So it had happened. The balance of his feet had finally tipped in favour of blister over flesh. Healing only gave more skin to re-blister, and he didn't feel like providing more territory for the awful things to conquer. He promised to dry and re-bind his feet next time they paused, but who knew when that would be?
Hawke had been pushing hard since their last encounter with the Templars, which meant days and days of pointed brow and monosyllabic conversation. Their progress felt less like walking than forcing the ground behind them, grinding out each desperate mile. Anders couldn't fathom what could be special about this dingy, desolate part of the Free Marches. He'd thought that the featureless space on the map meant they were in uncharted terrain, but it was a truly accurate representation of the barren landscape stretching blankly for miles around them. It was only Hawke's greedy expression as they tramped across yet more endless moor that he could be sure there was anything beyond the horizon. They had been walking for longer and sleeping less as they dragged themselves across the final inches that separated them from the unremarkable crease in his tattered map.
They would have made better progress if Hawke hadn't insisted on taking needless, curving detours to mask their path from the Templars, who couldn't get their tin heads to think beyond straight lines. In truth, they would have made better progress if Hawke didn't insist on leaving some of the vile creatures alive. For a man who had survived and thrived on an obstinate pragmatism, he had recently developed an idiotic stubbornessjust to enact a punishment.
It was a new, uncompromising rule that had been laid down after their first encounter with a Templar pack, less than a month after they had returned to the Free Marches. They had been stupid, Anders remembered with regret; their time in Tevinter had left them careless and too dependent on home comforts, and they were discovered lingering in an inn.
They made their escape with greater ease than either had ever managed. Justice saw to that. By the time he was done, all that was left was smoking timber, the gentle plink of cooling armour and the yellow afterglow at the edges of his vision.
Anders had straddled the awful void between horror at his own handiwork and basking in the cold, thrilling air of freedom. Hawke had been nowhere near so ambivalent, and had made it known through a fug of astonished incoherence.
There had been two civilians in the inn when it tumbled in a fist of flame. One or both of them had been more than happy to see them dead at the Templars' hands, but Hawke could be very pig-headed about bystanders. He insisted, with words and with steel and a barely restrained tug at the Veil, that if they were ever cornered again, there were only to be the unavoidable deaths, including – 'yes, Anders, including' – Templars. Anders was not against this sentiment in general (he flattered himself that he'd been better at observing this code than Hawke had ever managed) but restraining himself from Templars and their willing accomplices was too much. Justice seethed, but they needed Hawke.
It had been a hollow smugness that took hold when the Templars found them again. They had been north of the Vimmarks, behind them an empty decrepit temple and their first disappointment of Hawke's little treasure hunt. As long as he'd known him, Hawke had a knack for attracting vermin – even the tattooed kind – and the pass they were trekking through was beset by spiders, hairy beasts with giant fangs and tiny, mindless eyes. Even as the last of the monsters fell (not before claiming an alarmingly large portion of Anders' leg) they were too distracted to notice the band of Templars surrounding them.
They stood like rotten teeth along the crest of the canyon, posturing without daring to face them cowardice was a blessing – the Fade was still tantalisingly close as the first arrows whistled down around raised his hand and a quick shake of the gorge side sent the whole tin bandtumbling into the canyon. Only two survived the fall, and one stopped twitching shortly after. Clearly Hawke drew some invisible line between encouraging a death and causing it, as he stopped Anders before he could execute the final trembling boy pleading for mercy. Sometimes he trusted too much to his presence staying a ready hand. As Hawke thrust his body between them, Anders had had to fight hard to overpower the itch to send a righteous bolt through the both of them.
It had been some small recompense to see the young Templar's gape as the he realised they were going to leave him alone in the gorge, a sight that Anders gently tucked away to be caressed during the longest nights. The boy whimpered, nursing both a defeat and the loss of a phylactery, as well as a freshly broken ankle. Anders made a show of healing his own punctured leg and enjoyed the fresh terror as the boy took in the bristling hulks of the spiders, blood still glistening on their foul mandibles.
Inevitably, Hawke's idiocy came back to haunt them. Only days later they were accosted by a rag-bag army of farmers, holding shaking weapons and an even shakier faith. At their head was a limping Templar, clutching a grisly severed fang, the blood clumped at its tip glowing with sickening intensity as it returned to its owner.
Even then Hawke had dispatched their pursuers with some creative threats and one swift beheading, letting the traitorous sycophants scurry home to hearths and families while the two men huddled in a damp hole in the ground, fearing for their lives. Anders observed as much as they cowered from the rain, cold water dripping down their necks and no fire to warm them. Hawke merely grunted and dug his head further into his hood.
'It's terribly noble to try to spare every piece of filth we encounter, but the hard truth is that each one of them would see worse done to us, if only they could.'
Hawke was silent.
'I said - '
'I heard what you said.' And there it was. Hawke's serious voice. Sapped of all humour, as firm and unrelenting as a gravestone. It only surfaced when he was feeling particularly dangerous. Anders had heard it rarely back in Kirkwall; if his family was threatened, his patience ground to a sliver. He was hearing it a lot these days.
'The hard truth is that it's not because of them that I'm in this latrine.' He kicked something towards Anders and clamped his mouth shut.
Anders picked up the fang, and glared at the glow that sprung spitefully from its tip. Such disgusting magic in the hands of a boy; who would have thought such a snivelling piss streak was capable of it? Of course, it wasn't blood magic if the Templars did it, wasn't reprehensible to train teenagers to turn a man's body against him if it was sanctioned by the Chantry. He spat at the fould thing and smudged the blood into the dirt with the heel of his boot. From now on, they'd have to make damn sure to cleanse every battle site of the traitorous taint of blood.
When he was done scraping and scowling, Hawke's eyes were closed.
And that was it. From then on they ran like rats from the Templars at their heels, and Hawke spared as many as Anders could bear to let him.
Night was still a few hours away when they caught sight of the town. A smudge on the horizon resolved itself into some small shacks and several farm buildings. Hawke smiled more readily and picked up the pace as it crept towards them. He even permitted himself the occasional hum.
Sometimes, when he was at his most frustrated, and Hawke at his most bitter, Anders wondered whether this quest was just a wild goose chase that Hawke had dreamed up to keep them from the frontlines. To placate him with some kind of action to justify leaving the Circles to fight their own battles. But seeing Hawke now he felt a little guilty for his doubt. The man was lit with purpose, holding himself more easily as they ground out the remaining miles. He still lacked the easy swagger that made Anders' skin tingle, but a lack of tingle was compensated by a new peace.
He no longer felt the sickness of doubt and disapproval as he traipsed after Hawke, no revulsion at his own base dependence. After the chaos on their final day in Kirkwall, after the fury, the banishment to the chime of dagger on stone and the eventual acceptance on the steps of the Gallows, Anders for the first time had been at peace with himself. Hawke had offered them a mission, and he'd offered his aid, and Anders had accepted with his whole being. He still suffered regular flashes of frustration at their slow progress. After all, the Circles were tinderboxes needing only a carefully applied spark, but it was not the perpetual itch of bile and sickness at his own inaction and was soothed more readily by the fact of their mission. Hawke had a plan, and they had Hawke, and Anders felt whole and steady.
Well, maybe not fully whole. There was a definite lack of touch. Not in the most obvious way – although he was sometimes gripped by just how pressing that need could still be – but since they'd left Kirkwall Hawke's presence, usually so enveloping, had been pulled right back. No unconscious smiles, no casual banter, no strong hands lifting and pushing and -
He should stop.
He did not have the nerve to acknowledge it, but Anders almost wished that Justice would reveal more plainly his disagreement. The fracturing arguments had at least reminded him there were two halves to fight. He assumed this new content meant a calmer, more patient Justice, but the chilling thought occurred that it could also mean a subdued Anders. Could that happen? Could his being slip away with his reason, with his resolve, to leave his body housing some unrecognisable soul? Would he even know?
Sometimes, when it was very late and he could not hear Hawke's breathing, the awful possibility crept in that maybe he'd never had a friend called Justice at all. Perhaps he was just insane, a fanciful zealot who had constructed an absurd history to justify his existence. The seeping, paralysing fear would not subside until the morning, when Hawke would wake and complain that his glowing veins were advertising their position.
And so it was that when Hawke caught his admiring glance and marched away, towards the smudge in the distance, Anders nursed the small well of lust and regret gratefully, in the certain knowledge that it truly belonged to him.
They arrived in good time, with still two hours 'til sunset. They leaned together on a short fence surrounding a yellowing pasture. Beyond the bored and weary sheep lay their destination. It could charitably be called a hamlet, but that was straining the description. Barely a dozen shacks and farmsteads were scattered untidily among the fields and heather, like unwanted crumbs. It hardly deserved its place on the map. The cartographers must have been so relieved to see anything in this drab wilderness that they elevated it above its station. Anders' hopes sank. What could they possibly find in a place like this?
Hawke, for his part, was irritatingly chipper. 'Civilisation!' he smiled, 'Wonderful to see you, Gloomy Hole.'
'Gloomy Hole? Well, someone knew what they were talking about.'
'And they hadn't even met you.' Hawke gave him a pointed look. 'I'm sorry, you were talking about the place?'
Anders gave his best withering smile, which only seemed to cheer Hawke further. He pushed himself upright and gave Gloomy Hole a silent appraisal, arms folded and grin cocky. Anders recognised his Champion stare. It was hardly inconspicuous.
'Hawke, it's a tiny place. We can hardly blend in. People will notice.' And then they'll talk, he thought. He'd had plenty of experience of the people in these places. They were all simple and cow-eyed when they could be being useful, and then loose-tongued gossips with pin-sharp memories as soon as Authority came knocking. Having no desire to advertise themselves, they had both long since abandoned robes, and the only staff was Hawke's carefully designed walking stick, but two men staggering about the middle of nowhere wearing more muck than clothing was suspicious enough. It would certainly be noteworthy to slack-jawed farmers. Especially with Hawke radiating smirking mischief.
'You're right.' Hawke slipped his pack from his shoulder. It clanked as it hit the ground. 'It's a small place, so no Templars.' He began rooting in his pack, his voice coming in short bursts as he ducked about inside it. 'Nearest Chantry will be a good day's walk from here.' He pulled out, hands heavy and clinking. He threw a helm and gauntlets to the ground, and dangled a set of worn manacles seductively from a finger. 'What do you say. Anders? Want to play a game of The Big Templar and the Comely Mage?'
The man was infuriating. He waded straight into the hard things, the awful things weighing heavy with memory, and grabbed them and toyed with them like – well like a grown man playing with a pair of cuffs.
Anders wrapped the memories in anger, muffled them until they quieted. 'I won't be shackled. Not even by you. Not even for pretend.'
'Fine then. I'll be the mage if you like. I'm told I can give off a vulnerable allure when I put my mind to it.' Hawke batted his lashes and bit his lip coyly. With the sweat and shadows of weeks of running weighing down his skin he looked quite revolting. 'Of course, that means you'd have to wear those.'
He kicked at the stolen armour. Anders shivered with disgust. The eye slits leered at him. Bile rose and lodged in his throat as he swallowed, hard. 'Never.' he managed.
'Thought not. Comely mage you are, then.'
'This is ridiculous, Hawke. What's the point?'
'Like you said, we'll be noticed in a spit-bucket of a place like this. But at least we get to decide what is noticed.'
Hawke scythed his boots clean with the edge of a gauntlet before strapping them both to his wrists. He then busied himself with Anders' pack, strapping the whole thing to his front. 'Apostates normally travel light,' he explained, using spare ties to distribute the weight evenly across his torso and abdomen, 'and Templars are notoriously imposing.' He jiggled a little and, satisfied with his newly swollen chest, pulled his cleanest cloak about himself before hoisting his own pack on his back.
He stood straight, planting his feet apart with stern confidence, and screwed the helm onto his head. 'How do they see in these things?' He tossed his head to and fro, enjoying the dressing up more than Anders thought decent.
'Your turn.' Hawke said, grabbing the manacles. 'I'll do them playfully tight.'
'You won't do them at all.' Anders snatched them from his hands. He gave the arm of each loop a gentle push, and locked them while there was still enough space to fit his wrists through. He slipped his hands into them and then out again, taking care to absorb the sensation.
There was no sickly magebane now, no dulling, choking aura of Templars. With a few tempered breaths he managed to force back the fear and put his wrists between them a final time.
To his credit, Hawke hadn't commented, but that may have been because he was busy practicing his Templar walk. With his regimented swing, the helmet and the thick cloak disguising what made up his bulk, Hawke could be mistaken for a ragged, poorly dressed Templar. At least by anyone not looking too closely.
For his part, Anders focused desperately on the joins: the dirt mottling Hawke's unshaven neck, his lopsided tread as he strained under the new weight; the ragged and chewed fingernails. He gritted his teeth and struggled with the warring, screaming instincts that desired to flee, or to wrench the Templar head from its frail body. It's Hawke. It's Hawke. Who else is disgusting enough to chew at those filthy hands?
Hands that when they took his shoulder was gentle, and flesh rather than steel. Anders channelled their familiar warmth to calm his racing heart. He couldn't kill this man simply for looking like a Templar. 'All right.' he exhaled. 'Let's get this over with.'
'Not so fast.' Hawke's voice was a twisted echo within the helmet as he pushed him towards the houses. 'I'm giving the orders here, magey.'
He couldn't even kill him for being so relentlessly Hawke.