Chapter Text
At first, he felt almost calm.
Maybe it was just shock, but none of it seemed real - even the relief when he realised he wasn‘t going to die had been muted and dreamlike, almost as if it was happening to someone else.
Later though, as they run through the bloody, burning streets he stumbles, starts to shake.
There are corpses everywhere, both human and… not human.
He finds himself staring down at the foul, slimy remains of an arcane horror, unable to look away.
“I never thought it would be this bad…” he says.
“I suppose you thought it would be all rainbows and pixie dust?" Hawke snarls at him, almost spits.
“No, but… the mages…”
“They’re desperate, Anders. They’re fighting for their lives.”
He glares at the blond mage as if he‘s trying hard not to hit him.
“This is what you wanted,” he says harshly.
Anders doesn’t know if it is. He can remember wanting it, but the certainty that had driven him is gone, replaced by a dull confusion.
He can‘t feel the part of himself that he thought of as Justice.
He feels amputated, abandoned, utterly lost.
It’s like waking from a nightmare, only to find the reality is worse.
*****
On the third night, they take shelter in a ruined building. Bitter rain slants down through the holes in the roof. Unwilling to risk a fire, they shiver miserably beneath stolen blankets.
Despite his declaration that he’d rather be on the run with Anders than safe anywhere else, Hawke finds it hard to look the other man in the eyes. He’s barely spoken to him since they left Kirkwall, and eventually, Anders can’t stand the silence for another second.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” he mutters. “I’ll understand. I don’t want you to stay if you can’t forgive me.”
Hawke doesn’t answer.
“I don’t know if I can forgive myself…” Anders says.
He’s not sure he deserves comfort, but he desperately needs something, some small shred of hope to cling to.
Hawke says nothing, just stares bleakly at him out of the deepening shadows, his eyes indecipherable.
When Hawke falls asleep, Anders moves closer to him, drawn by the warmth and the need for comfort.
He lays there, listening to him breathe, feeling the distance between them as an icy, desolate wasteland that goes on for miles.
Hawke dreams of a fire that pierces the sky. He looks up and there’s blood in his eyes.
They’re all watching him, waiting. He understands what's expected of him, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. He only knows he’d rather die than do anything to harm the man he loves.
The knife drops from his numb fingers.
“Come with me” he says. “Help me defend the mages.”
The look on Anders face makes the breath catch in his throat, and the sound it makes wakes him.
“Lucas…”
Anders reaches out tentatively. He places the flat of his hand against Hawke’s back, flinches as he feels the other man tense beneath his touch.
“ Don’t...” Hawke pleads.
“I almost wish you’d killed me.”
“Don’t say that, Anders, please...”
Hawke’s voice is hoarse. He rolls onto his back and his eyes are wide, the shimmer of unshed tears visible in the moonlight.
“What are we going to do?” he whispers.
“I don’t know.”
Somehow, their hands find each other across the distance, fingers meeting, hesitant at first, then gripping tightly.
It's not just a touch, it's more than that. It's a small shred of hope.
It's something to cling, to as they lay among the ruins.