One thing that hasn't changed: Anders is still capable of stunning feats of doublethink. Ask him and he'll tell you what he wants for Hawke, more than anything, is happiness, no matter what's required for her to be happy. She deserves peace. She deserves to heal, to put Kirkwall and its fall behind her. Forgiveness, or some measure thereof, might be a part of that process. Perhaps he can never fully atone for what he's done, but it wouldn't kill him to try.
Yet, at the same time, Anders does not want to be forgiven. Losing Hawke balances the scales, somehow. To explain the mathematics of justice would tax any human's reason, even if Anders were unwise enough to try. At the core of it is this: He was supposed to die for what he did. Hawke denied him death. Now she's generously affording him an opportunity to suffer, and he finds an ineffable relief in embracing it.
It would kill me to lose you, he told her once. He meant it. A slow death, by degrees, nothing dramatic. A silent and protracted process. Not a literal, physical death, but a death all the same. There's still work for this body to do.
Not the kind of work it's been doing tonight. She didn't have to tell him she loved him; she's already shown him. He doesn't deserve that, and it can't do anything but hurt her. He's silent, absorbing what she has said, holding her hand, holding her. Presently, he answers:
"Thank you for that. For everything, Hawke, here and before. And for telling me how you feel. I know it can't have been easy." He sighs. "We do have a knack for it, don't we? But we mustn't anymore." He isn't making a dramatic declaration. He isn't posturing rhetorically for the sake of noble self-denial. He's simply stating a quiet, unhappy fact. "It won't help anything if we keep on like this."
Hawke shifts in his arms. "No promises, Anders," she reminds him. She meant that statement in both directions, even if he didn't. "I honestly don't know what happens from this point. I'll have to figure it out as I go. As will you." The things I defined myself by no longer apply. It's true for him as well as her, surely. Who is Anders without the mages and their need?
Or perhaps the question is, again, as always: who will Justice require him to be? She can't muster dread of the answer anymore, not after having already faced the worst Justice has to offer her, but she's not so foolish as to think it won't be a consideration in the future.
Back to the point. "This much I'm sure of. You said you wanted to be able to talk with me sometimes, at least; I want that too. Maker knows there are few enough people I can talk to and have any idea what they're saying in this crazy place." And if he had that much trouble with the concept of the holodeck, what will he make of robots?
"Besides..." She takes a deep breath, because this one is purely selfish. "I've missed you. Not just this, though Maker's breath, I missed this, even if you're probably right about it not being helpful aside from this once. We needed it this time, for catharsis and healing if nothing else. But I've missed you, the way you think, the way you make me laugh." The way I feel alive when I'm around you. She doesn't want to give that up entirely, even if she should.
Hawke leans up on an elbow, looking down at him, and her gaze is clear and unshadowed despite the signs of recent tears. "Perhaps that will only last until next time the balance between you and Justice shifts, but I'd like to appreciate it while I can. We need all the allies and laughter we can get, here in the Void. I can't be Marian; that involves a level of trust I don't have it in me to offer anyone at the moment. But I want to be able to talk to you. Assuming you can and will, in these circumstances. If not, there's always the other option of avoiding each other as much as possible, getting my dog to run interference. But it's not what I'd prefer."
"I can do that. Talk with you." It really is what he wanted, to be able to talk to her sometimes. Not to be with her all the time, or even most of the time, but sometimes. They never were inseparable at the best of times. He was almost always with her on forays, for practical reasons (of course, we know you need a healer in your party, Isabela would tease, and we know just which party that is. The one in your pants!), but outside that, they'd often spend their days in separate pursuits, each having different interests. There was Anders' clinic, of course, and his social causes besides the mage underground, his involvement in the Fereldan immigrant community; on Hawke's plate, there were loads of social obligations, and more fun projects, outings with Merrill, trying to acclimate Orana to freedom. Probably lots of things Anders never heard about. They were as likely to turn up at the Hanged Man singly as together.
It was healthy, really, up until it became a cover for sneaking around with Justice.
It can be that way again, healthy, a good solid friendship with room to breathe. Now that they've bled off some of the pressure.
He doesn't parse no promises the way she does, reminder notwithstanding. It'll be friendship, albeit with yearning on both sides, and he's sure that aspect will be more and more one-sided as time passes, as long as they can keep their hands off one another. That will be a challenge, especially if they're in the same battle party again, but he doesn't not want to accompany her into battle, his concerns the same as before. She takes risks, not that he can criticize as he's never been the most cautious either, but she'll need a healer, absolutely, and who's better at it than he is? If anything, he's become that much stronger a healer since merging with Justice. At Vigil's Keep, when conscripted into the Wardens, Anders had actually delved into a new specialization as battlemage, something his Warden-Commander asked of him. After Justice, some things were ... lost. Sometimes he thinks Justice must have scraped clean and overwritten parts of his mind, like a palimpsest. Refocusing, regrouping, he's returned to his first and strongest talent. Oh, he still loves throwing lightning bolts at fools, but there are less magical ways of knocking people down if that's what you need from a companion.
Is he to be her companion, then, once more? Yes, if she'll have him. Codex updated. Anders has joined your party!
"And fight at your side, if you'll have me. And the card games, too, don't forget those. They're essential. Although they'll have to be the ordinary type, with clothes on." Speaking of which.
"Not just yet," she says in response to that unspoken reference, following his thought. "One more thing I want to say, while I can, whether it's owed to you or not. Thank you, for before. For the good parts, even some of the bad ones. If I was your light, you were my freedom. I can't regret that, even if I regret what came after. I won't." Hawke smiles softly. She's still looking down at him, and places a hand on the side of his face, thumb brushing against his cheek. Still a bit of stubble. There always was.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Now who's the aspiring poet?" But he's touched, truly, by the thought she's voiced. Anders never could quite comprehend what Hawke saw in him, or what could outweigh his (many, repeated, emphatic) warnings against growing attached. It helps a little to know some of what moved her, whether it's relevant or not anymore.
"I still think you ought to regret it. But," he confesses, "I'm happy that you disagree. We had more good years than many people ever get to have. And we've got the chance to make this year better than the last. Since the bar's set very low for that, we're almost guaranteed success."
Hawke's mouth quirks back at him. "Well, don't expect me to put it in Orlesian meter for you, because I'll never manage it. And I was never very good at doing what I ought to do, as you know. Family trait, I'm afraid." There's an understatement. She's not the only one in her family who's obdurate, not by a long shot. Her mother made her look tame. "It could hardly be a worse year, though kidnapped into the Void is a pretty low start. Who knows, perhaps this year's a contender after all."
She sighs, brushing his hair back from his face, mostly as an excuse to keep touching him. "Don't get me wrong, I regret a lot of things, and no doubt there are going to be moments when I have the urge to punch you in the face again and we'll just have to hope I can resist the temptation, because the coloring really didn't suit you. But I don't regret falling in love with you to begin with." She bends down and kisses him; their time here is running out, so she'd better take what kisses she can while she can. Hawke isn't looking forward to the nights ahead either, even though she knows they'll be easier than the ones just behind her.
Anders has given up on Orlesian meter. There must be simpler ways of stringing words into verse.
"Mm." He's much of the same mind, where kisses are concerned, and he makes this one linger. "Healer, remember? You can punch me in the face if it's absolutely necessary. Only try to make sure I'm not too low on mana first, because if I have to walk around with a black eye after, my housemates are going to get some strange ideas." The group of hippies he's fallen in with, he means. They're not housemates as there is no house, but he doesn't know a better term for the arrangement.
"And try to give me advance warning so I can hold still for it. Ambush would be a bad idea. As it is, I live in fear of puncturing the wrong wall with an ill-timed bolt."
"Define what constitutes 'absolutely necessary' for me, then." She takes another kiss, a light one, then decides that isn't enough and follows it up with a more thorough one. "Important for future reference."
The idea of him puncturing the station's hold sends a shiver down her spine. That would be a disaster.
What does constitute absolute necessity? Anders has never given anyone carte blanche to punch him in the face before. If there are rules, he doesn't know them.
He doesn't really expect her to do it, anyway. They've never been violent toward one another, not with real aggression that isn't playfully meant. If she finds it helpful, though, he's all for it, every now and again. Perhaps on the anniversary of the Chantry explosion, every year?
Even Anders' sense of humor isn't dark enough to let him make that suggestion aloud.
He kisses her again, because he still can, and traces the line of her jaw with his thumb. "If you need to," he says finally. "If you need to do it, then it's necessary." A tautology, but the best he can articulate the concept. "Anything you truly need. That, or this," he tightens his arm about her in vague illustration, "or anything, even if it costs me. Don't hesitate to take what you need."
Hawke closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his, considering this. "That's a dangerous offer," she says finally. "On both counts. All counts. I don't want to have permission to arbitrarily punish you whenever it strikes me to do so. I never wanted to be your judge." Much less executioner, but that's one subject she won't raise again.
She sits up, brow furrowed as she stares at the opposite wall. "I don't want permission to use you, either, to just take what I want without having to take into account what it might do to you. My integrity's damaged enough as it is without adding that weight to it, and your compliance wouldn't make it any more right. Not that I don't appreciate the intention--and the trust--behind the offer." A hint of frustrated steel tinges her voice. "But I don't want you feeling you owe me because I showed you mercy, and giving way to me because of that."
A sudden half-smile crinkles her face as she glances down at him. "Which means, I think, that if I do decide to punch you in the face again, you should feel free to get even if it seems a good idea at the time. Try to avoid fireballs, though. I like my eyebrows."
She's doing better than he feared, if she can think through all that and come out with such a rational answer. She's doing better than he is, that's for certain.
He sits up, too, and stretches languidly. "I can't be bothered to throw fireballs at anyone, any time soon, I think. I may need to sleep for about a month more. Andraste's bleeding wounds, woman, you're a workout."
Yet, at the same time, Anders does not want to be forgiven. Losing Hawke balances the scales, somehow. To explain the mathematics of justice would tax any human's reason, even if Anders were unwise enough to try. At the core of it is this: He was supposed to die for what he did. Hawke denied him death. Now she's generously affording him an opportunity to suffer, and he finds an ineffable relief in embracing it.
It would kill me to lose you, he told her once. He meant it. A slow death, by degrees, nothing dramatic. A silent and protracted process. Not a literal, physical death, but a death all the same. There's still work for this body to do.
Not the kind of work it's been doing tonight. She didn't have to tell him she loved him; she's already shown him. He doesn't deserve that, and it can't do anything but hurt her. He's silent, absorbing what she has said, holding her hand, holding her. Presently, he answers:
"Thank you for that. For everything, Hawke, here and before. And for telling me how you feel. I know it can't have been easy." He sighs. "We do have a knack for it, don't we? But we mustn't anymore." He isn't making a dramatic declaration. He isn't posturing rhetorically for the sake of noble self-denial. He's simply stating a quiet, unhappy fact. "It won't help anything if we keep on like this."
He's saying it so she won't have to say it.
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Or perhaps the question is, again, as always: who will Justice require him to be? She can't muster dread of the answer anymore, not after having already faced the worst Justice has to offer her, but she's not so foolish as to think it won't be a consideration in the future.
Back to the point. "This much I'm sure of. You said you wanted to be able to talk with me sometimes, at least; I want that too. Maker knows there are few enough people I can talk to and have any idea what they're saying in this crazy place." And if he had that much trouble with the concept of the holodeck, what will he make of robots?
"Besides..." She takes a deep breath, because this one is purely selfish. "I've missed you. Not just this, though Maker's breath, I missed this, even if you're probably right about it not being helpful aside from this once. We needed it this time, for catharsis and healing if nothing else. But I've missed you, the way you think, the way you make me laugh." The way I feel alive when I'm around you. She doesn't want to give that up entirely, even if she should.
Hawke leans up on an elbow, looking down at him, and her gaze is clear and unshadowed despite the signs of recent tears. "Perhaps that will only last until next time the balance between you and Justice shifts, but I'd like to appreciate it while I can. We need all the allies and laughter we can get, here in the Void. I can't be Marian; that involves a level of trust I don't have it in me to offer anyone at the moment. But I want to be able to talk to you. Assuming you can and will, in these circumstances. If not, there's always the other option of avoiding each other as much as possible, getting my dog to run interference. But it's not what I'd prefer."
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It was healthy, really, up until it became a cover for sneaking around with Justice.
It can be that way again, healthy, a good solid friendship with room to breathe. Now that they've bled off some of the pressure.
He doesn't parse no promises the way she does, reminder notwithstanding. It'll be friendship, albeit with yearning on both sides, and he's sure that aspect will be more and more one-sided as time passes, as long as they can keep their hands off one another. That will be a challenge, especially if they're in the same battle party again, but he doesn't not want to accompany her into battle, his concerns the same as before. She takes risks, not that he can criticize as he's never been the most cautious either, but she'll need a healer, absolutely, and who's better at it than he is? If anything, he's become that much stronger a healer since merging with Justice. At Vigil's Keep, when conscripted into the Wardens, Anders had actually delved into a new specialization as battlemage, something his Warden-Commander asked of him. After Justice, some things were ... lost. Sometimes he thinks Justice must have scraped clean and overwritten parts of his mind, like a palimpsest. Refocusing, regrouping, he's returned to his first and strongest talent. Oh, he still loves throwing lightning bolts at fools, but there are less magical ways of knocking people down if that's what you need from a companion.
Is he to be her companion, then, once more? Yes, if she'll have him. Codex updated. Anders has joined your party!
"And fight at your side, if you'll have me. And the card games, too, don't forget those. They're essential. Although they'll have to be the ordinary type, with clothes on." Speaking of which.
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"I still think you ought to regret it. But," he confesses, "I'm happy that you disagree. We had more good years than many people ever get to have. And we've got the chance to make this year better than the last. Since the bar's set very low for that, we're almost guaranteed success."
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She sighs, brushing his hair back from his face, mostly as an excuse to keep touching him. "Don't get me wrong, I regret a lot of things, and no doubt there are going to be moments when I have the urge to punch you in the face again and we'll just have to hope I can resist the temptation, because the coloring really didn't suit you. But I don't regret falling in love with you to begin with." She bends down and kisses him; their time here is running out, so she'd better take what kisses she can while she can. Hawke isn't looking forward to the nights ahead either, even though she knows they'll be easier than the ones just behind her.
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"Mm." He's much of the same mind, where kisses are concerned, and he makes this one linger. "Healer, remember? You can punch me in the face if it's absolutely necessary. Only try to make sure I'm not too low on mana first, because if I have to walk around with a black eye after, my housemates are going to get some strange ideas." The group of hippies he's fallen in with, he means. They're not housemates as there is no house, but he doesn't know a better term for the arrangement.
"And try to give me advance warning so I can hold still for it. Ambush would be a bad idea. As it is, I live in fear of puncturing the wrong wall with an ill-timed bolt."
The Void won't be forgiving of magery accidents.
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The idea of him puncturing the station's hold sends a shiver down her spine. That would be a disaster.
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He doesn't really expect her to do it, anyway. They've never been violent toward one another, not with real aggression that isn't playfully meant. If she finds it helpful, though, he's all for it, every now and again. Perhaps on the anniversary of the Chantry explosion, every year?
Even Anders' sense of humor isn't dark enough to let him make that suggestion aloud.
He kisses her again, because he still can, and traces the line of her jaw with his thumb. "If you need to," he says finally. "If you need to do it, then it's necessary." A tautology, but the best he can articulate the concept. "Anything you truly need. That, or this," he tightens his arm about her in vague illustration, "or anything, even if it costs me. Don't hesitate to take what you need."
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She sits up, brow furrowed as she stares at the opposite wall. "I don't want permission to use you, either, to just take what I want without having to take into account what it might do to you. My integrity's damaged enough as it is without adding that weight to it, and your compliance wouldn't make it any more right. Not that I don't appreciate the intention--and the trust--behind the offer." A hint of frustrated steel tinges her voice. "But I don't want you feeling you owe me because I showed you mercy, and giving way to me because of that."
A sudden half-smile crinkles her face as she glances down at him. "Which means, I think, that if I do decide to punch you in the face again, you should feel free to get even if it seems a good idea at the time. Try to avoid fireballs, though. I like my eyebrows."
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He sits up, too, and stretches languidly. "I can't be bothered to throw fireballs at anyone, any time soon, I think. I may need to sleep for about a month more. Andraste's bleeding wounds, woman, you're a workout."
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