Warning- very dark themes, death, violence and gore.
18 years later
He'd found a little shack in the depths of the forest, dank and dark, but thankfully far enough from civilisation that they would not be found.
Anders was not well. He was pale, from long years without sunlight, but moreso as the dark lines of tainted blood marred his skin and drew all the colour from his face. His flesh was a mesh of almost black veins, and he was losing chucks of hair at an alarming rate at the grey warden curse took hold. He'd screech at Hawke, thrashing and throwing himself from side to side, both while sleeping and awake.
He'd had to knock the mage out to get him this far, but Hawke was confident that the hut they'd holed up in would be undisturbed. He ignored that the once solid walls were damp and soggen, and what used to be a handsome hunting lodge was derelict and held no warmth within its rotting structure. It was ruined, beyond repair, but at least it was theirs.
Anders was rarely himself these days, often snarling and having to be tied down to prevent him hurting either Hawke or himself. Hawke took no pleasure in securing the knots, nor seeing the figure laid out upon the bed, twisting like a worm on a hook. Hawke had despaired at the change, not used to having to face something he could not fight or talk his way out of. He demanded that Anders not give in to the darkspawn taint, but for the first time in years, the mage had disobeyed. So he had used more rope, to ensure that the darkspawn wearing his lovers form could not get free.
He knew, even without Anders's increasingly infrequent pleas, that he should give the mage mercy and kill him. He'd even, at one point, after hearing nothing but Anders's voice, cracked, weak, at first begging for death, and then an animalistic gnashing of teeth, held a dagger over the heaving chest. Anders had regained his senses long enough to breathe a 'thank you', and Hawke had faltered, unable to complete the act.
Anders had howled then, and Hawke, watching foam gather in the corners of the mage's mouth, had put the dagger away.
He would have liked to pretend that it was love that held him back, but when he was truthful to himself, he knew that it was the fear of what he would do without the mage that stayed his hand. He had lost so much, to lose Anders as well, despite the monster that he had become, was too much. He did not know how to go on without the mage to look after, to protect. He did not know how to live without the mage.
Four days later, like a Maker blessed miracle, Anders regained his focus, the black blood within him receding temporarily. The mage begged Hawke for death, tears in his whitening eyes, repeating again and again the mantra Hawke had ingrained, with a voice that must have hurt to even whisper it was so dry and strained from the inhuman screaming,
"I want it. I want it. I want it."
Hawke shook his head, wiping the sweat from the abomination's forehead, smiling sadly, knowing he could not grant that what Anders was so openly asking for.
Anders, or the thing that once was Anders, slumped, and looked to Hawke, plaintive but without strength to go on demanding his demise. Hawke took advantage of the rare moment where he could almost see his love, as things once were. Nevermind that his skin was sickly pale, and clammy, and nevermind that his eyes were leeched of their colour, and intelligence. This was Anders, his Anders, hated and feared throughout Thedas, and his.
Hawke bent, slower now, time having caught up with his bones and roguish grace, and dealt them foul blow. Positioning himself over his precious mage, he touched his lips upon Anders's forehead, kissing skin so thin it threatened to spilt under the slightest pressure.
With a sudden feral snarl Anders lunged forwards, and caught Hawke's throat in his mouth, teeth digging into flesh. Hawke grasped and gasped for his freedom, but the teeth tore through his skin, and he felt hot blood wash over them both.
Fading fast, he saw the monster splutter and cough, as thick blood filled its mouth, choking it. He fell down, no longer able to hold himself off the Anders/darkspawn, and he heard the rush of air bubble through his own blood pooling in a gaping jagged maw as he forced the lungs beneath him to empty under his weight.
The last thing Hawke saw, was a flicker of blue, as his blood pumped from his body, the darkspawn grinning wide as if his lips might spilt as it wheezed and then went limp, blood clogging its throat.
The end.
((You can all have kittens, and nugs, and lots and lots of hugs now. This was a very dark ride, and I thank you for bearing with me as I explored it. Thanks for the op for the prompt, and for every single anon who commented. Every comment makes a writer smile, and smiling writes write more.))
Original prompt: Hawke doesn't kill Anders after the Chantry goes kaboom and he allows him to stay with him, but slowly his bitterness over what happened festers. He had a good life in Kirkwall, built with so much sweat, blood and tears, he lost so much while he climbed the social ladder and finally when he found a measure of happiness Anders did what he did. He still loves Anders, but at the same time cannot help but resent him for living like a hunted, homeless refugee once again. At first he becomes verbally abusive, then the verbal abuse slowly transforms into physical - from snide, cruel comments he moves to insults, to hitting and forceful, painful for Anders sex. Anders never talks back or fights back in any way, he follows Hawke like a puppy no matter what the other does, breaking more and more until he's but a shadow of his former self. Give me angst and dysfunction, anon!