As far as Hawke was concerned, the Mage's Ever-loving Saviour was a heavy, blasted title and they could damn well have it back. He wondered how you resigned from the Chantry's most wanted list. Daub it on the walls of a Chantry? Carve 'I quit' into the forehead of some mage and deliver them straight to the Divine?

Angry little huffs behind him were a reminder that there was always a blonde apostate handy if he really needed one. The idea was darkly comforting and he toyed with it, enjoying the thought of bundling all his troubles into a neat, protesting package while Anders stomped at his back. But the images skated quickly through chantries and Anders and foreheads and tranquillity and that was a horrendous chasm and he shouldn't even joke at the precipice for fear of falling down. Hell.

Questing was not the lark liars like Varric made it out to be. It was a lot of trudging in crusty old boots to crusty old dungeons with crusty old demons because some crusty old paper told you it might hold the answer to all your problems. He'd done enough running about when he was younger – the whole family clawing their way from town to town searching for that stupid notion; permanent safety. He'd thought he'd hated the running then. If he could go back he'd tell that ignorant young bastard just to wait; you could always find deeper reserves to hate something more. He'd probably tell him other things about the right salves to use, and avoiding politics, and not getting your head turned by beautiful, crazy brown eyes, but some things you had to learn the hard way.

He'd never felt this blind in Kirkwall. You knew to find fun at the Rose, rumours at the Hanged Man, contraband at the docks, and excitement would find its way to you in Lowton. Often between the ribs. He never had to search – you could find anything you wanted by standing in the eddies of the city long enough. Or by grabbing Isabela and forcing her to give it back.

There was none of this vague scrabbling through troughs and caverns without so much as a clue, or a lead, or even an encouraging note left for a weary adventurer. 'Not this time; your answer is in another castle.'

It was the disappointment he couldn't – wouldn't – stand. Mystery was fine, in fact mystery was downright fun as long as the silhouette of an answer was visible. The tantalising glimpse was vital to keep a man going, to maintain interest as the layers slipped away until you could get your hands on full firm shape of a conclusion. But this wasn't like that – this was a blind fumble without even knowing if your partner was in the same room. The frustration was agonizing, and something else. Something that felt far too close to helplessness.

The sickly sting of seeing mother swirled through his teeth. He clenched his jaw against the taste. Just leave it down there. Leave it with the corpses and monsters and whatever else had been buried beneath the bones and rockfalls. Mother and Bethany and father and demons and dead ends. 'Board it back up,' he'd told the simmering villagers. 'Nothing to be done. Ignore it. Forget it's there.'

Head down. Move forward. He wasn't helpless. There was more to try. Maybe only a sliver, but most doors could only be opened with a sliver and a clever hand.

Leave it behind. Just a big old cross on the map. Hah. Two cross men lost in a big map.

And Anders was cross. Hawke hadn't given him time to say it, but the man kept prodding at his jaw like it was tender. It was as if he was disappointed the damage had been left in the Fade. Hawke thought it had a pleasing poetry to it: breaking the mirror, breaking the dream, breaking Anders' jaw. You could build a piece of art from the symbolism, surely? Across the miles he could almost feel Varric wince at his pretensions. Perhaps not poetic then, but it was oh so very pleasing.

And he wouldn't apologise. He hadn't meant to do it, after all, his aim was square for the mirror. Honestly, if he had known, he'd have really savoured it. And if apologies were going to fly about he'd like one himself, thank you very much. As far as he could make out, Justice was a bossy presence when they in strange Fade places. A grumpy, frumpy, aggressive personality problem in a bad coat would have been very helpful to the demon-defeating agenda. Instead, for reasons that remained unknown but were doubtless sinister and terribly po-faced, he'd decided to just hang around until his face could make a nice ornament for Hawke's hand. He wouldn't ask Anders about it, though. He didn't want to know how much of the dream he'd seen. Or heard.

Besides, they weren't talking right now. Although Anders was having trouble grasping that point. He kept winding up to complain, his intake of breath a reedy warning signal for Hawke to find something – anything – else to do but let him get started. He was running out of landmarks on the horizon to announce, though. Truth be told, he was running out of horizon as the once sparse trees gathered closer, like picking a way upwards through a receding hairline. During a particularly unremarkable phase he'd had to resort to a lengthy coughing fit until Anders got the point.

Why couldn't the man understand? There could be no talking. Talking meant a fight, and not one of the old roundabout guilt trips or festering silences that could be left to rot because one of them always had to come back home. This would be the desperate, vocal tearing of two men trying to steer a disintegrating cart in two different directions. With only sticks. While on fire. And Hawke was sure they only had a couple more of those fights in them before it was over for good.

Worst of all, he wasn't sure he could work up the caring to stop it.

No – he couldn't fail. Not this.

Despite the tattered shirt and the terrible beard and the ingrowing toenails he was still the Champion. And he didn't fail.

That was title he still wanted. The Champion was never helpless.

A thin wheedling sound slipped round him like a garotte. Anders must have built up another head of steam, ready enough to try another complaint. Hawke pushed his head down into the shearing wind. It had picked up so much that if he held his ear at the right angle it really did drown out anything else. He forged forward, through the whining wind and thick sod.

He was the Champion. Snatches of complaint snagged at him but he pushed straight through. He was the damn Champion and the next time he put a fist in someone's face he was really going to enjoy it.

Anders struggled to keep pace, and to keep his tongue. Hawke charged ahead of him, bent like a battered nail, head surging forward dragging the rest of his body behind. His shoulders were tight and grey like the looming clouds, looming together threatening thunder. It was distinctly selfish, not to mention self-indulgent. Carrying around a cloud of crossness was as good as hogging it; implying that Anders had to be the calm one, even when he had infinitely more to be irritated about. Anders was the one who'd trusted they were doing something useful, only to get dragged back onto the road with nothing more than the echo of a punch to show for it. Hawke was just the one who'd fallen asleep while Anders was healing and pretty much invited the demon in.

No, Anders was the one with the right to complaint; Anders was the one who'd had his foolish hope exposed, the hope that he could both put his trust in Hawke and pursue his purpose. Fear and doubt had been fraying the edges of his commitment. It was like the death of his old coat. So far he'd managed to patch his belief with Hawke's promises and the invigoration of action but the blow of following on yet another mysterious excursion with no benefit had ripped the hole right open.

The first heavy drops of rain hit Hawke's neck and he grunted angrily, getting there first again. That was enough.

'Hawke, stop.'

He didn't, so Anders yanked him back by his pack. Touching directly was still a risk, too familiar and yet so strange; sunken muscle more distant beneath the clothes, but the warm breath of skin a teasing memory. Also, there was always the chance Hawke would hit him for it.

'Hawke, we need to talk about what happened back there.'

Hawke's response was clipped,as though he didn't trust himself with long words. 'We were both there. I'd say we both got a pretty good view.'

'We did; of us running away, with nothing brought to our cause.' Fleeing with nothing achieved. Nothing contributing to the cause. Nothing changed.

'What? You wanted us to stay there? Start a rebel base with a herd of dopey sheep?'

'There were good people there, too.' They protected a Mage child. They handed supplies to fleeing apostates. A little push and they could have been soldiers in the cause for justice.

'They're what I was talking about.'

'You know what I'm saying. We simply walked away when we could help them take up the fight for themselves.'

'Oh really?' Hawke was incredulous. He looked ready to storm off again, but Anders knew he'd held him too long and sluggish legs would be resistant. It was important to keep the momentum going or fatigue would tackle you like a bear. Hawke threw his pack to the ground and rounded on him. 'They didn't want us there Anders – or have you forgotten? I can practically feel the boot on my arse.'

Maybe they were prickly,built mostly of scowls and posturing, but Hawke hadn't helped, squaring up to their leader and bluntly saying they'd been no help at all. They were too scared to be kind; scared for a Mage. That wasn't their fault. It was the Templars, making entire villages quiver and huddle to protect themselves. They just needed to understand. To be forced to take their caring and push it wider. They were quiet and scared. But that wasn't all they could be. 'They gave us food.' He insisted. 'They supported a mage. They could have been with us. They wanted encouragement.'

'Andraste's tits Anders, you really must lend me this dictionary of yours where 'get your sorry hides out of our town means' is code for 'sign me up and hand me a manifesto'. Oh wait. Perhaps they were low on handkerchiefs.'

Anders hated that. When he was at his most miserable Hawke had taken to making jibes about their time in Kirkwall. He hadn't realised how many things Hawke could find to be spiteful about, but he managed to drag up new things every fight: the manifesto; the panicked search parties Hawke had mounted only to find him spending the night in the clinic; his embarrassment taking Anders around Hightown in case he said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Hawke couldn't know how sickeningly deep the pain of it was. The slivers of their normal life together were precious; he had kept them safe in the fondest corners of his head, only unwrapping them when the pleasure of their shine would outweigh the sadness of their loss. But they belonged to Hawke, too, who could throw them to the floor and grind them with his heel if the fancy took him. And Anders could pick them up and try to polish the shine, try to coax the happiness back in, but they would never be the same.

'Never mind that.' he said. 'That's not even what I was talking about.'

'Oh no? Well, why don't you lecture me for a while on whatever thing I've done wrong this time. It's always a barrel of laughs.'

'We achieved nothing back there.' The bite of lost time was sickening; whole days wasted with nothing done to ease the plight of mages. Hawke shook his head and muttered about not being serious but Anders ignored him. Hearing Hawke ruin memories of their life was crippling, but when he threatened the cause of all mages, even through apathy, it fired him with anger. 'But what is worse, you could have jeopardised everything else we work for. You must be vigilant against the temptations of demons!'

Hawke didn't even look at him. He seemed to be fighting being drawn in, but couldn't resist a small snipe. 'You forgot to include the patronising head shake. It's my favourite part of your little lectures.'

Couldn't he talk seriously about anything? 'Just because you can swagger and charm and bully and things go so easily your way, you think you can't be tempted by demons.' The pinch of shame and sadness reminded him that was one of the things he used to love about him. Hawke could rarely be bargained with, because he had a earth-solid belief that no-one could offer him anything he couldn't take for himself. He remembered his horror when Isabela fell for promises of a boat; no shock at the betrayal, but at the crime of having such banal desires. The confidence was intoxicating to witness, and so, so dangerous. 'Your arrogance could kill you – or worse...'

'Are you done? Because I'm going to arrogantly bully my way into a sandwich.'

'You must be cautious of the dangers. If you let one get hold -'

'Before you get any further.' Hawke whirled to face him and rain sputtered off his outstretched finger. 'Which of the two of us is currently carrying a passenger? Is it me? Let's check.' Hawke pounded at his chest like a beast and shouted. 'Templars! Templars! Sodding huge Templars with their bloody helmets and skirts and big sodding magey-oppressing fists.' He paused, and studied the air as though waiting for something to happen. He shrugged at his own silence and glared. 'Now your turn.'

Ander's teeth squeaked under the pressure of containing himself. Hawke collapsed straight to the sodden grass and rummaged in his pack. He yanked out a sandwich, a small, grateful parcel from the mage boy's mother as they were chased into the wild. The contents weren't impressive but the action was a glorious representation of grassroots support. The symbolism was a little lost as hunks of bread and meat were ripped savagely by Hawke's teeth. Incredibly, it was a little like bullying a sandwich. The sight of something so childish and, it had to be said, disgusting, calmed him a bit.

He just says it to upset us, he doesn't mean it, he told himself as he settled to the ground. He tried to remember that Hawke had been tested twice in a night and was still here, every uniquely trying part of him. And he was obviously shaken by the encounters, even if he wouldn't admit it. Perhaps that was what he needed. They should concentrate on what really mattered.

'You're right. Nothing went wrong, even though it could have.' He pulled apart his own parcel, weighing up its contents. Maker bless hardboiled eggs. Mundane food always made him feel more human; it was hard to feel too grand and righteous when picking shell from a food you could eat in one mouthful. 'But that doesn't change the fact that nothing went right either. How did this whole thing help us?'

'We found out that wasn't the place we needed to be.'

Oh, how fantastically profound. Anders spat through crumbly yolk. 'We're making quite a list. Tevinter, ruins and ditches and blotchy towns. It's been quite the trip and all we've gotten is thinner.'

'And whingier.'

'Don't trivialise this, Hawke. The Circles are crumbling. There is so much at stake and all we're doing is … sightseeing.'

'We're doing what we need to be doing.'

'And how can I believe that until I know what we're doing?'

'By following your fearless leader. Comes highly recommended. I hear some city made him Champion.' It was amazing how Hawke's mood improved when he had the chance to be cocky. As for Anders; well, hardboiled egg could only go so far.

'You're not as cute as you think you are. Tell me.' Tell me, love. Trust me. Or rather, let me trust you.

'I'm exactly as cute as I think I am.' Hawke ran his a casual hand through his thick hair to prove it. His fingers got snagged in a knot. It took him a second to shake them out. 'The answer's still no.'

'I've been patient, Hawke.' And he had. He'd been so, so patient. Trusting that Hawke always did what was right, at least in the end. He'd done the right thing in Kirkwall, he'd landed the final blow on Meredith. Anders had tried to believe that meant Hawke could be relied upon, even as he knew all it really meant was that Hawke could be relied upon to enjoy a fight. 'Lo- Hawke, please, this is too important to turn into a joke.'

'I know that, Anders. What we're doing is very important.'

How would Hawke even know? 'You've never really cared about the mage's plight. How can I know that we're helping the cause?' The fear he didn't want to admit slithered through his gut and he had to ask the question. 'Hawke, are we even doing anything at all?'

'Just because I don't beat my chest wailing about the Circles- ' Something stopped Hawke mid-insult and he decided to be kind. 'I know what this means to you, but what we're doing is vital, Anders. Now you're just going to have to trust me.'

He leaned over and patted Anders' arm. It was the friendliest action he'd managed in some time, but his eyes shifted to the floor. Anders wanted to trust him. He wanted those fierce eyes to pin him straight with promise and force him to believe. He wanted to with an intensity that made him sick with shame at his own weakness. He knew Hawke could do the impossible; he wouldn't have followed this far unless he knew the man could make free mages from scared boys, or dead qunari from live ones, and a free, better world from the unjust ashes of the Circle. Hawke could do great things, but he just didn't know if Hawke had the fire for the right things. The hard things.

He grabbed Hawke's arm as he stood, letting him pull them face-to-face. 'How can I trust you? How can you ask that when you don't share anything?'

The damp calm exploded. 'Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth?' Hawke was shouting. This time it wasn't bitterness, or sly cruelty but some kind of floodgate had been breached and pure, natural anger was spewing forth. Accusations battered Anders' face, full of hot anger and spittle. 'You tell me nothing, Anders! Everything's a secret with you – the Wardens, your precious Underground, your private missions... Sela Petre.' Hawke spat. 'I was an idiot, but you were a liar. Have you ever been truly honest with me?'

'I was trying to protect you.'

'Congratulations. You could not have done a worse job. You put me in it, Anders.' Hawke was animated, twitching in and out of himself. He seemed unable to decide whether to reach out and touch, or stay clasped and solid. He settled for more spitting. 'I am right in it. And I am going to fix it.' He fixed shoulders forward, brows jutting, full of determined promise, like a bird about to leap. It was his Champion stare, before he stormed a keep or smeared blood over his nose in some showy parade of intimidation.

It still impressed Anders a little. But it didn't scare him. 'This is so like you. You can't bear not to be the centre of things. You don't care about the cause. You just want to be the big hero.'

Hawke looked stumped for a second. He got halfway to a word before jerking himself back. He must have reconsidered because what came next stang more than magebane. 'I just want to be the hero? I could have had that in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat, Anders! One knife in your neck and they would have made me Viscount over your cooling boots. Instead I let you live. I let you live so that you could make it better. But you don't get to do it in your furious blaze of glory.'

That hurt. How could Hawke suggest he would risk his purpose for something as trivial as glory? If Hawke didn't understand what that meant... 'Maybe it would have been better to just have killed me.'

'It would have made my life a lot easier.'

A pale part of him was shouting to be heard, screaming that he was focusing on the wrong thing; that he should be upset about something else and not the suggestion he would jeopardise the cause. He felt the uncomfortable chasm widening in him between the conversation and his own understanding of it. He fell back on the one thing he knew he could wield when these things escalated beyond his pace.

'I'm sorry you regret that decision.' He said, quietly. He knew he shouldn't use guilt to escape, but it was the most reliable way to get Hawke to back down. Or back off.

Except today Hawke's face didn't crumple into supportive words and half-apologies. Wasting arms clamped shut instead of forming a hug and a sly voice sharpened to steel. 'Are you? It's not too late for me to change my mind.'

Once it would have been a blessing. Anders remembered thinking his death was inevitable, and the calmness of knowing that it was right, and fitting, and over. But then Hawke had pulled him up, and the purpose had grown again, until over time it filled him with life again. So much so that now thinking of that eagerness for death was like reading a diary entry in his own hand; he could acknowledge the feeling was his, but he could not taste it any more. His mouth was dry as a tomb. 'That ship has sailed.' he managed.

'I'm an excellent swimmer. I can catch it up'

The joke flew wide of the mark, but the tone skewered straight through his spine. Hawke was being venomous and that had Anders scared. Scared this had moved beyond playing, like the difference between boys who taunt cats with water and those who set them on fire. And scared that this cat had claws that could rip a man apart. 'Stop it.'

'No. This clearly isn't working. You don't want to keep doing this. Perhaps I should just end the whole stupid enterprise here.'

It wasn't funny any more. It never had been. The fear of death singed his bones, and it was the fear of failure, of leaving things incomplete. He would not let any man stop him. Let any man dare try before his work was done. 'Do you really think you could do it?'

'That depends. It's easier when you're blue.'

'Be careful, Hawke.' His voice rumbled with a deep timbre, and Anders hadn't known until he said it whether that would be a plea or a threat. Hawke shouldn't challenge him. The power to defend himself, to crush this man who threaten him, it was within him and through him. It burned in ready blue veins across his hands. He tried to put them down, to bring them harmless to his sides, but he couldn't feel his body any more - just the power lancing in it

'Don't hide it – I want to see you.'

'Don't push me!

'Why? Are you afraid to spill some precious mage blood?'

'You're barely a mage. You're more like one of them.' The words came from somewhere outside himself. They were the world and the world curled with smoke.

The response was quiet, but rang clear as a shout. 'You've said that before.'

A mage girl, trembling in the dirt. How close he'd come to murder. Hawke was looking up at him, his face wide and tilted like hers, but his eyes screamed victory, not fear. They were on the ground – when had that happened? Anders felt the chill of damp material in his fists and realised he was gripping Hawke by his collar. He must have thrown him down. He snatched himself away from Hawke, horror stinging his skin. He didn't help him up; he didn't trust himself to touch him.

Hawke pulled himself upright but stayed sitting, no tremor or whimper to betray that he almost … Anders snapped that thought off right there.

He stood several paces away, staring up into the falling rain. He thought of cats, and of food, and of the cold rain on his face until the anger and fear washed into his boots. When he looked back, Hawke was still sitting, still angry, his face fixed in a determined scowl. It was foolish. They were supposed to be fighting for the same thing, but they spent most of the time fighting each other.

He sighed. 'Why do we do this?'

'Because I'm out of my mind and you're an abomination.' The sickly nastiness in his voice had receded, but Hawke clearly still wanted to poke a little at the wounds. ''Hah. It's ironic really, that it turns out the hardest thing for you to give up is control.'

And it was as Anders had feared. Hawke really didn't understand. 'I have given up so much. And there is so much more to go. That's why I can't jeopardise the fight. The sacrifices I've made; I must honour them.

'Don't preach to me about sacrifices. You made them for me, too, remember? Well now it's my turn to make some decisions. And it's your turn to shut up and swallow the promises of some vague shambling mage.' Hawke yanked at the damp grass, pulling it out in clumps. He kept his head down, sniping at the ground. Anders wanted to be calm and reasonable, but Hawke made everything so difficult. This time it wasn't the righteous sting of Justice but the needling irritation of someone faced with a spoiled, vindictive brat.

'You are such a child. You want to risk the future of the world to get back at me.' He had to talk to the back of Hawke's head, and he carried on, exasperated. 'It's fascinating to see how you can plumb the depths of selfishness.' Hawke was still ignoring him. Anders dug his foot in the grass and kicked a clump of mud at his back. He didn't know what else to do but it made him feel better. He couldn't do it forever, though, so then he just stood, letting the rain tickle his ears and knock the mud back to the grass.

After a while of angry silence he started to feel nothing more than stupid. Hawke had wrapped his arms around his knees and was shivering and Anders couldn't help the surge of pity. In so many ways Hawke was still just a child and maybe that meant he wasn't fit to lead the mage's revolution, but it didn't mean he wasn't trying. He'd trekked all the way to the Imperium and then all the way back for his little quest. And now he was half-starved and trembling and sat in the rain, when he could still have been in Kirkwall. Or any one of a hundred more comfortable places. The memory of the demon's offer curled into his mind and Anders thought of what Hawke had lost and what he could no longer have. The guilt filled him. Why was it so hard to remember this side of it now? To think what Hawke was thinking? When he was selfish and young it used to be so easy to put himself in someone else's clothes, in so many different ways. But now it was hard to make people out, their lives and hopes were murky, as if viewed through a dirty glass.

Hawke often reminded him of his old self. He'd tried to warn him that a life together, a life with a greater purpose wouldn't be easy, or enviable, but Hawke believed that things could be coaxed or elbowed his way without any of the hard choices. It was his greatest flaw, but it wasn't a cruel one, Anders felt a swelling fondness towards the both of them; his old self and his very current Hawke. Two boys with too much hope for the world.

He settled to the ground next to the tight curl of Hawke, close enough to feel his shuddering. He spoke gently. 'I was honest to you, sometimes.' Sometimes so honest it hurt. To balance out the pain of the times he wasn't. 'I warned you I'd break your heart.'

Hawke whipped and pounced. Anders back popped as he was pounded to the floor. 'Break my heart?' Hawke shouted in his face, eyes shining with madness. 'Do you really think -' his voice was breaking and Anders didn't know if he was laughing or crying. 'Something so small? You made me a murderer, Anders!'

Hawke gripped his shirt and slammed him hard against the ground. And again. The mud sucked at his head with each blow. 'The Chantry... All those people...' Hawke's knuckles glowed like a beacon in the dark. He was holding on for dear life. 'You made me help!' Hawke readied to slam him again, but his arms were shaking too much. 'I trusted you. And you made me help.'

He was obviously desperate, his voice cracking. It was too much. Shock and pity and sheer, desperate love moved Anders' limbs for him. He grabbed the back of Hawke's neck and dragged him quickly to his chest. He kissed the dark head. Hawke punched his side; the only bit he could reach with a swing. It hurt but Anders didn't let go. He said the only thing he could think of. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Hawke breathing hitched and he hit him again, but it was softer this time and he didn't try to get away. Anders dug his chin into drenched hair. 'I'm sorry.' It was a kiss and a plea and he wasn't sure what he really meant by it but he murmured it like the Chant until Hawke's breathing slowed and the weight of him sank onto his chest.

How long had he been holding that back? Anders marvelled. He'd spent so long testing the seams between his cocksure, excitable Hawke and the new spiteful coating that he'd forgotten that underneath the charm and bluster was this frightened young man who cradled his dying family and couldn't bear to be powerless against it. Hawke's head was hot beneath his lips and Anders missed him so much it felt like his lungs were blistering.

He missed what they had been, and he regretted what they could never be. And he missed this moment already, with Hawke's breath warm on his chest and their hearts pounding together, because it couldn't last and he knew it and he held tight and concentrated so it could be alive in his memory, bright in pain and heat and love.

'No.' Hawke pulled his head away. Anders held on a little; he couldn't help it.

'No.' Hawke said again, but without aggression. He pushed himself back on his haunches, before flopping dejectedly back into the mud. 'You're right Anders. This isn't working.' He squinted through the rain. Anders couldn't tell if his eyes were red, but in the draining light they were deep and hooded. 'I thought you could be something you're not. I thought you were somebody else.'

They sat in silence for a moment, the rain hissing sadly around them.

'I'm sorry.' Anders said again. And he really was. 'You can't like me very much.'

'I hate you more than anyone else in the world. And that makes you special.' Hawke ground at his eyes with the heel of his hands. 'I think it's time we faced it; this isn't working. We shouldn't be too far from the Tantervale Highroad. When we find it it can take you to any city you want to paint red.'

'There's no reason not to come with me. I mean, I want you to come with me.'

'I think I'll pass. Watching you blow up one Chantry is enough for a lifetime.'

'What will you do?'

Hawke looked bemused, like it hadn't occurred that anything else was an option. 'I don't know. Something fascinating, I'm sure.'

'Even if I'm not with you, you mustn't abandon the cause. You have to carry on, for all mages.'

'No.' Hawke snapped. 'That's it. I am here because I decided to be and I will dance naked with the Queen of Antiva on a glistening bed of cherries if that's what I decide to do. Your cause doesn't own me, Anders. You don't own me.'

That was now very clear, it was as if someone had etched a line around Hawke, marking him as a separate person, whole and inscrutible. Anders couldn't pinpoint when he'd he started thinking of him as an attachment, as familiar and useful as an arm, and – Marker help him – a fist to be wielded. But wasn't that what love was: familiarity, unity, and duty? Embers of other ideas flickered valiantly, trying to catch his memory and he stared at Hawke.

The man was rubbing his neck, large hands leaving streaks of mud in the curling damp hair. His chin worked under his scraggly beard while he thought. His eyes were the same colour as the sky, and as he stared into the heavy clouds it looked to Anders as though there was a holy connection in their mirrored design. Hawke was never very reverential about the Maker, treating him with the same idle curiosity with which he approached any ancient magic, but he might have been attempting a prayer.

He seemed to come to a conclusion. 'Let's make the most of it while there's still a little light.' He stood up and stretched. 'Give you a last chance to appreciate the view.'

As he moved away he gave an obscene little wiggle for Anders' benefit. And, so help him, Anders enjoyed it. Despite the driving rain, Hawke walked unbowed now, almost with a swagger where the slick ground would allow.

Anders followed, feeling new purpose in his own steps. He could take his own lead, march through each Circle one by one and ignite them with a flame of justice so bright the world would shrink from the light. He would burn the injustice from the world and leave it fresh and new. He didn't yet know where to start, but already the anticipation of change tore around his head, weaving and biting and powering his legs onward. His body swelled with an energy that made it easier to ignore the weight in his heart, tugging like an anchor.

As the remaining light dribbled over the horizon, the rain picked up, driven into their faces by the horizontal wind. Hawke shook himself like a dog. His hair stood in clumpy tufts until the rain battered it flat again. Anders watched his progress as water pounded his head and he slipped and skidded on the treacherous ground. He kept going, blowing droplets from his beard as he picked his steps. And he had kept going; whatever happened from now on, Hawke had resolutely battered his way through worse. And he'd done it for them. It must have meant something.

He slipped, and Hawke lunged to catch him by the elbow. They shared a genuine smile as Anders found his feet again. The weather had a terrible sense of humour; to get so bitter and bad tempered when they were at their most peaceful. They would have to give in soon and make camp, but Anders didn't want to break this lovely peace for an evening of huddled misery.

A flicker of light stabbed through the trees. Instinctively they both shrank away. Buildings or people were to be avoided, and they skirted from tree to tree, hugging the shadows and keeping the flicker towards the edge of vision. Their path still drew them closer, but as they did the light slowly separated into many smaller, static points.

'An inn, then. Just an inn.' Said Hawke, wistfully.

Anders thought of their packs and cloaks, the oiled skins (another gift from Hawke) giving some protection from the wet, but the wind was sneaky and insidious and he knew they would be damp and chilled throughout the night, no matter how well they bedded down. The shifting of weight in his bag prodded him with an idea, and a very real desire. Surely they were owed this much? How could that be true of a final act of generosity before giving up the one thing he ever really called 'his'. The expected wave of guilt was just a trickle. He expected accusations of selfishness, but instead there was just resigned understanding and the glimpse of a female face, plain but inspiring affection. That memory, belonging to neither of them, stolen from a dead man, carried an insistence on protection. Of course, Justice understood the obligation of love. It was just all the squishy, desperate bits in between that met with disapproval.

'Hawke; let's stay at the inn?' he had to shout over the wind, but at least he wasn't shouting over himself.

Hawke looked at him as though he'd suggested getting down to one Jethann's specials. 'Remind me how many times you were sent back to the Circle?'

He let the question float right past him. There was no point in raising those ghosts. Not when he was feeling so amenable to himself. 'No Templars will still be moving in this weather. It's just one night. If it's to be our last night together, why not?

'You mean you want to say goodbye in style?'

'What I mean is, it can't be as dangerous if the trail is splitting.' Hawke's undoubtedly depraved definition of 'in style' didn't sound so bad, but it was important that that kind of thing was Hawke's idea, not his. Anders' own suggestion was just a sensible notion, fulfilling his duties to a loyal friend, not some jaunt to satisfy base desires. No one could complain about that.

Hawke eyed the warm lights in the distance hungrily. 'It's a tempting proposition, but we've not got the coin for it. Unless you fancy going in there and selling some other tempting propositions?'

Anders rummaged in his bag, his sopping arm slicking across his meagre possessions until he found what he was looking for.

'I wasn't seriously suggesting –' Hawke began. 'Actually, maybe I was. Are there oils in there? I hope it's oils.'

'No, Hawke. There's been an improvement in our circumstances.' He held out the necklace, trying not to feel its weight on his hand. It was a tawdry thing but it had enough glint for Hawke to make it out in the dim light. 'I found it back in the cellar; I'd forgotten with everything else. There's more; not good quality, but good enough for us.'

Hawke whistled. 'Anders the jewel thief.' How did he manage to make those things sound so romantic? It was pure criminality, taking something without earning it. But Hawke's smile edged a familiar thrill into the disgust. 'Perhaps I'm rubbing off on you after all.' He smiled again, and Anders felt warmer already.