Maker, but he was tired. So, so tired.
You're always tired.
"I know, old friend," he breathed quietly. Anders was, for want of a better word, alone down here in these old tunnels that led from Darktown to Hawke's estate, but caution built of long years as a wanted fugitive held him to old habits. He fumbled beneath dusty robes still speckled with blood from his last patient for a small key. Feeling the all-familiar dizziness sweeping over again, he leaned against the rock wall of the passage, clutching the key in his hand as though it were a talisman against his own weakness.
Perhaps it was.
Pushing down Justice's concerns over his fragility, Anders pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled on towards the door. He leaned against it, fingers tracing over the knots in the old wood until they found the small keyhole; it took several tries for his trembling fingers to insert the key. He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, breathing hard whilst he waited for the world to stop spinning. Then turning the key, he let himself quietly into Hawke's home. His home.
He shrugged off his jacket as he slowly hauled himself up to the top of the stairs, uncaring of where it fell, gaze fixed on the room ahead and thoughts focussed only on the sanctuary within. He was exhausted, and the thought of another night on one of the hard bare tables in his small clinic seemed more than he could bear. If the templars should choose tonight... He shook his head. He was dead meat in this state, fit for nothing and no-one.
I'd protect you.
"I know," he breathed, pulling the tatty robes away from his thin body and letting them fall to the floor, eyes fixed on the bed as he stumbled forward in just his shirt and trousers. "I'm not sure there'd be much worth protecting right now. I just need a little rest." He fell heavily onto the soft velvet-draped bed, sinking down into the smooth white pillows with a groan. He made a desultory effort to kick off his boots, then gave it up and rolled over onto his back.
Just a little while. An hour or two, whilst he waited for Hawke. He closed his eyes wearily.
Fenris glowered as he pushed aside the serving-man and stared around the hall. "He's not home?" he demanded tersely.
"No, Ser Fenris," the man replied. "Ser Hawke was called out a short while ago; he may be gone for-"
"I'll wait," replied Fenris shortly.
"But Ser-"
Fenris turned and glared at the man, who stumbled back away from him under the baleful stair of his cold eyes. His eyes fell on the stairs. "I'll wait," he repeated, striding towards them.
"Ser, I must protest!" objected the servant, attempting to forestall him. Fenris raised one eyebrow, and the man paled.
"Must you?" He smiled grimly. "Be elsewhere." He continued up the stairs, this time unimpeded.
He thrust open the door to the room, glancing around the dim interior, lit only by the glowing embers of the fire. He let the door swing closed behind him and strode over to the fireplace. A faint sound of stirring breath behind him caused him to turn; his eyes narrowed as he spied the sleeping man sprawled atop the coverlets of the large four-poster bed that dominated the room. His lip curled in derision as he approached the sleeping mage.
Anders' chest rose and fell evenly as he slumbered in a deep, dreamless sleep. He didn't stir as the elf leaned over him, staring down at his despised rival. Even in sleep, his face was pale and etched in deep lines of exhaustion; the apostate's face was gaunt, dark bruised circles beneath the eyes that were closed in silent unconsciousness.
How convenient that he should find Anders here, like this, in such a vulnerable state. Fenris slowly eased himself onto the bed, crouching over the sleeping man, drinking in the sight of him like an unpleasant-tasting draught. Silently, he slipped one hand around the mage's throat, closing the fingers about it until he could feel the pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly beneath his fingers.
How easy it would be to put an end to this nonsense right here, right now. He had but to merely tighten his grip until that faint breathing ceased, the pulse stilled, and all question of Hawke having to choose would be neatly dealt with.
Unaware of how close he was to death, Anders sighed softly in his sleep, head turning slightly upon the pillow. Almost without thinking, Fenris' grip tightened.
Anders' breath caught in his throat, and he gasped, eyes fluttering open in confusion. His hand lifted to grasp Fenris' wrist as awareness came to the wide brown eyes, then a look of steely determination before spirit energy began to flicker and dance across his skin.
"No you don't," hissed Fenris, as the silvery lines of his lyrium tattoos began to glow and flicker in the darkness. Anders' mouth gaped wide in a soundless scream as every nerve ending was instantly aflame in agony. He reached within himself for the reassuring touch and power of Justice, but the flare of Fenris' powers blocked him, rendering him unable to think coherently for the pain. The hand at his throat closed tighter, choking off all sound as he thrashed mindlessly under the onslaught, his back arching against the pain as he threw his head back, eyes rolling back in his head as his vision blurred. His chest heaved as he desperately fought to draw air into burning lungs and his grasp upon Fenris' wrist weakened as he felt consciousness slowly ebbing away. His struggles lessened then ceased as he fell limp beneath the slender elf.
And then the pain eased as Fenris relaxed his choke-hold upon the apostate's throat. Anders gasped for breath, gulping in the air desperately, his eyes closed as his chest laboured, panting. After long moments, he slowly opened his eyes again, staring up into the elf's dispassionate face.
"Why-" he began but broke off as the elf's fingers tightened warningly. Anders stared up into Fenris' face, searching for understanding but seeing only hatred.
And then the door latch clicked, and both pairs of eyes flicked over to the door as Hawke walked in.
He took two steps into the room then halted as his eyes took in the tableau before him; Anders sprawled upon his back in the middle of the bed, Fenris hunched over him, one hand clenched about the apostate's throat. Anders' eyes shone a soft amber in the faint light from the fire, holding a look of silent pleading and something else that Hawke couldn't quite read. Fenris' stone-grey eyes by contrast held a look of defiant challenge. He spat only one word.
"Choose."
Hawke stared at them both for what seemed an age, his gaze flicking from the angry elf to the exhausted mage beneath him. As long moments passed in silence, Fenris' face twisted into disgusted impatience. Anders licked his lips nervously, a bead of sweat rolling slowly down his temple. "Hawke-" he began, then broke off with a soft gasp of pain as the silvery lyrium tattoos that crisscrossed Fenris' body flared briefly in warning.
"Fenris." Hawke's voice was low, but there was the bite of warning steel in it. "If you harm him, I swear you will not leave this room alive."
"Is that your final choice, Hawke? Consider wisely. If you choose me... I will let him live."
Anders' eyes held only dull misery as he never took his gaze once from Cortland Hawke. It were as though something inside the apostate were dying already. Hawke stared back into those hurt-filled, despairing eyes as he answered slowly.
"If you kill Anders, there is no force in all of Thedas that will save you from me, Fenris."
The elf stared at him disbelievingly. "You...mean that," he said flatly. "You would put this abomination's life above that of your loyal companions. You would trust this... mage." He spat the word out like something foul-tasting, his expression darkening.
"With my life," replied Hawke.
Fenris glared down at Anders, who still stared at Hawke though this time with dawning hope and disbelief in his soft brown eyes, and something else. With stomach-churning realisation, Fenris recognised the look of pure love in the apostate's gaze... a look which was mirrored in the eyes of Hawke. Slowly Fenris drew back, his hand falling reluctantly away from the mage's throat, the imprints of his fingers already mottling the pale flesh with bruises. He cast a despairing glance back at Hawke.
"But... Ilove you!" he cried desperately, imploringly, flinging his hand towards Hawke in entreaty.
Hawke shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry," he replied simply.
Fenris' face contorted in grief and he looked away. Anders lay still beneath him, barely even daring to breathe, eyes still locked upon Hawke's face. With a cry, Fenris thrust himself away from the mage and staggered from the bed.
"Fenris..."
The elf stood silently for long minutes, head lowered, shoulders shaking silently; but when he finally lifted his head, it was as though a mask had fallen across his face. Though redrimmed, the grey eyes were cold as ice as he faced the taller man. "I will not forget this," he said quietly. "You will rue the day you chose a mage over me."
He stalked towards the door, where he paused. "Have a care, Anders," he called over his shoulder. "You are a dead man." Then without a backwards glance, he walked away.
Hawke stood in silence, watching Anders as the elf's footfalls died away. The mage closed his eyes and groaned in quiet relief. Hawke crossed the room in a few steps and sank down onto the bed beside the blond man.
"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" he asked with quiet concern, gently reaching out to brush a fallen strand of hair away from Anders' eyes. Anders opened his eyes slowly and stared up into his face. "Did you really mean that?" he whispered softly. "Would you really have killed him?"
"If he'd tried to harm you? Yes," replied Hawke. He stared down at the other man then suddenly gathered the slender body into his arms and crushed him to him, burying his face against the side of Ander's bruised neck. Anders cried out softly, and Hawke murmured quiet apologies as he eased his grip, cradling the back of Anders' head with one gloved hand as he still held him close.
"But... why?" asked Anders wonderingly. "I bring you only heartache and trouble. This... us... it can only end in ruin."
"I'm willing to risk that," replied Hawke, pushing the slender man back against the pillows. Anders briefly tried to resist then fell back, still weak. Hawke began to strip off his armour as he knelt above the blond man.
"Why would you do this? Risk everything for me – an apostate?" asked Anders quietly as Hawke reached for him again.
"Would you rather I'd let Fenris kill you?" replied Hawke, running his hands over Anders' ribs, silently noting with concern how thin and gaunt the mage had become these recent months.
"Of course not," replied Anders. "But you could have chosen him instead. He would have spared my life – after all, he would have won."
"Are you saying I chose wrongly?" asked Hawke, gently easing open Anders' thin shirt and gently kissing the pale skin beneath. Anders gasped and arched his back in response.
"N-no... I... oh Maker..."
Hawke kissed slowly up the pale skin to the base of Anders' bruised throat as Anders threw his head back.
"What would have happened if I had?" breathed Hawke softly, his breath against Anders' skin causing the mage to shiver.
"I may as well be dead," whispered Anders. "Life without you... I don't think I could bear it. After three years of longing... It would kill me to lose you."
Hawke levered himself up on one elbow and stared down at the mage, lightly stroking the fingers of his other hand down the side of Anders' face. Anders turned his face into the touch and kissed the tips of Hawke's fingers. Gently, Hawke turned Anders' face towards him; obediently, the apostate gazed into his eyes.
"I love you, Anders," said Hawke softly.
Anders stared up into his eyes for long moments. Then finally he smiled.
"Kiss me?" he whispered.