Saints And Sorcery

The second thought came naturally. Marian Hawke – a circle mage. “Never,” he said under his breath, though he didn’t stop entertaining the idea. Hawke, who couldn’t sit still for a minute, Hawke who could get on anyone’s nerves, if it pleased her to do so – that same person trapped the way he used to be.

The way he-

Don’t go there, he reminded himself.

And just like that, she was there with him, in the Circle. And there wasn’t much he could do about it as that imaginary past unfolded before him.

He knows no more of her than her name, Marian.

She had gone through the harrowing not too long ago - she made no fuss about it. Maybe, he thought, that was what draws half of the other mages to her; that ease amidst their cage of structure and rules.

It was almost embarrassing how well it worked on him.

They hadn’t exchanged more than a few - hardly meaningful -words. Yet every accidental touch lingers, every quick glance lasts longer than what would have been appropriate – she lets him catch her wanting, over and over and-

“Anders?” Marian was never one to hesitate; when she finds him alone in the library, she takes her chance. Her hand wraps around his wrist. She pulls him into an aisle between two tall bookcases which block out the last tired sunbeams streaming in through the windows - it used to bother him how they were too high up to look out of. Now, making out Marians shape in the near-dark, he couldn’t have cared less.

They can’t take their time, can’t allow themselves to be caught unaware. No time to undo all the laces; half-dressed in the dark, trying to keep quiet. He whispers against her neck, burying his face there, taking in her scent. “Marian-“

“Hawke.” She corrects swiftly, her voice no more than a breath.

“...not made to be kept in a cage.”

She hums in – what he hopes is – agreement. Hawkes lips brush against his again.

Illusions of romance tend to die agonizingly slow in this place – but they always do in the end.

And for a while, that was enough. Tension, he told himself, no more than that. It will fade.

Then, that one night, Hawke simply holds him. She tucks a strand of honey blond hair behind his ear, draws the line from the gold earring there to his jaw, up to his lips, and lets her index finger follow the bridge of his nose. She whispers his name and chuckles when all she gets in return is a contented sigh.

“You escaped once.” It’s a statement, not a question. Hawke doesn’t do questions.

He nods, leans back against her. She’s warmth, and light and safety, he doesn’t want to ruin this.

“You could try one more time.”

He tips his head back to look up at her. “Not alone.”

It feels impossible, still, he needs this to work. They exchange scraps of paper filled with hastily written notes. Hawke reads and incinerates them between her palms, then pens a reply. Sometimes they meet up after dark. It is the time of charcoal imprints all over his body.

There is no room for failure.

She wields her magic as if she’d used it in this way all her life. Lightning cracks, fire scorches the tapestries lining the cellar walls, a single precise downward motion of the staff in her hand crushes the only Templar standing in their way. Anders can barely keep up with the force that is Marian Hawke.

They dash out into the night, their respective phylacteries tucked away safely into their robes, they don’t stop running until dawn breaks.

“Wait!”

Anders halts. They’ve slowed down a good deal, being more careful now that they were out of the towers’ immediate vicinity. There was still a hurry in their step, though.

Hawke is still breathing hard as she finds the map in her pocket, marking where she estimates them to be. “We should rest. I need my strength, so if anyone finds us-“ she pauses as a fit of laughter overtakes her “I can just pick you up bridal style and carry you all the way to safety.”

“You can carry me right now, if you want. If I trip over one more branch, I might just set this entire forest on fire.”

“You might just need some sleep.” Hawke unceremoniously plopped down on the mossy ground in an alcove between two particularly wide tree trunks. She patted the space beside her.

Anders settled against Hawke, leaning his head against her shoulder. He was vaguely aware of the sweat-drenched robes and the smell of smoke in her hair – didn’t matter. He nuzzled his nose against the bare, damp skin above her collar. He felt the warmth of her lips against his forehead. I didn’t take much for him to admit it out loud now. “I love you, Hawke.”

“I love you, Hawke.” - Louder than intended. Anders slams the cabinet doors shut, he repeats it, silently so no one has the chance to overhear it again.

That’s enough, he reminds himself, because she would never say it back, because she could never love him, and even if she did-