Chapter 10: Hawke

It didn't matter how long we stayed here, I would never get accustomed to the dank foulness of this place. Our group's collective mood needed a serious upheaval.

"I'd like to know who this "Corypheus" is. With a name like that, he's bound to go "mwa-ha-ha" at some point. I just know it."

Anders forced his lips to quirk upwards for me, but the expression didn't touch his eyes. He looked worse. He'd never acted this strange. Usually he at least rolls his eyes at my jokes if he isn't in the mood to be cheered up, but this is different. It's like he isn't even hearing me. His lips fell back into a thin line.

He was pale and his eyes were glued to the blackened road before him. If he looked up at all, all the usual warmth of his amber eyes was gone, replaced with something dull and faraway. Was that fear?

Was it fear of me? Of what I would think of him now?

Anders' recent revelation of the Grey Warden's curse had left me shaken, as though he had physically hit me. How was someone supposed to react when they were told that the people they love are not only going to die, but that there is absolutely nothing that can be done to save them? I had already lost so much…

But nothing could justify how I had treated Anders last night. Consumed in grief, I had tried to take my anger out on him for something that had been completely out of his control. I had been blaming him for his own death, for being what he is. I hated myself for it.

I had been so angry. It was like the Maker had decided that my home, my father, my brother and my sister were not enough to take from me. He needed to have Anders and Carver too. He needed to bleed me dry and then trample all over my empty husk of a corpse.

I was still angry, but my rage was not for Anders to bear.

The way I had spoken to him had been unforgiveable. I had needed someone to blame and he was going to let me take it all out on him. I would have too, but for Carver's timely intervention. By then though, I had already said enough. I had hurt him.

The trouble with being overcome by emotion is that you lose perspective. What good does it do to dredge up old ghosts, throw bitter accusations at the people you love for things that happened so long ago, when that could mean losing them sooner?

Had I lost Anders? Did he still trust me? When I told him I loved him, did he know that I meant it?

There was more to it than that though; Anders had other demons that haunted him. There was probably more than Justice even. The Wardens and the circle: Anders' life 'before' were topics that Anders would never willingly broach, and when he did it was objectively. There was definitely more to it than I knew. More than I wanted to know.

As I walked, I made sure to drag my weapon across every surface that I passed, scratching through the gritty layer of black grease that infected everything. My sword made a pleasant kind of scrape-clunk, scrape-clunk as it grazed along. When I let it fall to scuff along the dusty floor, it made a gravely dragging noise that I couldn't express through onomatopoeia.

With every little grinding sound, Carver's shoulders visibly twitched. It was the same reaction every time, like pressing a button. Scrape-clunk twitch, scrape-clunk twitch.

But I wasn't just doing this to irritate my brother and afford another excuse to re-sharpen my new weapon. I was looking for a 'seal', something that would hopefully react as obviously as Carver when I touched my key to it.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what the blighted thing would look like. I needed a glorious booming explosion to let me know exactly when I hit the right object. It would herald the great battle with Corypheus and then we could all be on our merry way back home, with a quick stop at the hanged man for drinks and stories of course.

On second thoughts, less story-sharing would probably be better this time.

Stupid darkspawn-Warden-thing; speaking cryptically, making it hard for me not to tune its raspy voice out when it imparts apparently vital information.

We walked into a great circular room, adorned with crested banners on its proud, stone walls; it wasn't much different from the previous chambers that we had traipsed through. What marked this one as something to be noted was the huge, glyph-like podium in the centre of the room, projecting an eerie green light up from it. It was encased by four pillars, each inscribed with different markings.

There were no exits from the room. The only passage, other than the way we had come, was barred by another shimmering barrier of golden light. Standing sentinel on either side of this were two golden gryphon statues, heavily stylized with bold, curving lines. That was where I needed to go.

I turned my gaze back to the circular dais in the middle of the room. The green light rippled up from patterned cracks in the masonry. Looking closer, I recognised the design to be a glyph, I had seen similar ones in my father's old tomes that I had rescued from Ferelden, but they were so detailed that no two looked the same. They were almost more frustrating than the undecipherable Arcanum that was scrawled across page after weathered page of those books, the language of the Tevinters, and completely foreign to me.

This had to be the seal that Larry was talking about. I took a step up onto the raised edge of the platform, the metal of my boots clicking triumphantly on the stone. There was a collective intake of breath as I raised my sword above my shoulders, though I could have imagined that. I paused for dramatics at the apex of my swing, before plunging my blade into the centre, where the light filtered strongest.

In that first instant of contact, it felt like energy was pouring from my fingertips through my weapon and into a great vacuum of power. I felt its pull, but in a split second the void snapped shut. The barrier fell and my heart lifted, even as the key threw me backwards across the room.

A vague shape that I hadn't deigned to acknowledge swelled into form before me. Freedom? No, a pride demon, why not?

Anders was quick to petrify it, Maker I loved him.

Crumbled on the floor where I had fallen, I inhaled and my ribs felt sharp and tight around my lungs. My body was bruised. I made my breathing shallower and faster in an effort to ease the pain of each inspiration.

Then a feeling washed through me, it was like plunging into an icy pool. My vision was blue for a split second and then it was gone as soon as it had come. But it didn't leave me feeling drenched or cold. Instead, I was invigorated, revitalised. Anders' work again. My bruises were insignificant and my breathing was painless. I leapt to my feet and charged back at the demon, chest rising and falling steadily and evenly.

With the hiatus afforded by the demon's temporary entrapment, Carver, Isabella and Varric had unleashed their most powerful attacks in a flurry of quick blades and precision shots. I focused all of my energies on driving my greatsword as hard as I could into the most vulnerable places I could find. Namely, any part of the thing that was softer than the rest. Its skin was like molten rock, but it was fissured. Break the surface and its enervating lifeblood would spill like magma.

I tried lopping off one of its great taloned arms, before realising that these were not essential to its survival in the grand scheme of things. In no time at all, our blades were glowing faintly red, as though each penetration through its fractured flesh was an immersion into a red hot forge.

When the beast's rock prison began crumbling around him, I made to move back to dodge whatever attack it would throw at me, but just as the demon lifted its taloned arms in the beginning of a gesture, Anders acted again, freezing it solid with a winter's grasp. That mage was going to be rewarded sweetly for this later.

I dove back on the offensive, as did Isabella and Carver. Even Varric was at the front with us, firing close range for higher criticality. We lunged and stabbed, it was refreshing to not have to focus on defence; there was no holding back. It all felt very practiced, but at the same time, it was natural and intuitive. Like a dance that we had all rehearsed over and over again until we knew it by heart, but it somehow managed to remain impulsive and exciting.

The ice began to crack as the demon tried to complete its interrupted motion, but I had to make this a perfect execution. Hawke never did anything half-arsed. I leapt, bringing my sword up over my head and crashing it down through the demon's shoulder, into its neck in a deep gash that, in its completion, nearly severed its neck from its shoulders.

Its strange otherworldly blood spilt down my arm in rivulets, the scent was pungent, a mixture of sulphur and saffron.

The demon seemed to balance for a moment before falling, but I knew it was dead, without ever having the opportunity to unleash a single counter attack: beautiful.

Unthinkingly, I turned and bounded over to Anders, scooping my arm around his waist and nuzzling into his neck. He smelt so good, especially after the scent of demonic blood had assaulted my olfactory senses.

Anders smelt like a strange mix of herbs and parchment and sweat, it was natural and earthy, and there was something medicinal in there too. But it was all subtle and it was all Anders. I breathed him in. Like smoke and woodchips, and there was something magic about the way Anders' smelt, like the fade was clinging to him always, it was a biting undertone, a bit like saffron. But I realised I didn't really care to analyse it, I just wanted it. I wanted him.

"You were perfect," I said, nipping at the soft skin behind his collar to accentuate myself.

Had what I said last night caused his demeanour switch? Did he still trust me?

Anders was blushing furiously as he always did when we were in company, pulling away from my bear hug just slightly. The heat in his cheeks and neck were transferred to my skin.

Public displays of affection always had Anders acting coyly, averting his eyes to the floor, but he was smiling. It was a bit like our first kiss, it was gorgeous. I was encouraged. This was the same Anders; although I couldn't envision a type of Anders that I wouldn't be able to love.

Was it not me then? Was it the dreams? They were getting worse for him I knew.

"Brother!" Carver always picked the worst times. I growled low in my throat and planted a kiss slowly on Anders' neck. He trembled under my lips and I smiled against his skin, prolonging the moment.

"Oi, brother! Get over here." Breaking away from Anders, I aimed to make my trudge to the rest of the party stubbornly slow out of spite for the interruption. Upon turning, I realised that the upper body of my trusty dwarf was protruding from under the mass of fallen pride demon. Two stout little arms flailing wildly about, it was almost comical. Carver was trying to pull the demon's great weight up, but he wasn't going to get anywhere on his own.

Whoops.

I broke into a run, call it an apology for my somewhat obstinate attitude just before. Anders jogged along behind me.

Carver rolled his eyes at me when I reached him, and Varric was cursing and mumbling something about my priorities. I tried to make my smile look as apologetic as it could be, unfortunately I don't think it took very well. Isabella was in hysterics, doubled over next to the scene, clutching at her stomach and being decidedly unhelpful.

"Hawke to the rescue!" I declared. Carver's glare was positively icy.

I backtracked, "err, that was a plural, kid. I definitely said 'Hawkes'. 'Hawke-s to the rescue,'" excellent cover, I congratulated myself, adding "You need to stop being so negative, brother," for good measure.

Mine and Carver's familiar affection for one another was an ever-present thing that never did manage to express itself. We had come far too close to having a moment last night, which certainly would have ruined our entire dynamic. I liked things better this way and so did he.

Isabella's gales of laughter renewed with vigour, and she was now on her knees, wiping at her eyes. Anders gave me a look that said 'you liar,' It was definitely followed by a 'good save though, handsome man!'

"Hurry up!" Varric almost wailed, "I'm going to be truncated. I bet my legs already have gangrene! You are going to have to amputate, Anders. Dammit, I don't need any more short jokes!" Anders chuckled. Who knew Varric was a closet hypochondriac?

Together, Carver and I pulled and Varric wriggled free. He pulled himself over to Anders, who gave him a cursory once over, and then conjured some healing light that made quick work of mending his bruised lower half, chuckling to himself all the way.

In all the tumultuous fuss, we let our guard down.

We didn't hear the darkspawn approaching. We didn't see them either. Anders, absorbed in his healing magic, and Carver, laughing along with me and Isabella, their extra senses went unnoticed.

Maybe when the hurlocks crept up behind us, when they were but a few paces away, maybe at that point Carver and Anders had lifted their heads and opened their mouths to shout a desperate warning.

If they did, I hadn't heard them.

I felt something. That inkling quality that descends upon you when know something is watching or listening; that feeling that is always right but that you never seem to trust because it is so akin to paranoia.

I turned only to have my twisting body collide with a dagger that was poised behind me.

There wasn't much else that I was focused on after that.

After that moment, all my senses were flooded by only one acute reaction: pain. I was vaguely aware of the darkspawn on every side, surrounding us. Then the battle sounds erupted, though I wasn't sure that anyone had seen me stumble. Maybe they thought it was just a scrape, but the twisting pain punctured through my stomach, burning down every nerve ending, twisting and wrenching.

The fighting around me was raging. I staggered, unable to stab when I should have, I dodged instead, and oh fucking Maker that hurt! I tried to put my hand to my stomach to staunch the wound that I knew was there, but the motion was sloppy. My hand grazed against something hard and metal and decidedly not a part of my body, although touching that protruding thing sent renewed pain shooting through my flesh.

I fell to my knees then, the dirt from the ground sticking to my bloody palms as I tried to crawl from the fray. I choked and spasmed.

"Hawke's down! Time to panic!" That's Varric, he has so much faith in me.

Voice pealing desperately over the clash of metal, I heard Anders, "No! Don't be dead, please!" His cry was pure anguish and it quaked. Hearing that was agonizing.

Get up Hawke.

I tried to lift my knees under my body but every movement was so excruciating. I collapsed down again and the pain was intolerable now, like a branding iron or blue fire or like the sun burning gas and it was enormous and it was searing and charred. I heard a new scream and I knew it was my own.

My vision blurred. When I managed to wrench my eyes open I was on my side and I didn't know how I had gotten there because I had fallen on my stomach. There was more blood but I could still hear the sounds of daggers and swords, could see and hear the glow and roar of magic.

I could see the knife sticking out of my stomach. It rose and fell with each shuddering, watery inhale and exhale. I could feel it sliding up and down, sawing. Each time it did I felt it anew. But it wasn't watery, It was bloody. I could taste it and it was so metallic and salty.

I couldn't look directly at the sword, but I couldn't move my body to look away. I couldn't bear to. It was ever on the periphery, bobbing shallowly up and down like it were in a bathtub, only too fast, too shallow.

The feeling was slippery and then there was the fire: the raging, burning, piercing fire of the sun and my stomach and my excruciating pain.

I smelt wet iron and something greasier.

But above it all is the acrid charcoal and sulphur. These were so strong that they were on my tongue with the salt and metal. I could feel them burning the labyrinth walls of my sinuses. But that wasn't the pain that was bothering me.

My breath hitched and it came out in a rough, spluttering cough that expelled little flecks of blood all over the dirt in front of my face. The jolting movement was ruthless and I knew I was crying. It hurt, and it was an angry, murderous wrath, full of vitriol and rage.

Then Anders' face was above mine, it swam and blurred and faded. His hair had fallen out of its tie and he looked so worried. I wanted to reassure him, to reach up and brush that mop of blonde behind his ear. But I was tired, and my arms were weighted down and sinking to the bottom of the cold, cold ocean.

"No, no, no, no, no."

I tried smiling at him, but my mouth was sticky with blood, it was crawling into the cracks of my lips and between my teeth. I didn't open my mouth. The pain had lessened anyway and I realised that I was lying in a slick wetness. The intensity, the burning, explosive sun was setting. It was beyond the horizon now, not gone but strange, detached.

I saw Carver there too, his voice was weirdly warped but determined, "Don't you die on me, not after all this." The noise faded in and out.

The last thing I saw was Anders leaning over me, and it was as though I were looking at him through a scarlet lens. Maybe he was thinking that I was dying or that I was going to be fine, but probably he wasn't. He was probably thinking of how he would save me. I smiled again and then I was gone.