away in his loving embrace as it always does.
Distantly, and not for the first time, she hears the sounds of battle, of old ghosts or perhaps a few Legion members driving the Darkspawn back into the deepest areas of the Roads. There are dead men and women walking about, she knows, and thinks she understands why the dwarves respect the Wardens for the Call. There is a grim kinship there, a commonality. Both are legions of the dead and dying. Both resign themselves to an early end in the heart of battle, dilapidated stone, and scorching lava flows.
A roaring growl interrupts her train of thought and startles them both. Anders jerks and reaches for his stave, making to stand, but she doesn't. "I can't," she tells him, gripping him tighter, their eyes meeting. "I…just can't."
Anders hesitates, switching between her pleading face and the advancing Hurlock in the distance. Finally, he asks, "What do you want me to do?" The Darkspawn strikes the rock with its twin swords, inciting sparks, taunting as it walks closer.
Hawke stares pointedly at the edge of the outcropping, knowing without having to look that the drop is colossal, could go on for miles, may never end, may be filled to the brim with molten rock and magma, so hot it could incinerate bone upon contact. Anders follows her gaze, and she feels his breath escape him suddenly. "Hawke…" he says.
"So easy," she whispers, feeling quickened, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. "A leap of faith, Anders."
Emotions flicker in his eyes, and he is speechless for so long that, before they know it, the Hurlock is upon them. She gasps and twists, and, as the Hurlock's blades arch down toward Anders, he turns swiftly and blocks them with his stave, delivering a kick to the creature's stomach and sending it stumbling backwards. Before the Darkspawn can recover, he strikes again, knocking it over the head with the heavy, dragonbone weapon so that it is forced to the ground, shaking its head, huffing angrily.
Before it can recover, Anders tosses aside his stave and gathers her into his arms like a disjointed ragdoll, walking toward the edge until bits of it crumble beneath his feet, rocks tumbling down into the darkness. There's a bright sliver of light visible, likely lava, but Hawke only looks at it once before staring into his eyes, forcing him to look at her with a gentle pressure on the side of his face. "Love you," she whispers. "Trust you." She burrows against the side of his neck and holds her breath, eyes crushed shut, waiting for the fall. One of her armored boots slides broken from her dangling foot and bangs against the sides on the way down.
Anders only takes another breath before stepping forward, the ground disappearing from beneath them as the Hurlock roars and charges, falling just short of plunging into the darkness with them.
Hawke closes her eyes and imagines she's flying.
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