SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 4 2011, 22:15:48 UTC
There was no reason not to do it and nothing else to do. Anders imagined that was what ghosts must feel like: retracing their steps, unable to peek out and say hello without frightening any current inhabitants. He wasn’t the sort who appreciated fresh air and long walks and nature to clear his head; he appreciated the walls around Wildervale more as much as they trapped him within the city, with a statue and only a bare few people who knew who he was-less than they knew who he wasn’t. And there was also a man, practically a stranger, who expected him to be someone else.
Only the dwarf understood.
The dwarf also thought his crossbow was the love of his life.
Anders pushed his hair behind his ear, the same wisp that never stayed put. It floated free before it bothered to pretend it might do what he wanted this time, same as always, without even a slight change for the sake of hope. Anders tried again, then forgot about it-also same as always.
‘Stay locked up in a room reading your fantasies about two friends?’ Anders stood, his knees aching, his ankle giving a familiar twinge of reproach. ‘Sounds better than my usual afternoons. Once you’ve gone up against childer grubs-they tried to feed on my flesh once, you know-you learn to appreciate the little things.’
‘Might as well take this with you.’ Varric held out the pillow, not as gentle as he was with Bianca, but close. There wasn’t even a streak of polish on it, not a stray chest-hair caught in the embroidery.
Anders shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You should hold onto it.’
‘Hate it when I have the same conversation twice.’ Varric sighed. ‘But if it means that much to you, Blondie-I guess I won’t argue.’
‘You’re the best dwarf I’ve ever met,’ Anders told him.
‘Like music to my ears,’ Varric replied.
*
And that's all for today! A bit longer than the last part, too. Thank you so much again for reading, again, and I just hope that this part is (was?) enjoyable! I will see you back here soon; I hope you have a lovely end-of-weekend! ♥
Re: SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 4 2011, 22:47:19 UTC
This is so good I can hardly pick out what part I like best-but I am partial to the line about Varric secretly being the unstable one. ;-)
I'm just so curious to see how this plays out between Hawke and Anders. I love all your AU's, but this one is really catching at me. The idea of losing your lover, only to have them show up years later as a younger version of themself? That's...a pretty heavy load.
Re: SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 5 2011, 15:47:12 UTC
LJ ate my last post so I really apologize if this is super long! First - I love all your work and have read everything you've posted over at AO3. Please continue writing awesome stories and AU's because I just can't get enough of them.
This story has been amazing from the start. The Anders/Hawke romance is my favorite pairing and this premise is heartbreaking - losing the person you love and then facing a different version of them years later, one who doesn't know or love you? It's Hawke that my heart breaks for the most in this story. I think I want to cry every time he touches Anders or you get a glimpse of his inner struggle. And now that he knows Anders is not a demon, it must be painful not being able to just throw his arms around him and never let go :) I'm really keen to see how things develop between them going forward.
Varric is the best friend/bro ever and he's been such a pleasure to read! All your characterizations of Hawke's companions are wonderful and spot on; how I imagined they would be years later, still fighting a bitter war. Hope I get to see Isabela in person as I think she'd bring some needed levity to the situation for poor Anders.
Too many things about this story I love so far to list them all but here are a few that hit me hard: - The wood carving - The statue (and the words oh that was so perfect) - The knife - The PILLOW!!
And even though you are posting every other day I find myself already wishing for more as I'm reading each new update! Thanks for entertaining us with this awesome story!
Re: SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 10:39:30 UTC
Every update just gets better and better.
The running theme seems to be... forced acceptance? Realizations? Revelations? Hawke pretty much has to come to terms with the fact that this is Anders, perhaps not precisely HIS Anders, but god the turmoil he must be going through having Anders back.
And then Anders and the pillow scene. I nearly broke down and started crying over the description of the pillow. It was just such a poignant scene. Oh a!a, you are just a brilliant writer.
Re: SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 18:36:10 UTC
Well, even if Anders isn't himself, it's great how he's retained that bond of friendship with Varric. Best dwarf for sure! Absolutely can't wait for the next parts now.
Re: SANCTUM AND HEALING (48b/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 19:05:20 UTC
This story is so beautiful and heartbreaking! I feel really sorry for Hawke. Even if he got Anders back, it's still not HIS Anders. His Anders is gone and he will never meet him again. This whole situation must be so painful for him... I really can't wait to see what happens next.
SANCTUM AND HEALING (49/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:00:09 UTC
Once again, I have to thank you guys so, so much for sticking around and dropping comments in and reading and everything. I cannot ever thank you enough. ♥ I just hope you continue to enjoy it, as your words have meant so much to me, and they truly keep me going. Even with Livejournal being difficult--thank you for hanging in there and for the replies that seriously make my day. I will cross my fingers that it does not disappoint! ♥ Thank you, thank you.
Anders kept his head down on his way back to Hawke’s room-which was empty-and there was no further incident, just Varric knocking on the door and delivering a pile of reading. ‘It feels like lessons,’ Anders said, staggering under the weight of the bound volumes. ‘Like Karl’s about to pop out from behind a corner and tell me to stop doodling in the margins.’
‘You doodle in these margins-’ Varric began.
‘-and I can expect to take it up with Bianca,’ Anders finished. ‘Yes. I’m aware. You’re just as scary as Karl, even if you are half his size.’
‘Takes a lot of talent to pull that off, actually,’ Varric said, and left with a half-hearted grin.
After that, Anders was alone with his research, a scenario Karl Thekla would have been too clever to orchestrate. Anders’s work ethic was directly proportionate to how many people stuck around to supervise, to be certain he kept his nose to the miller’s stone. Indeed, the Warden Commander hadn’t come along to oversee their business at Kal’Hirol-so Anders had wandered off, sliced his finger open on a shard of dwarven ghost-glass, and ended up more than ten years away, the ultimate act of procrastination.
In a way, everything that had happened after that was all the Commander’s fault, twisted ankle and hero’s statue and assigned reading included. The man should have known better than to leave Anders to his own devices. And now Varric, with his heart of gold and chest hair to match, had made the same fatal error.
He claimed to be one of Anders’s dearest friends, which meant he had even less of an excuse than anyone else. When would people learn?
‘Never,’ Anders said. No one answered because there was no one to answer.
The only option left was to read.
The Champion’s story began with the destruction of one home-and his voyage across the Waking Sea to find another. Anders flipped through the first few pages of the topmost volume, the worn edges of vellum tickling his thumb. Varric’s handwriting was square and sturdy, the printing careful and nearly as dwarven as his decorating. He’d given a lot of thought to who might be reading, and probably wanted to make it as simple as possible for them.
Of course, unlike most stories, the Champion’s also began-rather than ended-with a dragon.
‘Oh, goody,’ Anders said, and settled into the couch, knees tucked up and volume one tucked against them.
It was dark outside, shadows slanting long across the floor, when the door finally creaked open and Hawke passed over the threshold. Anders was ensconced in the cushions, bound manuscripts digging against his folded knees and another behind his back, wedged uncomfortably where he’d shoved it in a fit of pique to find the next volume, to learn what happened after the Deep Roads.
There were no broodmothers in Varric’s story-only a sister crushed by an ogre and a brother who contracted the taint and died. Anders had never bothered to think much about how the darkspawn affected anyone who wasn’t a Grey Warden, those lucky individuals who didn’t have to hear their nasty, chittering whispers in the dark, at the back of their minds whenever they traveled underground or simply closed their eyes for sleeping.
SANCTUM AND HEALING (50/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:01:13 UTC
The common themes that tied each book to the one before it were the personal losses, great and small, that littered Hawke’s life, and his companions’ lives. The setting could have been better; some of the places began to get tangled once Anders spent too much time with them, and he felt a distant sting at his own introduction. It was all too personal-the mention of a Karl they couldn’t save and a filthy clinic in a place called Darktown, where he worked tirelessly to aid Fereldan refugees for little to no compensation, no praise, no reward, no cozy bed or even a fire, or even a fireplace.
Varric’s Anders might as well have been a stranger, another of Varric’s character flourishes like the noble Aveline or the innocent Dalish blood mage Merrill. Anders liked himself and didn’t like himself; he couldn’t draw a conclusion, the sense of loyalty he felt to someone he had to support combined with the sense of frustration at not being able to guide him, to tell him what to do or how to do it.
Varric was good-Varric was too good-and Anders’s fingers shook as he turned the pages, dreading and anticipating each of his appearances more and more rather than less and less.
He’d been on the cusp of Hawke’s duel with the Arishok, another loss and little gain to compensate, Kirkwall on fire for what had to be the tenth time in the span of a few years and a few hundred pages. Let’s dance, Hawke said-according to Varric-and Anders resisted the urge to roll his eyes before he heard the creak of dusty hinges, saw the shadows move out of the doorway.
It was enough to pull him out of the story, peering over the edge of his book, following the line of Hawke’s back as he stalked toward the fireplace and knelt before the hearth. Orange sparks kindled at his fingertips, lighting the brushwood that had been stacked there sometime in the afternoon. Anders felt something stir within at the sight, the reminder that they were both mages in a free mage city, snapping their fingers to light their fires without having to look over their shoulders first, or struggle with flint in order to make themselves less obvious.
‘Varric gave you his books,’ Hawke said.
It wasn’t a question.
His voice was thin-not breathless but tired, as though he’d spent the day wearing himself down to the point of exhaustion, beyond a place where his feelings could reach him. Anders’s fingers tightened against the leather binding of the novel, holding it between them like an arcane barrier.
He’d honestly meant to stop reading early, to stack the books under the bed before Hawke could catch him with them.
It was too much like cheating somehow-or snooping, or eavesdropping-reading about his life with another man, a life he couldn’t remember, all because he hadn’t had a chance to create the memories yet.
‘Are you joking?’ Anders sat up to remove the thick volume from its place beneath his backside. ‘He practically fed them to me for breakfast, Hawke. Before I had a chance to eat my bacon. Tell me-does it count as a gift if you can’t, literally, refuse it?’
‘Anders,’ Hawke said.
‘Apparently,’ Anders replied. He closed the Arishok’s duel unfinished-it had been endless anyway, so much dodging and ducking and running and shrieking-keeping place with his index finger. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, although words on a page created a barrier of their own, putting distance between himself and himself. Maybe it was the distance he craved rather than the knowledge. ‘…Although I don’t know if it counts, since I don’t remember any of this. Dueling an arishok? Really? And nobody thought to stop you? Am I right in understanding Fenris actually encouraged it?’
SANCTUM AND HEALING (51/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:02:13 UTC
The fire popped at Hawke’s back when he straightened. Then he winced; Anders didn’t know whether it had been a pocket of sap in the branches or a bad joint in his knee, damaged long ago from one of Kirkwall’s sieges or a battle with its Tevinter slavers or, more likely, the aforementioned duel of inadvisable odds and ludicrous measures.
‘Maybe that’s for the best,’ Hawke said. It seemed like a joke, but there wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice. ‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember anything either.’
‘You probably wish you could return to your handsome youth too, no doubt,’ Anders said. ‘Did you ever read these? I think Varric might have had feelings for you.’
Hawke pulled a face, the first expression he’d managed to wear since entering the room. It had to mean something important, something good, but all Anders could do in response was lean his elbow against the time-cracked cover of the book in his lap and rest his chin in the palm of one hand. He recognized the expression not because he’d seen it before but because Varric had, and Varric’s Anders, who slipped in and out of the plot with relative ease.
He was always there, always in Darktown, always with Hawke on a foolish mission or lingering by the front door at the end of a long day. He was always aching, too, instead of doing something about his aches, and that was another point of contention, a minor annoyance that made Anders shift in place. At least his shifting didn’t wound him further, hard leather digging hard into his hip.
‘I tried it with Varric,’ Hawke said at last. ‘But he turned me down. Cruelly, I might add. He said it just wouldn’t work out between us-that I was too high maintenance for him.’
‘I know,’ Anders said. ‘I read about it. If you feel any better, he said the same thing to me. I think it might just be one of his lines. He seems the sort-such a heartbreaker.’
Hawke clasped his hands in front of him. They wanted more action even now, stiff as his thumbs looked, weather-split knuckles white around each bloody line. ‘Why is it, I wonder, that people are always turning me down for my own good?’
‘Kindness,’ Anders replied. ‘Maybe too much of it, but still, it’s the only way to let someone off easy. Besides, you dodged a cross-bolt with that one, let me tell you. It would have been more like a threesome than a loving two-way, what with Bianca tossed in. …Did you know your trusty dwarf has a few water-works loose?’
‘Most of my trusty dwarves do.’ Hawke unclasped his hands, shaking them out, one of the joints cracking. He didn’t limp as he made his way across the room to his writing desk and his snifter of Rivaini spirits and his multi-faceted tumblers, but his leg was as rigid as his shoulders, the knee not bending properly.
Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, it hadn’t been easy.
Knowing Hawke as well as Varric did, whatever clues were offered Anders in the pages, he’d likely rescued three orphans and two apostates, killed ten giant spiders, fought an army of Tal’Vashoth one-handed, tracked down a murderer at the most popular brothel, and sweet-talked the local seneschal-all before garnering himself something for supper.
No wonder he was tired.
He’d had ale with breakfast and he was drinking imported brandy now. Anders wouldn’t judge, not with all the bacon he’d had, the words on the page he’d used to fill himself up so none of his thoughts or feelings could get in the way. He watched Hawke swirl the dregs, staring into them before he drank, followed by the bob of his throat as he tilted his head back and swallowed.
SANCTUM AND HEALING (52/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:03:07 UTC
‘You get used to it,’ Hawke added. He might not have been talking about the dwarves; Anders blinked and tried to remember the ones he’d read about, Blubber and Shoehorn or whoever they were, characters who shouldn’t have mattered but kept popping up. Varric hadn’t enchanted anything, and he had a sensible amount of facial hair-from that perspective, he seemed almost rational.
‘That explains so many things,’ Anders said.
‘Varric will like that.’ Hawke poured a second glass and Anders had to remove his finger from keeping his place in the story in order to take it. It was a worthy sacrifice, cool crystal and warm brandy against his grip, something to steady himself by. Soon enough, everything that happened since sunrise would be more like a dream than a memory, a day he’d lived rather than one he was still living. And no somniari could pierce the sanctity of that dream, either, with a calm voice and long, pale hair, searching for answers Anders still didn’t own. ‘You’ll have to tell him all about it-flatter his big ego a bit. Travel’s hard on the poor fellow; the more he whistles, the more you know it’s getting to him. Come to think of it, you’re right-he is one of the strangest dwarves I’ve ever met.’
‘He fits right in with the others,’ Anders said. ‘Maybe you just have a type.’
Hawke’s eyes lifted at that, darker than ever despite-or because of-the unsteady hearth-light. Anders wished they could talk about Varric some more, whether he snored or if Hawke had ever caught him whispering sweet nothings into Bianca’s tiller.
Anders had other questions, too: whether a line of dialogue was true or false, which kisses were real and which had been thrown in for effect, and if Anders was just as annoying in private as he could be with the others. How often his healing was necessary, or how stubborn he was, or how careless-or how stupid and desperate he had to be to accept a deal with any kind of spirit from the Fade, even a familiar one. That sort of thing.
But Hawke didn’t look as though he had a single answer of his own, much less for someone else. He lead people, and that required so much answering from sunrise long past sunset, an implicit understanding that he had those answers no matter who was asking, or what they were asking, or how frequently their questions came.
Varric had given Anders his books for a reason. Self-indulgence was part of that reason, but there was something else-just like there was something else to Hawke’s expression, the amusement and the curl of his lip and now, in the wake of that, the stillness.
‘I haven’t read them, actually,’ Hawke said. He leaned against the arm of the couch, stretching out his sore leg. ‘It seemed a bit…much. I’ve been told I have the nasty habit of self-aggrandizement-not for a while, you know, but these things stick with you. Especially when they’re shouted over the table in a shack with your charming uncle presiding, cheering the opposition on.’
‘And here I’ve been reading about myself all day,’ Anders replied. ‘If certain dwarves are to be believed, that is.’
‘You know Varric,’ Hawke said.
Anders stared into his glass. ‘Well-in a manner of speaking.’
SANCTUM AND HEALING (53/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:03:56 UTC
‘You two were always close.’ Hawke set his glass on the floor, reaching to rub his knee with the heel of his hand. ‘Makes a man wonder things about a healer and his favorite dwarf. …Or a dwarf and his favorite healer.’
Anders pressed his bottom lip to the rim of his glass, tongue running along the smooth edge. He watched Hawke until he couldn’t stand it anymore, sweet Rivaini spirits sending a flare of warmth through his body that bacon and simple ale couldn’t hope to replicate.
‘Oh, we have a kind of understanding, Varric and I,’ Anders said. He slid over on the couch, eating up the distance Hawke had been so careful to leave between them. ‘We both appreciate the finer things in life-wine, women and song. And stories, I suppose. I’m grateful Varric didn’t take a wrong turn in life and become a bard. Can you imagine having all this sung to you?’ The overstuffed cushions squeaked beneath him, ruining the stealth of his approach. Without meeting Hawke’s eyes, Anders leaned down, hand resting against Hawke’s leg through his trousers. ‘Stop being ridiculous. Now. It’s painful for those of us who have to watch you.’
It was as simple as breathing to draw on the well of spirit healing within him, a grander tapestry with so many little threads, pale green fire glowing from the center of his palm. Anders guided it toward easing the stiff muscle of Hawke’s thigh and soothing the aching joints where they’d swelled. It was a more temporary magic than healing a wound-Anders could stitch together cuts and mend bones but he couldn’t turn back the clock on damage done over time. Years of hard living did things to a man and Anders was no demon from the Fade; he didn’t promise to smooth out the wrinkles in an aging expression or exchange eternal youth for free passage to the waking world.
That didn’t mean one had to forego magic entirely. If there was anything Anders couldn’t abide, beyond stingy portions of ale and templars with no sense of humor, it was a mage who refused to take advantage of his gifts.
Hawke grunted softly, the strain easing from his leg as Anders moved closer, wrapping his other hand beneath Hawke’s knee at the base of his thigh. His skin was warm through the worn fabric of his trouser, and Anders felt the muscles in his calf twitch as he rolled his ankle, moving his leg without shifting free of Anders’s grip.
‘Never really mastered the healing touch, myself,’ Hawke said at last, settling back against the couch like a man who recognized when to retreat. It was a lucky tactic, because Anders wasn’t confident in his ability to wrestle the man down for a good healing-even counting his notorious Warden stamina in his favor. ‘That was always Bethany’s purview.’
Feeling Hawke’s eyes on him, Anders made the mistake of looking up. His gaze was sharp beneath the sweep of his silver-threaded bangs; his eyes didn’t match the warm, whiskey-mellowed tenor of his voice at all.
‘Bethany.’ Anders swallowed, wishing he had a third hand to reach for his drink. ‘…Your younger sister?’ His fingers tightened against Hawke’s leg, as though all the stiffness he’d coaxed out of the limb was being drawn into his own hands, tightening the joints at the knuckles and balling in his blood. ‘Varric…didn’t have that much to say about her, beyond that.’
‘That’s probably because Varric never met her,’ Hawke said. He shifted his knee out from under Anders’s hold, then leaned down to wrap a steady hand around his arm, pulling Anders back toward the couch.
SANCTUM AND HEALING (54/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:04:45 UTC
Anders felt a slim pulse of heat ripple through him at the touch, even meaningless as it was. It had been a long time since anyone went out of their way to touch him-despite how shameless he’d been trying to reel in Nathaniel Howe. The rogue was slippery, as all rogues were; Oghren was likewise immune to flirtations, Velanna more mean-dangerous than fun-dangerous, Sigrun way too short. Anders’s mind was still clouded by the years Hawke had lived with another Anders, spending quiet moments in his clinic in Darktown or touching each other under a table at the Hanged Man. Even though Varric had never gone into the details of their relationship, not beyond the first few kisses and the subsequent understanding, he was a clever enough storyteller to appreciate that what went unwritten was nearly as real as what made it onto the page.
Hawke and Anders had been lovers. They were both grown men, the times dangerous, their needs obvious. Varric left the proper blanks and Anders knew how to fill them.
He also knew what that other man would have done: leaned into the gesture easily, maybe tucked himself in at Hawke’s side, against the fur and the leather, smelling his soaps and the clean sweat on his skin, the sunlight still trapped by cotton, the wind and the promise of approaching rain. With all those details, the fire in the hearth and the cozy cushions, it was a tempting prospect-something Hawke might allow; something Anders might want.
There was a real man in there beneath the walls he’d built, higher than the manned barracks surrounding Wildervale. But the blanks Varric had left about the soon-to-be champion of Kirkwall were less obvious than his other accounts; some of the lines felt real while some didn’t, all of it designed to make the man accessible rather than human. Anders was suddenly curious to know him rather than to know about him; the distinction was just as genuine as Hawke sitting in front of him now, flexing his leg to test the new agility in each placated muscle.
‘Didn’t it occur to you to leave Kirkwall sooner?’ Anders asked, folding one leg beneath him, letting the other nudge up against Hawke’s. ‘It was always catching on fire, for one thing. I’d think that might seem like an ill-omen. I mean, I know Ferelden was bad, but it only had one bitty Blight, whereas Kirkwall…got everything else.’
‘Varric’s been known to exaggerate,’ Hawke admitted. ‘Small dwarf, big lies.’
‘So Kirkwall wasn’t always on fire?’ Anders asked.
Hawke cleared his throat. ‘No-that much is true. Did he write about the smell of Lowtown at night, too?’
‘Green gases rising from the sewers and everything,’ Anders said. ‘Almost made me wish I didn’t have breakfast.’
‘That’s the one.’ Hawke sighed, neither wistful nor nostalgic, without any of the false fondness nostalgia implied. It was simply missing something that was, something that was awful and an awfulness that time or distance couldn’t hope to erase, the truth of a terrible city Hawke clearly loved anyway. Anders wondered if the same had been true of their relationship; if you lived in a place called Darktown you had to start smelling like a place called Darktown, and Hawke was the sort of man who appreciated something despite or because of its green gases. A man wasn’t a city, but both could represent things and both could be things, and Hawke’s tastes obviously ran toward the eclectic, the incomprehensible, the absurd. ‘Kirkwall wasn’t happy with just one or the other. No-it had to have the gases and the fires, the rioting qunari and the blood mages and the crooked templars. It couldn’t just have a mad Knight-Commander or a desperate First-Enchanter. It had both. It had more than both. It had…everything.’
SANCTUM AND HEALING (55/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:05:37 UTC
‘You miss it,’ Anders said.
Hawke shook his head. ‘I miss the Hanged Man. There’s a difference.’ He paused. When he stretched his leg out before him, Anders was pleased to note that the joint in his knee didn’t pop loudly. ‘I miss the porcelain tub in the old estate-now there’s something to miss.’
‘More than the green gases,’ Anders said.
‘And the rioting qunari and the burning city,’ Hawke agreed.
‘At least you have your priorities in order,’ Anders told him.
Hawke snorted softly, complete with a crooked grin-a sharp, white flash of teeth against his dark beard. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone’s paid me that particular compliment.’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Anders leaned closer, listening for hints of creaking or cracking, the sharp intake of a man’s breath when a muscle ached suddenly. None came. Anders knew he’d done his job right, but he didn’t pull away again. Hawke was feeling talkative and Anders was feeling lonely-or maybe it was the other way around, though Hawke was still grinning and Anders was always talkative. There was something that brought Hawke back here and something that brought Anders here in the first place-and Varric was a wicked dwarf with clever turns of phrase, a wicked writer who knew how to make a man want what he read and need what he couldn’t have. ‘First the porcelain tub, then the gases, and close after that the rioting and the fires. You know, that’s always been my list, too. We have so much in common,’ Anders added.
Hawke laughed.
It wasn’t pretty.
His eyes were-in the sad way-but his mouth was hard and almost ugly, his jaw tighter than any inflamed knee. It wasn’t something Anders could heal with his hands but it was something he could heal with his lips; he licked them, tasting the brandy still stained against the flesh.
That flavor had a color, the same color as the firelight reflected in Hawke’s eyes, and Anders was a healer before anything else. It was the one detail he could recognize amidst all the changes, the character Varric liked enough to be honest about-unless that, too, was a fabrication, a pretense to move the pre-determined plot along.
The necessity for such complex analysis made Anders’s head ache, probably the same way Hawke’s knee did.
Books had meaning and impact and consequences; stories could convince a man to act on his own and histories put all sorts of ideas into his head. Anders knew all that, foolishness and carelessness and the power of influence, but just because he could recognize something was stupid didn’t always mean he wouldn’t do it. He could kick himself about it later, soft-booted toes smacking against his ankles; for now, Hawke’s mouth needed attention just the same as his knee, and Anders was the only one there to give it to him.
The way Hawke was looking at him didn’t help, recognizing and searching by equal turns, seeing that person standing between them but trying-or so Anders thought-to see through that person, too. Anders did and didn’t feel like a ghost with Hawke; he did his best not to think about being nothing more than a statue and a collection of memories, some fond and some less-than, of actions that were now history and choices that were now stories. And Hawke did his best not to make that obvious, even though it creased the lines in his brow deeper, making the uneven flecks of gray threaded through his beard and hair stand out more obviously than when they were hidden in shadow.
Hawke lifted his glass. He drank deeply, like a man looking for a potion when what he needed was a healer’s touch.
SANCTUM AND HEALING (56/?)
anonymous
December 6 2011, 22:07:26 UTC
When the glass was empty, Hawke set it down and took Anders’s face in both his hands, thumbs against the corners of his mouth. Anders’s breath caught in his throat, the subject of such unflinching scrutiny that it was more of a violation than a dream-walker walking straight into his dreams.
People were always blaming magic for human impulses. Magic did make them seem larger, but it wasn’t because of magic that people did terrible things or wanted to do terrible things, or looked to demons for answers they couldn’t find anywhere else.
‘Not a demon,’ Anders whispered.
‘And yet I almost wish you were,’ Hawke replied. ‘…No offense.’
‘None taken. I think.’ Anders shifted forward, practically in Hawke’s lap. Hawke had disappeared for a reason, had filled his day up with everything else so he wouldn’t have to do this-so he wouldn’t have to look at Anders at all. Now that there were no excuses, features still clear even in ruddy firelight, Hawke neither flinched nor turned away, every ounce the champion in Varric’s stories, even if his heroic actions were now in miniature. He faced Anders just the same as he faced the Arishok-but Anders wasn’t an enemy, and that was the problem. ‘If you say let’s dance, though-’
Hawke said nothing of the sort. His breath snared somewhere between his throat and his lips and Anders kissed him then because waiting was awful and curiosity was stronger than reservation. They both wanted it as much as they were avoiding it.
It was better to rip off the bandage and see for themselves what lay raw and unhealed beneath.
Hawke made a strangled sound of surprise, giving way to Anders’s advance in an instant, his mouth warm and easy despite the brittle way it shaped itself against an unforgiving jaw. His lips half-parted where he’d been trying to breathe; his hands rose to Anders’s shoulders, resting there, neither drawing him closer nor pushing him aside.
It was the lack of rejection Anders needed most, the knowledge that he hadn’t misread the situation. People were so much more difficult to follow than stories. They could change their minds without having to explain why, without signifying the course of their thoughts in black ink on a sheet of stained vellum.
Anders swiped his tongue over Hawke’s lower lip, his own scratching against the bristling hairs on Hawke’s chin. It seemed an easy thing to close the distance between them, Anders straddling Hawke’s lap all too capably-that might cause him shades of embarrassment later, but for now effortless was uncomplicated, unhindered, appreciated by all.
It took practice to do that sort of thing and not get his robe-skirts tangled around his knees, a detail whose meaning Anders didn’t think Hawke would welcome anytime soon.
‘Anders,’ Hawke murmured, and it wasn’t quite the same as hearing someone else’s name in the midst of an embrace.
It didn’t bear thinking about, not now or not yet, not with Anders fighting to keep his balance in Hawke’s lap, fighting to keep from doing anything unseemly or juvenile, like rocking their hips together. Self-control was a difficult act for Anders to embody at the best of times, even when he was comfortable and not surrounded by strangers who knew him and a future life he didn’t understand. But it seemed important to make the effort-if not for himself then for Hawke, the specter of the man in Varric’s books, the specter of the man who haunted Wildervale’s very foundations.
Anders drew his hands up Hawke’s chest, over the sharp metal buttons that lined his ribs, the leather straps that connected his steel gorget side to each, the soft, luxurious pelts of his pauldrons. It was no more than a silly, romantic gesture to cup his palms against Hawke’s jaw, fingers curling in his hair at the nape of his neck, but Anders did it anyway, nipping and sucking at his lips as he deepened the kiss.
Only the dwarf understood.
The dwarf also thought his crossbow was the love of his life.
Anders pushed his hair behind his ear, the same wisp that never stayed put. It floated free before it bothered to pretend it might do what he wanted this time, same as always, without even a slight change for the sake of hope. Anders tried again, then forgot about it-also same as always.
‘Stay locked up in a room reading your fantasies about two friends?’ Anders stood, his knees aching, his ankle giving a familiar twinge of reproach. ‘Sounds better than my usual afternoons. Once you’ve gone up against childer grubs-they tried to feed on my flesh once, you know-you learn to appreciate the little things.’
‘Might as well take this with you.’ Varric held out the pillow, not as gentle as he was with Bianca, but close. There wasn’t even a streak of polish on it, not a stray chest-hair caught in the embroidery.
Anders shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You should hold onto it.’
‘Hate it when I have the same conversation twice.’ Varric sighed. ‘But if it means that much to you, Blondie-I guess I won’t argue.’
‘You’re the best dwarf I’ve ever met,’ Anders told him.
‘Like music to my ears,’ Varric replied.
*
And that's all for today! A bit longer than the last part, too. Thank you so much again for reading, again, and I just hope that this part is (was?) enjoyable! I will see you back here soon; I hope you have a lovely end-of-weekend! ♥
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I'm just so curious to see how this plays out between Hawke and Anders. I love all your AU's, but this one is really catching at me. The idea of losing your lover, only to have them show up years later as a younger version of themself? That's...a pretty heavy load.
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This story has been amazing from the start. The Anders/Hawke romance is my favorite pairing and this premise is heartbreaking - losing the person you love and then facing a different version of them years later, one who doesn't know or love you? It's Hawke that my heart breaks for the most in this story. I think I want to cry every time he touches Anders or you get a glimpse of his inner struggle. And now that he knows Anders is not a demon, it must be painful not being able to just throw his arms around him and never let go :) I'm really keen to see how things develop between them going forward.
Varric is the best friend/bro ever and he's been such a pleasure to read! All your characterizations of Hawke's companions are wonderful and spot on; how I imagined they would be years later, still fighting a bitter war. Hope I get to see Isabela in person as I think she'd bring some needed levity to the situation for poor Anders.
Too many things about this story I love so far to list them all but here are a few that hit me hard:
- The wood carving
- The statue (and the words oh that was so perfect)
- The knife
- The PILLOW!!
And even though you are posting every other day I find myself already wishing for more as I'm reading each new update! Thanks for entertaining us with this awesome story!
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Never apologize for the length, A!A. The longer the better (for me, anyway)!
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The running theme seems to be... forced acceptance? Realizations? Revelations? Hawke pretty much has to come to terms with the fact that this is Anders, perhaps not precisely HIS Anders, but god the turmoil he must be going through having Anders back.
And then Anders and the pillow scene. I nearly broke down and started crying over the description of the pillow. It was just such a poignant scene. Oh a!a, you are just a brilliant writer.
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Anders kept his head down on his way back to Hawke’s room-which was empty-and there was no further incident, just Varric knocking on the door and delivering a pile of reading. ‘It feels like lessons,’ Anders said, staggering under the weight of the bound volumes. ‘Like Karl’s about to pop out from behind a corner and tell me to stop doodling in the margins.’
‘You doodle in these margins-’ Varric began.
‘-and I can expect to take it up with Bianca,’ Anders finished. ‘Yes. I’m aware. You’re just as scary as Karl, even if you are half his size.’
‘Takes a lot of talent to pull that off, actually,’ Varric said, and left with a half-hearted grin.
After that, Anders was alone with his research, a scenario Karl Thekla would have been too clever to orchestrate. Anders’s work ethic was directly proportionate to how many people stuck around to supervise, to be certain he kept his nose to the miller’s stone. Indeed, the Warden Commander hadn’t come along to oversee their business at Kal’Hirol-so Anders had wandered off, sliced his finger open on a shard of dwarven ghost-glass, and ended up more than ten years away, the ultimate act of procrastination.
In a way, everything that had happened after that was all the Commander’s fault, twisted ankle and hero’s statue and assigned reading included. The man should have known better than to leave Anders to his own devices. And now Varric, with his heart of gold and chest hair to match, had made the same fatal error.
He claimed to be one of Anders’s dearest friends, which meant he had even less of an excuse than anyone else. When would people learn?
‘Never,’ Anders said. No one answered because there was no one to answer.
The only option left was to read.
The Champion’s story began with the destruction of one home-and his voyage across the Waking Sea to find another. Anders flipped through the first few pages of the topmost volume, the worn edges of vellum tickling his thumb. Varric’s handwriting was square and sturdy, the printing careful and nearly as dwarven as his decorating. He’d given a lot of thought to who might be reading, and probably wanted to make it as simple as possible for them.
Of course, unlike most stories, the Champion’s also began-rather than ended-with a dragon.
‘Oh, goody,’ Anders said, and settled into the couch, knees tucked up and volume one tucked against them.
It was dark outside, shadows slanting long across the floor, when the door finally creaked open and Hawke passed over the threshold. Anders was ensconced in the cushions, bound manuscripts digging against his folded knees and another behind his back, wedged uncomfortably where he’d shoved it in a fit of pique to find the next volume, to learn what happened after the Deep Roads.
There were no broodmothers in Varric’s story-only a sister crushed by an ogre and a brother who contracted the taint and died. Anders had never bothered to think much about how the darkspawn affected anyone who wasn’t a Grey Warden, those lucky individuals who didn’t have to hear their nasty, chittering whispers in the dark, at the back of their minds whenever they traveled underground or simply closed their eyes for sleeping.
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Varric’s Anders might as well have been a stranger, another of Varric’s character flourishes like the noble Aveline or the innocent Dalish blood mage Merrill. Anders liked himself and didn’t like himself; he couldn’t draw a conclusion, the sense of loyalty he felt to someone he had to support combined with the sense of frustration at not being able to guide him, to tell him what to do or how to do it.
Varric was good-Varric was too good-and Anders’s fingers shook as he turned the pages, dreading and anticipating each of his appearances more and more rather than less and less.
He’d been on the cusp of Hawke’s duel with the Arishok, another loss and little gain to compensate, Kirkwall on fire for what had to be the tenth time in the span of a few years and a few hundred pages. Let’s dance, Hawke said-according to Varric-and Anders resisted the urge to roll his eyes before he heard the creak of dusty hinges, saw the shadows move out of the doorway.
It was enough to pull him out of the story, peering over the edge of his book, following the line of Hawke’s back as he stalked toward the fireplace and knelt before the hearth. Orange sparks kindled at his fingertips, lighting the brushwood that had been stacked there sometime in the afternoon. Anders felt something stir within at the sight, the reminder that they were both mages in a free mage city, snapping their fingers to light their fires without having to look over their shoulders first, or struggle with flint in order to make themselves less obvious.
‘Varric gave you his books,’ Hawke said.
It wasn’t a question.
His voice was thin-not breathless but tired, as though he’d spent the day wearing himself down to the point of exhaustion, beyond a place where his feelings could reach him. Anders’s fingers tightened against the leather binding of the novel, holding it between them like an arcane barrier.
He’d honestly meant to stop reading early, to stack the books under the bed before Hawke could catch him with them.
It was too much like cheating somehow-or snooping, or eavesdropping-reading about his life with another man, a life he couldn’t remember, all because he hadn’t had a chance to create the memories yet.
‘Are you joking?’ Anders sat up to remove the thick volume from its place beneath his backside. ‘He practically fed them to me for breakfast, Hawke. Before I had a chance to eat my bacon. Tell me-does it count as a gift if you can’t, literally, refuse it?’
‘Anders,’ Hawke said.
‘Apparently,’ Anders replied. He closed the Arishok’s duel unfinished-it had been endless anyway, so much dodging and ducking and running and shrieking-keeping place with his index finger. He wasn’t ready to let go yet, although words on a page created a barrier of their own, putting distance between himself and himself. Maybe it was the distance he craved rather than the knowledge. ‘…Although I don’t know if it counts, since I don’t remember any of this. Dueling an arishok? Really? And nobody thought to stop you? Am I right in understanding Fenris actually encouraged it?’
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‘Maybe that’s for the best,’ Hawke said. It seemed like a joke, but there wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice. ‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember anything either.’
‘You probably wish you could return to your handsome youth too, no doubt,’ Anders said. ‘Did you ever read these? I think Varric might have had feelings for you.’
Hawke pulled a face, the first expression he’d managed to wear since entering the room. It had to mean something important, something good, but all Anders could do in response was lean his elbow against the time-cracked cover of the book in his lap and rest his chin in the palm of one hand. He recognized the expression not because he’d seen it before but because Varric had, and Varric’s Anders, who slipped in and out of the plot with relative ease.
He was always there, always in Darktown, always with Hawke on a foolish mission or lingering by the front door at the end of a long day. He was always aching, too, instead of doing something about his aches, and that was another point of contention, a minor annoyance that made Anders shift in place. At least his shifting didn’t wound him further, hard leather digging hard into his hip.
‘I tried it with Varric,’ Hawke said at last. ‘But he turned me down. Cruelly, I might add. He said it just wouldn’t work out between us-that I was too high maintenance for him.’
‘I know,’ Anders said. ‘I read about it. If you feel any better, he said the same thing to me. I think it might just be one of his lines. He seems the sort-such a heartbreaker.’
Hawke clasped his hands in front of him. They wanted more action even now, stiff as his thumbs looked, weather-split knuckles white around each bloody line. ‘Why is it, I wonder, that people are always turning me down for my own good?’
‘Kindness,’ Anders replied. ‘Maybe too much of it, but still, it’s the only way to let someone off easy. Besides, you dodged a cross-bolt with that one, let me tell you. It would have been more like a threesome than a loving two-way, what with Bianca tossed in. …Did you know your trusty dwarf has a few water-works loose?’
‘Most of my trusty dwarves do.’ Hawke unclasped his hands, shaking them out, one of the joints cracking. He didn’t limp as he made his way across the room to his writing desk and his snifter of Rivaini spirits and his multi-faceted tumblers, but his leg was as rigid as his shoulders, the knee not bending properly.
Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, it hadn’t been easy.
Knowing Hawke as well as Varric did, whatever clues were offered Anders in the pages, he’d likely rescued three orphans and two apostates, killed ten giant spiders, fought an army of Tal’Vashoth one-handed, tracked down a murderer at the most popular brothel, and sweet-talked the local seneschal-all before garnering himself something for supper.
No wonder he was tired.
He’d had ale with breakfast and he was drinking imported brandy now. Anders wouldn’t judge, not with all the bacon he’d had, the words on the page he’d used to fill himself up so none of his thoughts or feelings could get in the way. He watched Hawke swirl the dregs, staring into them before he drank, followed by the bob of his throat as he tilted his head back and swallowed.
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‘That explains so many things,’ Anders said.
‘Varric will like that.’ Hawke poured a second glass and Anders had to remove his finger from keeping his place in the story in order to take it. It was a worthy sacrifice, cool crystal and warm brandy against his grip, something to steady himself by. Soon enough, everything that happened since sunrise would be more like a dream than a memory, a day he’d lived rather than one he was still living. And no somniari could pierce the sanctity of that dream, either, with a calm voice and long, pale hair, searching for answers Anders still didn’t own. ‘You’ll have to tell him all about it-flatter his big ego a bit. Travel’s hard on the poor fellow; the more he whistles, the more you know it’s getting to him. Come to think of it, you’re right-he is one of the strangest dwarves I’ve ever met.’
‘He fits right in with the others,’ Anders said. ‘Maybe you just have a type.’
Hawke’s eyes lifted at that, darker than ever despite-or because of-the unsteady hearth-light. Anders wished they could talk about Varric some more, whether he snored or if Hawke had ever caught him whispering sweet nothings into Bianca’s tiller.
Anders had other questions, too: whether a line of dialogue was true or false, which kisses were real and which had been thrown in for effect, and if Anders was just as annoying in private as he could be with the others. How often his healing was necessary, or how stubborn he was, or how careless-or how stupid and desperate he had to be to accept a deal with any kind of spirit from the Fade, even a familiar one. That sort of thing.
But Hawke didn’t look as though he had a single answer of his own, much less for someone else. He lead people, and that required so much answering from sunrise long past sunset, an implicit understanding that he had those answers no matter who was asking, or what they were asking, or how frequently their questions came.
Varric had given Anders his books for a reason. Self-indulgence was part of that reason, but there was something else-just like there was something else to Hawke’s expression, the amusement and the curl of his lip and now, in the wake of that, the stillness.
‘I haven’t read them, actually,’ Hawke said. He leaned against the arm of the couch, stretching out his sore leg. ‘It seemed a bit…much. I’ve been told I have the nasty habit of self-aggrandizement-not for a while, you know, but these things stick with you. Especially when they’re shouted over the table in a shack with your charming uncle presiding, cheering the opposition on.’
‘And here I’ve been reading about myself all day,’ Anders replied. ‘If certain dwarves are to be believed, that is.’
‘You know Varric,’ Hawke said.
Anders stared into his glass. ‘Well-in a manner of speaking.’
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Anders pressed his bottom lip to the rim of his glass, tongue running along the smooth edge. He watched Hawke until he couldn’t stand it anymore, sweet Rivaini spirits sending a flare of warmth through his body that bacon and simple ale couldn’t hope to replicate.
‘Oh, we have a kind of understanding, Varric and I,’ Anders said. He slid over on the couch, eating up the distance Hawke had been so careful to leave between them. ‘We both appreciate the finer things in life-wine, women and song. And stories, I suppose. I’m grateful Varric didn’t take a wrong turn in life and become a bard. Can you imagine having all this sung to you?’ The overstuffed cushions squeaked beneath him, ruining the stealth of his approach. Without meeting Hawke’s eyes, Anders leaned down, hand resting against Hawke’s leg through his trousers. ‘Stop being ridiculous. Now. It’s painful for those of us who have to watch you.’
It was as simple as breathing to draw on the well of spirit healing within him, a grander tapestry with so many little threads, pale green fire glowing from the center of his palm. Anders guided it toward easing the stiff muscle of Hawke’s thigh and soothing the aching joints where they’d swelled. It was a more temporary magic than healing a wound-Anders could stitch together cuts and mend bones but he couldn’t turn back the clock on damage done over time. Years of hard living did things to a man and Anders was no demon from the Fade; he didn’t promise to smooth out the wrinkles in an aging expression or exchange eternal youth for free passage to the waking world.
That didn’t mean one had to forego magic entirely. If there was anything Anders couldn’t abide, beyond stingy portions of ale and templars with no sense of humor, it was a mage who refused to take advantage of his gifts.
Hawke grunted softly, the strain easing from his leg as Anders moved closer, wrapping his other hand beneath Hawke’s knee at the base of his thigh. His skin was warm through the worn fabric of his trouser, and Anders felt the muscles in his calf twitch as he rolled his ankle, moving his leg without shifting free of Anders’s grip.
‘Never really mastered the healing touch, myself,’ Hawke said at last, settling back against the couch like a man who recognized when to retreat. It was a lucky tactic, because Anders wasn’t confident in his ability to wrestle the man down for a good healing-even counting his notorious Warden stamina in his favor. ‘That was always Bethany’s purview.’
Feeling Hawke’s eyes on him, Anders made the mistake of looking up. His gaze was sharp beneath the sweep of his silver-threaded bangs; his eyes didn’t match the warm, whiskey-mellowed tenor of his voice at all.
‘Bethany.’ Anders swallowed, wishing he had a third hand to reach for his drink. ‘…Your younger sister?’ His fingers tightened against Hawke’s leg, as though all the stiffness he’d coaxed out of the limb was being drawn into his own hands, tightening the joints at the knuckles and balling in his blood. ‘Varric…didn’t have that much to say about her, beyond that.’
‘That’s probably because Varric never met her,’ Hawke said. He shifted his knee out from under Anders’s hold, then leaned down to wrap a steady hand around his arm, pulling Anders back toward the couch.
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Hawke and Anders had been lovers. They were both grown men, the times dangerous, their needs obvious. Varric left the proper blanks and Anders knew how to fill them.
He also knew what that other man would have done: leaned into the gesture easily, maybe tucked himself in at Hawke’s side, against the fur and the leather, smelling his soaps and the clean sweat on his skin, the sunlight still trapped by cotton, the wind and the promise of approaching rain. With all those details, the fire in the hearth and the cozy cushions, it was a tempting prospect-something Hawke might allow; something Anders might want.
There was a real man in there beneath the walls he’d built, higher than the manned barracks surrounding Wildervale. But the blanks Varric had left about the soon-to-be champion of Kirkwall were less obvious than his other accounts; some of the lines felt real while some didn’t, all of it designed to make the man accessible rather than human. Anders was suddenly curious to know him rather than to know about him; the distinction was just as genuine as Hawke sitting in front of him now, flexing his leg to test the new agility in each placated muscle.
‘Didn’t it occur to you to leave Kirkwall sooner?’ Anders asked, folding one leg beneath him, letting the other nudge up against Hawke’s. ‘It was always catching on fire, for one thing. I’d think that might seem like an ill-omen. I mean, I know Ferelden was bad, but it only had one bitty Blight, whereas Kirkwall…got everything else.’
‘Varric’s been known to exaggerate,’ Hawke admitted. ‘Small dwarf, big lies.’
‘So Kirkwall wasn’t always on fire?’ Anders asked.
Hawke cleared his throat. ‘No-that much is true. Did he write about the smell of Lowtown at night, too?’
‘Green gases rising from the sewers and everything,’ Anders said. ‘Almost made me wish I didn’t have breakfast.’
‘That’s the one.’ Hawke sighed, neither wistful nor nostalgic, without any of the false fondness nostalgia implied. It was simply missing something that was, something that was awful and an awfulness that time or distance couldn’t hope to erase, the truth of a terrible city Hawke clearly loved anyway. Anders wondered if the same had been true of their relationship; if you lived in a place called Darktown you had to start smelling like a place called Darktown, and Hawke was the sort of man who appreciated something despite or because of its green gases. A man wasn’t a city, but both could represent things and both could be things, and Hawke’s tastes obviously ran toward the eclectic, the incomprehensible, the absurd. ‘Kirkwall wasn’t happy with just one or the other. No-it had to have the gases and the fires, the rioting qunari and the blood mages and the crooked templars. It couldn’t just have a mad Knight-Commander or a desperate First-Enchanter. It had both. It had more than both. It had…everything.’
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Hawke shook his head. ‘I miss the Hanged Man. There’s a difference.’ He paused. When he stretched his leg out before him, Anders was pleased to note that the joint in his knee didn’t pop loudly. ‘I miss the porcelain tub in the old estate-now there’s something to miss.’
‘More than the green gases,’ Anders said.
‘And the rioting qunari and the burning city,’ Hawke agreed.
‘At least you have your priorities in order,’ Anders told him.
Hawke snorted softly, complete with a crooked grin-a sharp, white flash of teeth against his dark beard. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone’s paid me that particular compliment.’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Anders leaned closer, listening for hints of creaking or cracking, the sharp intake of a man’s breath when a muscle ached suddenly. None came. Anders knew he’d done his job right, but he didn’t pull away again. Hawke was feeling talkative and Anders was feeling lonely-or maybe it was the other way around, though Hawke was still grinning and Anders was always talkative. There was something that brought Hawke back here and something that brought Anders here in the first place-and Varric was a wicked dwarf with clever turns of phrase, a wicked writer who knew how to make a man want what he read and need what he couldn’t have. ‘First the porcelain tub, then the gases, and close after that the rioting and the fires. You know, that’s always been my list, too. We have so much in common,’ Anders added.
Hawke laughed.
It wasn’t pretty.
His eyes were-in the sad way-but his mouth was hard and almost ugly, his jaw tighter than any inflamed knee. It wasn’t something Anders could heal with his hands but it was something he could heal with his lips; he licked them, tasting the brandy still stained against the flesh.
That flavor had a color, the same color as the firelight reflected in Hawke’s eyes, and Anders was a healer before anything else. It was the one detail he could recognize amidst all the changes, the character Varric liked enough to be honest about-unless that, too, was a fabrication, a pretense to move the pre-determined plot along.
The necessity for such complex analysis made Anders’s head ache, probably the same way Hawke’s knee did.
Books had meaning and impact and consequences; stories could convince a man to act on his own and histories put all sorts of ideas into his head. Anders knew all that, foolishness and carelessness and the power of influence, but just because he could recognize something was stupid didn’t always mean he wouldn’t do it. He could kick himself about it later, soft-booted toes smacking against his ankles; for now, Hawke’s mouth needed attention just the same as his knee, and Anders was the only one there to give it to him.
The way Hawke was looking at him didn’t help, recognizing and searching by equal turns, seeing that person standing between them but trying-or so Anders thought-to see through that person, too. Anders did and didn’t feel like a ghost with Hawke; he did his best not to think about being nothing more than a statue and a collection of memories, some fond and some less-than, of actions that were now history and choices that were now stories. And Hawke did his best not to make that obvious, even though it creased the lines in his brow deeper, making the uneven flecks of gray threaded through his beard and hair stand out more obviously than when they were hidden in shadow.
Hawke lifted his glass. He drank deeply, like a man looking for a potion when what he needed was a healer’s touch.
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People were always blaming magic for human impulses. Magic did make them seem larger, but it wasn’t because of magic that people did terrible things or wanted to do terrible things, or looked to demons for answers they couldn’t find anywhere else.
‘Not a demon,’ Anders whispered.
‘And yet I almost wish you were,’ Hawke replied. ‘…No offense.’
‘None taken. I think.’ Anders shifted forward, practically in Hawke’s lap. Hawke had disappeared for a reason, had filled his day up with everything else so he wouldn’t have to do this-so he wouldn’t have to look at Anders at all. Now that there were no excuses, features still clear even in ruddy firelight, Hawke neither flinched nor turned away, every ounce the champion in Varric’s stories, even if his heroic actions were now in miniature. He faced Anders just the same as he faced the Arishok-but Anders wasn’t an enemy, and that was the problem. ‘If you say let’s dance, though-’
Hawke said nothing of the sort. His breath snared somewhere between his throat and his lips and Anders kissed him then because waiting was awful and curiosity was stronger than reservation. They both wanted it as much as they were avoiding it.
It was better to rip off the bandage and see for themselves what lay raw and unhealed beneath.
Hawke made a strangled sound of surprise, giving way to Anders’s advance in an instant, his mouth warm and easy despite the brittle way it shaped itself against an unforgiving jaw. His lips half-parted where he’d been trying to breathe; his hands rose to Anders’s shoulders, resting there, neither drawing him closer nor pushing him aside.
It was the lack of rejection Anders needed most, the knowledge that he hadn’t misread the situation. People were so much more difficult to follow than stories. They could change their minds without having to explain why, without signifying the course of their thoughts in black ink on a sheet of stained vellum.
Anders swiped his tongue over Hawke’s lower lip, his own scratching against the bristling hairs on Hawke’s chin. It seemed an easy thing to close the distance between them, Anders straddling Hawke’s lap all too capably-that might cause him shades of embarrassment later, but for now effortless was uncomplicated, unhindered, appreciated by all.
It took practice to do that sort of thing and not get his robe-skirts tangled around his knees, a detail whose meaning Anders didn’t think Hawke would welcome anytime soon.
‘Anders,’ Hawke murmured, and it wasn’t quite the same as hearing someone else’s name in the midst of an embrace.
It didn’t bear thinking about, not now or not yet, not with Anders fighting to keep his balance in Hawke’s lap, fighting to keep from doing anything unseemly or juvenile, like rocking their hips together. Self-control was a difficult act for Anders to embody at the best of times, even when he was comfortable and not surrounded by strangers who knew him and a future life he didn’t understand. But it seemed important to make the effort-if not for himself then for Hawke, the specter of the man in Varric’s books, the specter of the man who haunted Wildervale’s very foundations.
Anders drew his hands up Hawke’s chest, over the sharp metal buttons that lined his ribs, the leather straps that connected his steel gorget side to each, the soft, luxurious pelts of his pauldrons. It was no more than a silly, romantic gesture to cup his palms against Hawke’s jaw, fingers curling in his hair at the nape of his neck, but Anders did it anyway, nipping and sucking at his lips as he deepened the kiss.
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