The ground shook as the massive statue tore itself free from its plinth. Hawke could see Varric's lips move as he cursed in disbelief, but the words were drowned in the cacophony of crumbling, tortured stone. Maker, that's a big one, he thought to himself. It had been a decade since he was struck speechless by the sight of a charging Ogre, frozen in fear as Carver rushed to meet it, always eager to prove himself the better man of the pair. He probably was, Hawke admitted to himself, the good men died young and the bastards carried on. He wondered what that said about him, but at least the stature of his enemies had improved. He very much doubted they could get much bigger than this.

Or faster. The statue lashed out with surprising speed, missing Hawke by a hair's breadth as the rogue threw himself backwards. The force of the blow splintered the paving stones, shards tearing at his armor. He had felt the rush of air preceding it, like the breath of the Maker himself come to take him home. A second of warning. It had been enough, this time. But death had been such a constant companion lately that he was more angry than shocked.

"Pay attention Hawke," Aveline yelled, her strong voice carrying through the din. She was a figure impossible to ignore, and the statue veered to face her.

For a moment Hawke wondered if she ever feared. If she ever doubted. He had seen her grieve, but giving up? No, that was not Aveline's thing. But what could even she do about that thing other than distract it? Endure its assaults? For not the first time he felt that cold dagger of fear in his stomach, when faced with something impossible. Though he'd never tell his friends, part of him could understand the Chantry. Could understand the Templars. Magic could do terrible things, against which weapons and courage mattered little. It was a small consolation that this was the work of a Templar, not a mage, aided by whatever unholy powers that had been contained in that idol. Magic was a friend here, not an enemy.

But it still scared the shit out of him.

Varric's bolts exploded against the statue's face, momentarily blinding it, and Hawke took that chance to spring into action. He had no idea what to do, not really, how did you fight a giant statue with a pair of knives anyway? Even the rock-wraith in the Deep Roads had a nervous system of sorts, his hands had stung like they had been dipped in fire when he stabbed it, but there had been something there, something that he could disrupt. What was the key here? Meredith? He had lost sight of her on the battlefield, and the statue was too much of a danger to be ignored. But he couldn't do this alone. He needed help.

"Merril?" he shouted, but the elven girl was nowhere to be seen. Smoke and dust now covered the courtyard, the looming shape of the statue the only thing clearly visible. It moved with an odd, jerky grace, lashing and stomping like an enraged infant. "Varric?" Hawke's voice cracked a little, but there was no reply, no snarky comeback. "Isabela? Bethany?" No answer came, and now the statue had stopped its mindless rampage, turning towards him.

He could smell the blood. Maker, he could smell it. Pain and rust and old nightmares. He couldn't move, he stood frozen to the ground as the smoke cleared a little and the statue tossed Aveline's broken body to the ground. "This is not how it happened," he whispered to himself, but he was lying. This was happening. Right now. Right here. He could see other bodies scattered around its feet, bloody pulps hardly resembling his friends. But he knew that's what they were. The statue raised its hand, bringing it down towards him in a vicious blow. He should dodge. He should run. He should climb that bloody behemoth, find a weak point, and tear it apart. He should fight. He knew he should.

But Maker he was tired. He was tired of fighting. Tired of decisions that tore his heart out. He'd lost everything he had tried so hard to build, and here, surrounded by the broken bodies of his friends it felt like it was enough. He was done. He had come to the end of his road. Hawke didn't close his eyes when the fist bore down on him, and then... abruptly stopped.

The air shimmered blue as the shields held, the statue staggering back, confused.

"Anders!" Hawke exclaimed, relief flooding his heart.

The mage was still alive. He was still here, still fighting, and Maker it was an awesome sight to behold as he with a gesture called down cold enough winds to freeze the behemoth in place, trap it in a column of ice, the very stone itself cracking apart from the cold.

"What?" the apostate asked with a cocky smile. "Did you think I'd let my favorite Champion get smashed to a pulp? Your dog would never forgive me, and he's far scarier than any statue. Did I ever tell you what he did to my boots after I banned him from our bed?"

Hawke opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Behind the mage a shadow had appeared, and he wanted to scream a warning, wanted to throw a blade, wanted to do something. Anything. But he couldn't, he was trapped as surely as the statue, helpless to do anything but watch as Meredith stepped forth behind the unsuspecting mage, burying the evil crystal sword deep in his back. There was a moment there, of shock, of realization, and then he finally found the breath to scream.

...

That scream woke them both and sent Hawke tumbling over the edge of the narrow bunk they shared. It took him a moment to realize why he was on the floor, and who it was that actually had screamed.

"Andraste's knickerweasels," Anders exclaimed as he popped his head out to check on the fate of his lover. "And here I thought I was supposed to be the one with the nightmares." He had summoned a weird bluish glow that hovered over his shoulder, making the shadows dance madly on the walls. The sun was not up yet, and the small cabin swathed in darkness.

"Sorry to break it to you," Hawke replied, trying to get his breath back. "Grey Wardens don't have monopoly on night terrors." He kept trying to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. The dream still hovered, and he had to take a look around to make sure that there was nothing hiding in the shadows to put a knife in either of them.

"I suppose we have to settle for just having the darkspawn, doom and early death market cornered then," the mage mused, quite openly ogling the naked man on the floor.

"Maybe you need to branch out to attract more recruits," Hawke said, slowly collecting himself and his dignity. Such as it was.

"I tried suggesting that you know," Anders continued. "But kittens are right out it seems, as is an actual sense of humor and political activism."

"Can't imagine why you left then," Hawke replied dryly. "Are you going to have me sitting on the floor for the rest of the night, or are you going to scoot over so I can get back in?"

"Well, the view is tempting, as is the chance to nurse you back to health if you should catch a cold, but I'm a selfish man. You've been out of my bed for far too long as it is."

"Technically it's Isabela's bed, since this is her ship," Hawke said shakily, maneuvering himself back in the bunk. It was far too narrow for two people really, but fugitives couldn't be choosers.

"Technically I doubt this is a bed at all, don't they call them bunks on ships?" Anders winced as he got an elbow in the side before they finally managed to find some semblance of comfort, his head on Hawke's shoulder, their legs entwined. "This thing is barely fit for darkspawn."

"If Isabela heard you say that, she'd keel-haul you for insulting her ship." Hawke let out the breath that had been caught in his throat since he woke up. That had been a dream. This was reality. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the alternative.

"Isabela got a proper bed," Anders pointed out. "That's the perks of the captain's cabin for you."

"Regretting turning Isabela's offer down?" Hawke asked jokingly.

"What offer?" Anders said with mock-indignation. "She never flirted with me, perish the thought."

"She never flirted with you? Maker's breath, I thought she flirted with everybody!"

"Well, except me," he said sadly. "I think Justice made her nervous. She kept checking to see if I was me, or something of that sort."

"Silly Isabela, she ought to know to check for glowy bits."

"Lucky for you she never figured that one out. I might have ended up captivated by our ravishing Rivani pirate and never given you a second thought."

"You wound me," Hawke said with an air of grand suffering about him. "I was captivated enough by her at the start, and I still ended up with you."

"But I'm charming," Anders protested. "You are... well, you."

"Oh, you are going to pay for that," Hawke smiled, rolling over to trap the cheeky apostate underneath him. "You are going to pay very dearly indeed..."

...

Some time later, when the sun was just rising over the horizon, all traces of bad dreams had been banished in the best of possible ways.

"I, for one," Anders gasped, "think I should insult you more often."

"I think I sprained something," Hawke winced, flexing his sweaty shoulder.

"So you can handle ogres and Templars but not one meek apostate?" Anders motioned Hawke to roll over on his stomach, and when he complied, straddled his back so he could massage the offending muscles.

"Meek is not the word I'd use," Hawke groaned. "Maker, that feels good."

"No, ravishingly handsome would probably come closer to the mark." Anders frowned a little now when Hawke couldn't see it, his hands glowing faintly in the pale dawn light as he found the hidden damage still lingering from their battle against Meredith.

"And loud."

"I will take it to heart that you said and, not or." Ander's voice had turned a bit distracted as he reached inside to tease the torn muscles together again.

"It's the same when you fight," Hawke mumbled into the thin mattress. "You keep screaming all these things, as if you wanted to be attacked. To be noticed. Wouldn't it be smarter to stay quiet and just blast them from a distance?"

"Probably," Anders admitted. "But not so good for morale. That's why I started doing it you know, I was terrified. Talking big helps with that. I'm a healer, not a fighter. If it was up to me, I'd rather run away, but darkspawn are terribly inconsiderate when it comes to my feelings."

"So let me get this straight," Hawke said, raising his head slightly. "You hate fighting, so you went and joined the Grey Wardens, whose sole purpose is fighting darkspawn."

"I was conscripted," the mage protested and gently pushed Hawke's head back down before he continued with the massage. "For one reason or another, the Templars had become convinced that I was a Blood Mage. Now me, I think they were just tired of chasing me. It's a lot easier to run in robes than in armor, and after putting me in solitary confinement for a year after my previous escape from the Circle they were running out of less than horrible punishments and turning to the just horrible ones. The Warden offered me a way out, and like a fool I took it."

"And then you joined up with me," Hawke continued, not letting himself be distracted. "Letting you be dragged back into the Deep Roads, fighting darkspawn, rock-demons and Maker knows what else."

"There I blame you," Anders said firmly. "I couldn't very well let you traipse off into the unknown, you had no idea how bad things could be down there. And I felt that I owed you. For Karl."

"And then," Hawke continued, "you went and started what might possibly be the largest war in Thedas since the Qunari invaded. Maker's breath, for a man that says he doesn't like fighting you're sure making it hard on yourself to avoid it."

Anders pulled back his hands, watching them in silence before he sighed. "Some things are worth fighting for. Even if I don't like it. Even if it kills a lot of..."

"Don't." Hawke interrupted. "I'm sorry. Let's... just have this moment. Just us. No causes. No fears for the future. We land in Llomerryn tomorrow, that's soon enough for worries and lamentations."

Soon enough to face the uncertain future that their life had become.