Our decisions follow us all of our lives.
Someone was chasing him. Darkspawn maybe. Or Templars. It wasn't clear. Just the need to run, run run. Get away. Running as fast as he could, breathing hard. Faces turned to watch him as he ran by, weaving and dodging through the crowd, hoping to lose his pursuers. He dove through an open doorway, through the building and out the back, doubling around quickly and heading back into an adjacent building and up the steps. The one on the left. Always turn left, he remembered someone telling him. If you're trying to throw off pursuit, turn left.
He sat on the floor, forehead resting on his knees. The sound outside tricked down to nothing. He went back down the stairs and outside, only to find himself standing outside the Hanged Man. Of course, the Hanged Man. That's where he'd been going, right? Inside, his friends were gathered around their favourite table, waiting for him. Anders turned his head and smiled. He stood up and gathered Hawke into a lingering hug. "I've missed you," he whispered, breath tickling the rogue's ear.
Hawke took Anders' face in his hands. So beautiful. Anders was always so beautiful. He looked exactly the same as he had the last time Garrett had seen him. That was so long ago. Wasn't it? Years ago. So many years ago.
But no, that wasn't right. Memories flooded Garrett's mind. When they'd split up for safety. Meeting up again whenever they could, every few months or more. Sweet, stolen moment while they fled the Chantry and Sebastian's army. He could almost taste them. Llomerryn for a few weeks. A month in Antiva. That was all real, wasn't it? Please let it be real.
Hawke clutched at the feathers on Anders' pauldrons. Let that be real, not the other. Not those two words.
"Just go."
He never said that. He couldn't have said that. Oh, please, sweet Andraste, let this be real. Let the other be the dream. He could feel the tears on his face, the pain curdling in the pit of his stomach. The black despair pulling him to the surface.
Wake up, Hawke. Wake. Up.
He forces himself to consciousness. Cold grey light and a dingy room in an inn, somewhere south of Danestead. A half-full bottle of brandy on the floor by the bed. Reaching for it, he takes a deep swig. He'll not be going back to sleep tonight.
He should be used to it by now. Four years. Four long, empty years. Four lifetimes of regret and recrimination. Four eternities while he dreams of honey eyes and ginger-gilt hair.
Oh, Maker, it hurts. He knuckles his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Another night spent reliving the same old self-hatred. I should have listened to him. I should have taken the mage's plight more seriously, done more to help. If I'd insisted on being at his side, not let him burden himself so much. That was an old favourite. He could put the blame on himself all the way back to the day they met. He'd known from the beginning how important Anders' cause was to him. Why hadn't he done more to help?
Or this one. Why didn't I tell him to stay? Why did I make the decision right then? In the middle of shock and fear and anger; I should have waited till my head cleared. Not lashed out in the middle of a crisis. Then he'd still be here with me. We'd still be together and my life wouldn't be a desert of loss and longing.
He takes another pull from the bottle. Another long night.
Many miles later and he makes the rendezvous point. His Warden friend is waiting. Time has been good to him, he looks much as Hawke remembers from the last time they saw one another. They are meeting in a cheap brothel in Edgehall. Nobody looks at them twice. Just a couple of traveling mercenaries, drinking ale and checking out the merchandise.
The Warden confirms what Hawke had feared. They were all hearing it. Every one of them, driving them mad.
"They think they're dying?"
"Clarel has named me a traitor. They are headed for the Western Approach."
"What about the Ferelden Wardens?"
His friend shrugs. "I have heard nothing from them since this began. Perhaps they have gone into the Deep Roads."
Hawke's brows furrow in concern. "Are there any Wardens not hearing it? What if one of then had...special circumstances?"
"From what I know, we are all hearing it. Ferelden, Orlais. I have heard nothing from my brothers and sisters in Weisshaupt or elsewhere." He takes a long pull from his tankard.
"How are you dealing with it?"
"It comes and goes. I can ignore it, though it is...difficult." He quirks a half smile. "I drink as much as I dare, in my situation. My weaker brothers and sisters have not been so lucky."
Hawke grips his tankard, knuckles turning white against the pewter. "Maker, that's..." He closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Anders, he thinks desperately. What is it doing to Anders? He remembers the last time Corypheus intruded into his life and his stomach churns.
They agree that Hawke should go on to Skyhold. They will meet up in Crestwood with the Inquisitor. The Warden throws some coins on the bar and disappears into the back rooms with a buxom human woman. Hawke sits for awhile longer, trying to calm the panic nestling under his rib cage. A pretty blonde catches his eye and winks at him. But the whore has blue eyes, not brown. Hawke leaves the table and retires to his room, alone.
Anders on his knees, moaning, "Make it stop! I'm not listening. Not. Listening." Garrett rushes over to him, but Anders pushes him away, shoves him down into the rock and dirt of the Deep Roads. "How could you let this happen!" His eyes are wild, blue cracks flickering over his skin like lightning. "How could you leave me alone? How could you do that!" Anders screams at him, his voice cracking, his eyes wild. He claws at his face and the blood runs blue. "I can hear it. I can hear him! I'm dying, oh Maker, Garrett, I'm dying alone in the dark!"
Hawke shudders, forcing himself awake. Soaked in sweat, he lays on the cot until his heart steadies, hand shaking as he pushes his hair back from his forehead. The bottle under the bed is empty. The sky is still dark, but he packs up and leaves anyway.
The days are too long. The nights are longer. It's become a litany. Every night, Hawke whispers a brief prayer to Andraste, asking the Maker's bride to watch over his sister and her family. And to the Maker, to "guard my dreams". Sometimes the Maker listens.
He'd asked Bethany, once. About demons. He'd only been in the Fade, once before, with Feynriel. Those memories are fuzzy, at best.
"They can bother anyone, really, but usually only mages are worth their while. Mages have such a strong connection to the Fade. But, if an emotion is really powerful, sometimes..." she'd rested her hand on his arm, her face a picture of concern, and pity. He'd pulled her close. He couldn't bear that look.
Passing through a small town near Sulcher's Pass, a blond head rises out of the crowd catching Hawke's attention. He's not that far from Orzammar, after all. Hawke speeds his steps to catch up, then contrives to jostle the other man. But the face is wrong. The freckles too dense, the nose stubby. Not the elegant slope he'd so loved. And the eyes are a dull grey, like stagnant water. Not the rich glow of sunlight in amber. He slows, bitterness curling on the edge of his lips. How many times has he made the same mistake? Catch a glimpse and feel his heart leap for one treacherous moment. Or that coat, that maddening, patchwork monstrosity. How many young rebels and mercenaries have made him stop in his tracks, only to realise that the wearer was too short, too heavy, too brunet, too anything and everything. The Liberator Coat, they call it. It was the fashion now. Garrett shakes his head and keeps walking. He'd nearly had a heart attack the first time he'd brought down a merc with his knives only to see that coat as he approached the body. Damn fool had been fighting for the Templars. He wonders if Anders would have appreciated the irony.
He did that a lot. Wondered things. What would Anders think? What would Anders say? Would he laugh? That delicate crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he was amused. Would he be angry, jaw clenching, eyes flashing? Scenery Anders might appreciate. Books he might like. Garrett has a whole trove of them, left behind with Bethany. Two more he's picked up on his journey.
He's glad he'd not been born a mage. Because he knows, without a doubt, that he would sell his soul if it meant that he could really, truly have Anders back again.
Another nameless tavern in another nameless town. He's almost there. Varric would have got the letter some time ago. He wonders if he's expected. His coin is getting low, but he should be fine. He drinks his ale and listens to the slightly out of tune musician singing.
As the years hang on me
You will always be young
And one day I will lie down
Where the rose was flung
Come back to me
Days are all to long
Come back to me
You never should have gone
I was so young and full of pride
And you were wild and strong
I never knew how weak I was *
His eyes grow damp. A wave of anguish so sharp it's nearly physical washes over him. He knocks back his ale and heads to his room. No more inns, he swears to himself. Maker guard my dreams.
Skyhold is nice. There's a lot of work to be done, but the Keep has an certain lightness to it that Garrett finds soothing. He's slept a few nights, quietly, dreamless. It's good seeing Varric again. Even Cassandra has warmed up to him. He can see for miles from the tallest towers. The view is breathtaking - the mountains stretching for leagues away, snow-capped and gleaming. He wonders if the Anderfels is anything like this. Did Anders remember the mountains?
Behind him comes the softest of footfalls. Most people wouldn't hear it. Garrett wasn't most people. "Sister Leliana. Or is it Nightingale, now?" The redhead walks up beside him, smiling.
"Just Leliana." Her accent is as rich and sweet as it had been in Lothering, all those years ago. She cocks a head at him, appraising. "You miss him." Garrett doesn't answer.
"Your cousin and I, we have had to be apart so much, with our duties. I understand how you feel. What it is like to be parted from a loved one. It hurts, yes?"
Hawke turns on her, rage clenching his fists, fury drenching every word. "You understand nothing. You have no idea what it's like. I drove the man I loved away from me. Four years. Four. Years. I've had no word, no sight, no chance to try and fix the biggest mistake I will ever make. He could be dead, and how would I know? I drove him away, sent him off alone and I have regretted it every day, for every minute with every breath in my body!" His head angles away from her gaze, face a twisted mask of agony. "People tell me I should have killed him." He blinks hard, suddenly, his voice falters. "I should have killed us both. Him and me after. Better that, better anything that this, this emptiness. The words thick and ragged in the back of his throat.
Her eyes are large, liquid and sad. "We should have done more. She rests her head against his arm. She barely comes up to his shoulder. "When I got to Kirkwall, we should have looked harder, dug deeper. Thing were in chaos and so many people were clamoring for answers. We took the easy way out and believed what Meredith and the Grand Cleric wanted us to believe." She squeezed his forearm briefly. "I am so sorry, Champion, that we let you down. The things we discovered after Meredith was gone..." Her voice trailed off for a moment. "We failed you." She pauses, her eyes the same soft grey blue as the mountain sky. "We failed him." Hawke rests his hand on hers.
He joins Varric and his new friends in a game of Wicked Grace. Cullen asks after Bethany.
"She's good. We bought a little farm in the Bannorn. She's still there. Married a blacksmith. A good man. They've got two little ones. Twins. Carver and Malcolm. Adorable little guys. I stay there sometimes, when I can."
"She was always such a sweet girl. I'm sure you must miss her." Cullen discards.
"Aren't you worried that you will be pursued? As Anders' former lover?"
He covers his pain with a smirk. "You couldn't find me." He draws. "Take off the armour and hide the tattoos and I'm just another guy with a beard who talks to himself. People are looking for the Champion, not some backwater farmer, or ragtag mercenary."
Cassandra folds.
He and Varric stay up late together, drinking and reminiscing. Varric doesn't mention the strands of silver in Hawke's beard. The signs of strain around his eyes.
Maker guard my dreams.
The journey to Crestwood is slow. All the while, Hawke is aware of the gates to Orzammar, hulking off to the north. Had Anders passed though there already? Was he gone, down into the Deeps and the dark? Hawke promises himself to stop there, on the way back. To see if he can find out. He wonders what it would be like, to go out fighting till the light grows thin and cold and finally leaves.
A farm stretched out before him, the wheat fresh and golden in the summer sun. Lazy and bucolic. It reminds him of the little stretch of land he'd left Bethany on. Of the fields back in Lothering. There's something peaceful about a field of grain rippling in the breeze. He waves to the woman hanging laundry in the yard, heavily pregnant while a toddler plays at her feet. He walks towards her smiling. She smiles back.
"Need any help with that?" He gestures to the basket at her feet. She's a year or two younger than he is, sweet faced with lovely long hair. She looks past him as a shadow crosses the yard. He turns.
The man is tall. His face in the shadow is shuttered and closed off. Garrett knows him anyway. He would always know that face.
"Anders."
Anders crosses to the woman. Picking up the toddler with one arm, he wraps the other around her. The warmth and softness in the gaze Anders turns on her breaks Garrett's heart.
"Why are you here?" His voice, once so melodic, has turned cold and brittle. His eyes are hard again.
"I've been looking for you."
"I didn't want you to find me."
"Anders, I'm so sorry, I.."
"Garrett. Stop. It doesn't matter anymore. Go. Just go."
It feels like a knife in the back. Hawke recoils. "You've gotten over me so soon." A stupid thing to say, but it spills out anyway.
"I got over you a long time ago. My life is here now." He turns away and walks his family into the cottage, leaving Garrett alone in the empty field.
He wakes. No bottle. Not now, not so close to Crestwood. Digging his palms into his eyes, he ignores the burning in the back of his throat. Dawn is a long way off.
He argues hard to stay behind in the Fade. He and nightmares are old friends, after all. But the Warden shoves him out of the way. Duty again. Always duty. Hawke will go back to Thedas and do his duty while his life drags along. Duty is all he's got left.
But Weisshaupt is a long ways away. Orzammar is between here and there. He'll stop again and look. No sign on the way to the Western Approach, but maybe now. Maybe...
Maker guard his dreams.
Epilogue:
Hawke is nearly alone on the road out of Jader. A wagon had passed by awhile ago. An old man in a cloak is hobbling ahead of him, leaning heavily on a worn staff. Just as Hawke moves to pass the stranger, the older man stumbles. Catching his arm, Hawke helps him to stand. The hood falls back to reveal ginger-gilt hair cropped close and a copper beard streaked with white. Amber eyes lit with gold. He'd know that face anywhere.
Notes
This was written for the #2017 handers olympics, and I am so, so late with this entry. I deeply apologize to all my fellow Olympians. I will sit in the corner of shame. I have no good excuse. Actually I have lots of excuses, just no good ones.
This is not at all the story I had originally intended to write. It was, apparently the one that wanted to be written. I don't do well with angst. I generally feel that life is painful enough. I want happy endings. It's called fantasy, after all. Writing this was very difficult for me, and so I dragged it out much longer than I should have. When I was nearly done, my mother went into the hospital briefly, which dominated my time. Fast forward to a week or so of shame in which I again procrastinated; fussing and editing to avoid facing up to my failure. Forgive me, #teamHanders. I am not worthy.
In other news, the title of the fic, and the lyrics inside are by the vastly underrated band Big Country. They were much more than a one-hit wonder. In 1984 they put out the brilliant and beautiful album Steeltown . This is one of my desert island albums. If you like early U2, you will probably like this band. I adore them and Stuart Adamson's suicide in 2001 was a terrible loss to music. Steeltown is full of haunting, moving songs that will stay with you forever. Come Back To Me, Girl With Grey Eyes, and so many others never fail to make me cry. Even after 32 years.
Tarot Card: The Lovers
Your first instinct will most likely be to associate this card as representing love, but, much like love, it does not possess a simple nature. Not only does love comes in many forms, but the Lovers may indicate important or difficult choices ahead in your life. This is bad, in that the choices it portends are generally mutually exclusive, paths to two very different futures, but also good, in that it also confirms that at least one of those paths will take you to a good place. As such, if you happen to find it in your spread, you should consider it carefully, but not fear it. It tells a story of difficult choices, likely painful, but that the correct decision and a positive outcome are within your grasp.
Source cards/the-lovers/
*Just A Shadow by Big Country
From the album Steeltown
Lyrics By - Stuart Adamson
Music By - Watson, Brzezicki, Adamson, Butler
watch?v=9CRCi0fld8Y