#hawkanders

Anders stumbled up the stairs -- more ladder than stairway, really, and a challenge to anyone trying to get down it in the dark without breaking some bones -- with his staff in hand, ready to unleash some elemental destruction --

And stopped, staring.

The ship was calm in the falling dusk, sails furled tight and lines coiled; every mage they had taken with them from the Gallows was crowded onto the foredeck, staffs pointed up in the air, and shooting off fireworks.

Explosions of brilliant light burst in the night air over the ship, and they were different in form and color from one mage to the next. The youngest apprentices sent up simple, enthusiastic flares of light that flashed white and went out in an instant with an almighty BANG, the source of the noise that had woken Anders. The older mages had more finesse; their fireworks went up in all colors of red, gold, blue and green, rising up trailing comet-tails of golden light and exploding  into thick showers of sparks. Some went up straight as an arrow, bursting high overhead; others rose in wriggling spirals and unfolded into intricate curls, the sparks staying lit for long seconds as they drifted back down onto the water.

And sometimes not into the water. One apprentice's firecracker burst too early, showering hot sparks and cinders back on the deck; a small hard rock pelted off Anders' forehead, leaving a small bleeding cut, and another coal tumbled into a pile of loose sheeting and began to send up smoke. "Hey, watch it!" Isabela's voice floated back towards them from the forecastle. "Don't you set fire to my ship! Do you want to end up on the ocean floor?"

Anders quenched the cinder with a quick Winter's Grasp, then hurried forward. "What in the name of the Void are you lot *doing?*" he demanded. "Are you trying to bring every Chantry galleon on the Waking Sea down on us?"

The crowd of mages stopped in their tracks and turned to look at him, guilty looks on every face. Near the back of the crowd, one apprentice let off one final defiant *pop.*

"Ha!" Hawke cackled, from his position lounging on a stack of tarp-covered crates on the mid-deck. He actually had somehow acquired a sausage on a stick, which he used like a conductor's baton to follow the path of the firecracker in the sky. "With this many mages packed on board? I'd like to see them try it. They'd never even get in range for a smite before their hull got burned out under them."

"So your plan is to burn our ship out from under us, instead?" Anders exclaimed.

"Oh, it's perfectly safe," Merrill exclaimed, sliding down the mast from the crow's-nest. Her hands were full of long sticks that burned bright colors at the end, spitting off a stream of harmless sparks. "I mean, Isabela said it was okay, and it's her ship. Were you sleeping? Did we wake you? Sorry about that. We didn't mean it, but the weather was so nice and the sky was so clear..."

"Yes, but *why?"* Anders wanted to know, turning back to the crowd of mages. "Whatever possessed you?"

"Bit of a pot calling the kettle black there," Hawke murmured, and then "ow!" when Merrill's bare foot connected with his ribs.

The Gallows mages looked at each other, and apparently one older gentleman was elected spokesperson by default. "Er... well... it's Summerday, you see," he explained. "The Knight-Commander always had us do fireworks displays on the Summerday... above the Gallows, you see, so they could be seen in Hightown..."

For a moment, Anders resisted the urge to pull his hair out in despair. What was the point of trying to free the mages if all they knew, if all they could do was continue on the same actions they had known in slavery? "But you're not *in* the Gallows any longer," he exclaimed. "You don't have to be... performing circus animals for Meredith any more. You don't have to demean yourself, putting on shows for *anyone.* Not ever again!"

Another one of those nervous exchange of glances, and then another mage stepped forward -- this one a middle-aged, graying woman. "But that's *why,* don't you see?" she asked.

"No," Anders shook his head. "I don't see."

"It's *because* nobody is making us," she explained, as though that explained everything. "We're not doing it for Meredith, or the Kirkwall nobles, or for anyone else but ourselves. We're doing it because *we* want to... and because we *can.*"

"...Oh." Anders felt the wind go out of his sails, leaving him suddenly as becalmed as the ship itself. Another roll of the deck under his feet took his balance, and he found himself on the deck suddenly, sitting back on his haunches. "Oh."

He was just tired, that was all. He hadn't eaten a proper meal since he came on the ship, too seasick to keep anything down, so his blood sugar was low. That was the only reason why he found himself fighting back tears, the ship and the sea and the sky and the people all crowding into a colorful blur in his eyes.

"C'mere," Hawke said, and nudged him over to the side until he was leaning back against the same tarp-covered boxes Hawke had been using as a perch, sliding a casual hand behind his back. Merrill sat down on his other side and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

"Well, go on," Isabela called from the back of the ship. "Let's have some more fireworks! Can you do the ones that explode, and then explode again? Those are my favorite."

That was all the encouragement the Gallows mages needed; with a whoop and a clamor they began setting off fireworks again, their enthusiasm doubled. The hull of the ship was lit in flashes, bright as day for an instant before the sparks faded again. Colored smoke hung in clouds in the air over the ship, reflecting and amplifying the light and color back against itself.

Anders felt something stirring within him, a feeling of restlessness and expectation that both was and wasn't his own. "Justice wants to celebrate, too," he realized out loud.

"I'd like to see that," Merrill said. "Go on, then!"

He hesitated for a moment, trying to work out what was right -- then his left hand lifted, of its own volition, crackling with blue-white flames. Disdaining the staff beside him, the magic leapt from his bare hands to spear straight up into the sky -- a column of pure cerulean light that rose and rose for half an hour before it finally petered out in a shower of sparks. On the foredeck, the mages cheered, and changed their own colors to match; a riot of blue-white flames bloomed and faded in the dark sky as if to challenge the stars themselves.

Anders didn't know how long he'd been channeling the spell before a tug on his shoulder brought him back to himself; he let himself be pulled around until he was face to face with Hawke, then his eyes fluttered shut as Hawke's lips pressed against his own. The veilfire sputtered out as Anders dropped his hands to grip Hawke's shoulders, holding tight in an effort to disguise the trembling in his hands.

The kiss lingered, there in the semi-twilight lit by dancing fire, cracks and booms rolling and echoing back from the open sea. At last they broke apart, Anders' eyes fluttering open to take in Hawke's face; the rueful half-smile on those lips, the blue-white reflections glistening in his eyes.

"D'you," Hawke said, and then had to clear his throat, gesturing. "D'you want one of these sausages-on-a-stick? I can get another for you, if you like."

That was just too much; Anders cracked up laughing, collapsing half on the deck and half on Hawke's lap. Merrill joined in, and then Hawke; and their laughter mixed with the sound of the explosions, rolling free for miles over the dark sea.

Merrill sat on his other side, chattering happily away, while Varric tried to encourage Justice to drink some more wine.

"I do not wish to overindulge in mortal poisons again," Justice complained. "The effect they have on me is not salutory."

"The effect they have on you is *hilarious,*" Isabela whispered in his ear; Justice tried half-heartedly to push her away, having long since learned that Isabela could be as clingy as an octopus.

"Just a few sips won't get you drink," Varric urged him. "C'mon, you have to at least try some. This is good stuff, Highever Black Label, been aging since the last Age. I'd bet this stuff is almost as old as you are!"

"Oh, that's a good question," Hawke said. "How old *are* you, anyway, Justice?"

"Do you have a nameday?" Isabela purred from his other ear. "How would you like to *celebrate* it?"

Justice frowned. "Spirits do not count their age as your mortals do, and time is different in the Fade," he said. "I could not say for certain."

"This is your first time in the mortal world, isn't it?" Merrill said. "I don't suppose you remember any big events of history, like wars or past Blights, that you could tell us about?"

"No." Justice shook his head. "We are aware of the mortals only through their dreams, as they appear and disappear again, as all things in the Fade. If I had to count time the way that you mortals do, I would say that I am about..." He paused for a moment, his fiery glow waxing and waning as though following the tide of his thought. "Nineteen hundred and forty-two."

Merrill and Isabela cried out in amazement, while Varric let out a whistle of appreciation. "Nice going, Glowy," he chuckled. "That puts you almost back to the founding of the Tevinter Imperium!"

" -- days old," Justice finished.

In the sudden silence, the sound of Aveline accidentally inhaling a mouthful of wine and then coughing uncontrollably, hand held over her nose and mouth, was very loud. Justice frowned at her. "That seems wasteful," he observed. "Considering the expense of this wine."

"Days?" Isabela repeated incredulously. "*Days?*"

"Uhm -- Justice, are you sure you don't mean years?" Merrill said tentatively. "We... normally count our age in years."

"There are no seasons in the Fade," Justice said. "You know this. The only passage of time is the nightly appearance and disappearance of dreamers, and thus is the only way to mark mortal time."

"*Days?!*" Hawke said in a strangled voice. His face had gone a greenish-pale under his skin, a highly unflattering contrast to his red tunic.

"But that would make you only..." Merrill trailed off uncertainly.

"-- slightly less than five and a half years old," Varric finished for her, apparently having a better head for numbers while drunk than the rest of them did sober.

"Maker," Aveline wheezed, clutching a sodden napkin to her chest as she stared across the table. "You're a *child!*"

The speed with which Isabela detangled herself from Justice and banished herself to the other end of the bench actually defied the unaided eye. She reappeared at the far end of the table, hands spread wide and leaning away from Justice. "I don't care how pretty the container is," she announced. "If the wine inside is that green, I'm not tapping that bottle."

"Too late," Hawke said hollowly.

"No more of this for you," Varric slid the untouched mug of wine back from Justice's hands. "Stones, Glowy, you aren't even old enough to be *in* here!"

"I absolutely cannot permit you to come into combat situations with us any longer!" Aveline exclaimed. "The guardsmen have a strict eighteen-and-over policy."

Hawke thumped his head against the table hard enough to topple his glass of wine, and clapped his hands over his head as though he could bury himself under them. "Second thoughts, Hawke?" Varric murmured to him out of the side of his mouth; Hawke just thumped his head against the table again, harder.

"It was bad enough to know that Anders had a spirit passenger all the time," Hawke said in a pained whine. "But an *underage* spirit..."

Justice huffed in irritation. "I am not as a mortal child -- I am not as mortals are at all. My kind do not 'grow up' as you mortals do. We simply become ourselves. In the Fade, to be self-aware is to be whole."

"Okay... so you have the full capacity of an adult, I get that," Varric placated, as diplomatic as ever. "But let's face it, you don't have the *experience* of one."

Isabela raised one eyebrow. "You realize what we call that in human years," she suggested.

"You mean a teenager?" Aveline said with a frown. "You're saying Justice is the Fade equivalent of a teenager?"

"THIS EXPLAINS SO MUCH," Hawke yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "GUYS, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW."

"I do not understand why this news comes as such a shock to you all," Justice complained. "I am no teenager. For nearly two thousand of your days have I existed as myself, and for all of that time I have fought for righteousness. I have slain demons beyond counting in the Fade, I have torn asunder the twisted domains of nightmare, I have..."

He cut himself off, the sort of abrupt transition they'd all grown accustomed to, and the glowing lines on Justice's face faded away like a candle that had been capped. Eldritch white eyes faded back into human honey-brown, and Anders wore an expression of tragic horror. "Oh, Maker," he said, voice wavering and breaking. Three acts of tragedy were packed into a mere four words. "What have I *done?*"

Anders backed away from the table, chair clattering behind him, and turned and bolted for the entrance of the tavern. The door slammed shut behind him, and Merrill turned to Varric in some confusion.

"What *has* he done?" she asked. "I can't think of anything offhand."

"Search me," Varric said with a shrug.

"I mean, aside from the usual -- you know, killing bandits, stealing stuff, breaking laws, all that stuff we do all the time?"

Aveline winced. "Merrill, please," she said. "At least wait until I've gone to the ladies' room."

Hawke was looking after his feathered boyfriend with some worry. "I'd better go after him," he muttered, and started to stand up.

Isabela was there to push him back down in his seat again. "Hawke, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but whatever the absolute worst thing would be to say in this case, I have faith in you to find it and say it," she said. "Why don't *I* go talk to him, see what the matter is?"

"Could you?" Hawke said hopefully, which really was a testament to his awful communication skills. At least he knew it, Isabela thought.

---

She found Anders in his clinic, which wasn't really a stretch of her detective skills -- its location was the worst-kept secret in Kirkwall. Isabela would (and occasionally did) mock him for his utter inability to keep a low profile, but she supposed that as a notorious pirate who spent all day hanging out in the most visible part of the most popular tavern in Lowtown, she didn't really have much room to criticize.

The lantern wasn't lit, but Isabela went in anyway. Anders was sitting on a stack of crates in the corner, head in his hands. He looked up at her when she came in, and Isabela was relieved to see that he hadn't been crying, although he looked desolate enough for it.

Despite what their friends seemed to think, Isabela did like Anders quite a lot -- he was a good healer, a fierce fighter, and a fond former lover. She simply had made it a life choice to not spend long periods of her free time doing things that were neither healthy nor enjoyable -- and getting involved in politics, hanging out in a shithole clinic in Darktown, and listening to Anders rant about the oppression of mages all fell into that category. The world was full of atrocities and always had been; no one could change that, so why dwell on it?

But, if he ever needed her, she'd be there. She hoped he knew that.

Isabela sat down on the stack of crates a short distance from Anders. "Sweetie, what's this about?" she asked.

Anders looked down at the floor, arms wrapped around himself. "It was bad enough when I just thought I destroyed my friend," he said in a raw voice. "It's even worse now I know that I've corrupted an innocent."

"Mm, corruption of the innocent is usually something that I enjoy," Isabela said with a purr. "They usually enjoy it, too."

"This isn't funny!" Anders snapped.

"It's a little funny," Isabela disagreed.

Anders shook his head. "I took something pure and I defiled it," he said, choking up again. "The Maker will never forgive me."

Isabela sighed. She was actually capable of being sincere, although she didn't often bother. But Anders was clearly not in the mood to have his mood lightened. "Anders, I know what it means to be defiled, to be forced into something you don't want," she said seriously. "I know what it looks like from the outside, and from the inside too. That's not what Justice looks like, that's not how he acts. You didn't force him into anything."

Anders looked up at her, eyes widening. "I... I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it -- for her, not for himself. "But... this is different. This is..."

"Look, Anders, I knew you before you came to Kirkwall --" Isabela said.

"Only for a couple of hours," Anders protested.

Isabela chuckled. "Yes, but it was a pretty telling couple of hours," she said. She'd found you could learn a lot about people from sex -- their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, their fears and desires. "I mean this in the nicest way possible but Anders, you're a pleaser. There's no way that you could have forced someone else to go against their wishes, let alone someone as stubborn as Justice is. It just couldn't happen."

Anders knotted his hands together, and wet his lips with a nervous flick of the tongue. "...It could happen if I deceived him," he said unhappily. "He didn't know better. He didn't know anything but what I told him. I could have filled him up with lies just like the Chantry does to us."

"So did you lie to him?" Isabela raised an eyebrow.

"No!" Anders denied it quickly. He looked down at the floor again. "...But... I did try to persuade him. I wanted him to agree with me."

"Don't we all?" Isabela shrugged. "From the story I've heard about yours and Justice's joining, it was a bit of an emergency situation, what with the templars and the fire and the darkspawn and the stabbings --"

"Which version of this story have you heard, exactly?" Anders asked, sounding alarmed.

" -- So it's not like either of you could really have made any other choice," Isabela finished. She put her hand on the back of his shoulders, feeling the twisted knots of tension there. "It sounds to me like you acted in good faith based on the knowledge you had at the time. You can't blame yourself for that. I get that maybe it didn't turn out quite like either of you wanted, but that's not your fault."

Anders sighed miserably. "Maybe not... but good intentions don't fix bad results.  What if I damaged him beyond repair because of my own selfishness?"

Isabela started rubbing his back, soothing circles to try to wash the tension away. "You're his friend,"  she said. "You care about him. The fact that you're beating yourself up over this now is proof that you aren't the sort of person you think you are."

"I..." Anders sagged, leaning slightly into her hands. "I wish I could believe you."

"So do," Isabela said with a firm squeeze. "Mama Isabela knows what she's talking about. Now get your head out of your ass and stop wallowing in guilt for imaginary crimes. There are plenty non-imaginary crimes awaiting!"

That got a laugh, at last, and Anders didn't resist when she stood up and pulled him to his feet behind her. Still a pleaser, after all this time, Isabela thought fondly, and led him back up to Lowtown and the rest of the party.

---

It was after midnight, the rest of the world asleep. A lone figure stood in front of the fire at the Amell estate; though it was banked to glowing coals, the white fire limning Justice's skin and hands was more than enough to provide illumination.

The spirit heard quiet footsteps, sensed the presence of another behind him, and spoke without taking his eyes from the fire. "I had hoped for a chance to speak with you," he said; his voice was subdued, banked like the fire to a low growl. "Hawke always speaks highly of your wisdom and your steadfastness, and I knew of none better to convey my message to Anders.

"Anders believes that he has destroyed my innocence." Justice turned around to face his companion, silhouetted by the last of the dying fire. "He mistakes ignorance for innocence. When he and I first met, I had little knowledge of the way of the world -- only a virtue to which I aspired, and a burning desire for purpose. It was through Anders that I discovered that purpose.

"I do not believe there was any virtue in my naivete, my mistaking small causes for great ones. There was a time when I could not distinguish between a small matter such as the domestication of a pet, and the oppression of an entire sentient people. Between the mindlessness of monsters and the great horrors that men perpetrate on their fellows. Anders helped me along the road to understanding, and in doing so I have become so much more than I was. I have become part of a great cause, and in doing so I myself became greater." Justice's usually harsh and angry features softened as he spoke of his host and friend, his voice becoming suffused with wonder.

"I do not regret any part of my journey or my growth. I do not regret Anders' rage; faced with injustice and atrocity, his fury is proper, it is righteous. That the fight for justice will be hard, and may require sacrifice, may be reason for sorrow -- but not for regret. This I swear by all that I know to be just. Please, tell Anders of my assurances -- and my gratitude."

---

The next morning, Anders awoke with a crushing hangover, wondering why in the world Hawke's mabari had taken to jumping around him and barking excitedly, leaping up on his chest to lick his face and whining.

They'd spend a few days in Ostwick, moving around, keeping to the shadows while they restocked and took the lay of the land. Once they'd bought or, as Hawke would say, *acquired* enough supplies they'd taken to the road, striking for the Vimmarck mountains. Hawke liked mountains -- felt at home in them, like his father's clan in the Frostbacks in Ferelden -- and where Hawke went, Fenris went too.

As for Anders, well. He'd go anywhere.  He hadn't exactly planned this far. He'd thought to die in Kirkwall, justice for the lives he'd taken. He'd left his life in Hawke's hands.

And Hawke had taken it, taken it whole.

But now Hawke was acting strangely. He'd started out the journey in a burst of determined enthusiasm, optomistic about the prospect of a fresh life and a fresh start outside of Kirkwall. The whole journey by boat from Kirkwall's docks he'd been cheerful, helping to crew the ship and learning terrible sea shantys from Isabela's ragtag crew. And -- well, it was a small boat anyway, but he'd made a point of never going too far from Anders' side, always staying within sight or singing within earshot.

One day out of Ostwick and all that had changed. Now, on the road he hung back away from Anders or sped up to nearly outrun him, keeping a long distance (and always Fenris, much to the elf's disgust) between them. When they made camp far off the roads he would disappear into the woods for an hour or more at a time, multiple times per night.

Anders didn't feel like he was up to the task of interrogating Hawke to find out what was wrong. He already thought he had a pretty good idea what was wrong, and he didn't think he could bear to have it confirmed. It would only be natural for Hawke to have second thoughts -- regrets -- slowly simmering resentment for the apostate he'd been saddled with, the life he'd been forced to abandon. If Hawke couldn't stand to be in his presence any more, how could Anders blame him? Maybe if he just let Hawke have his space, unasked and unquestioned, then that would be enough -- enough not to drive him away for good.

Fenris, on the other hand, had no such hangups. On the third night traveling the road winding up into the foothills, the third time Hawke returned after disappearing in one night, Fenris threw up his hands, scattering cords of firewood in a clattering hail, and swore a long vicious streak in Tevene. "Fasta vass! What is the matter with you, Hawke?" he shouted.

Hawke froze, immediately looking guilty, one hand still pulling furtively on the clasps of his cloak. He had it bundled up around his neck and head, thick and heavy although it wasn't really all that cold out. "Um... nothing is the matter with me?" he tried unconvincingly.

Fenris stomped over to him, while Anders watched in paralyzed alarm from the other side of the campfire. "I have had it with all this sneaking around," he snarled. "The last thing we need while chasing about on this fools' errand is to be keeping secrets from each other! What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything!" Hawke protested feebly, and scrambled away from Fenris, trying to keep the campfire between them. The elf followed him, his expression and the ghostly white lines of his lyrium tattoos looming menacingly in the twilight, and Hawke kept scrambling.

His back bumped up against Anders, who was sitting very still and hunched on his side of the fire, hoping not to draw attention. With a yelp, Hawke tried to throw himself away from Anders, but not before the hood of his cloak let out a very tiny, and very distinctive *mew.*

"Garrett, your --" Anders broke off, staring in disbelief. "Your coat just meowed at me."

The hood mewed again, and this time was joined by a second, equally tiny voice. "Um." Sheepishly Hawke reached up and unclasped his cloak, pulling it around into his lap; the fabric wiggled and bulged, then fell back to reveal a pair of small, fuzzy white heads. "I, uh, saw them in a basket by the road on our way out of Ostwick. I couldn't help myself."

"Kittens?" Fenris' face was a study in incredulous disgust. "Half of the world is arrayed against us and you stop to pick up a few mangy feral kittens?"

Hawke opened his mouth to reply, and Fenris cut him off sharply. "No, forget I asked. That is *exactly* something that you would do."

"So you've been sneaking away to take care of them?" Anders asked, the pieces falling into place. The kittens' eyes were still infant-blue, squinting about the world with bleary focus, and their black-tipped ears were still low to the sides of their heads. "But why hide it?"

Hawke pulled a face. "Because they were *meant* to be a surprise," he muttered. "When we got to the Hawkeshold... wherever it will be... I was going to give them to you then. After you laid the new hearth, made it our new home."

"Oh," Anders said. He didn't know what else to say. This was so very the opposite of all his fears that he was left caught out, disoriented.

"You should have gotten one when we married the first time," Hawke admitted, as if confessing some grave sin. "They're meant to be given to new brides, to symbolize the start of a new home. But I never... So! I figured, I'd get you two, to make up for it. Right?"

"I guess I forgive you," Anders said weakly. He couldn't take his eyes off the kittens. So small, so helpless, so fuzzy and cute. His fingers twitched with the need to touch them. "So... if they're meant for me... can I...? Can I hold them?"

"Of course." Hawke's face lit up, and he scooted over until his thigh was pressing against Anders', shifting the cloak holding the kittens so that the cloth was draped over both their laps. The kittens squalled their displeasure at being jostled about, digging tiny needle-sharp claws through the fabric into Anders' leg.

Anders carefully detached one of the kittens from its perch and lifted it up in trembling hands. It was so warm. So fragile and so warm and so tiny, and Hawke had gotten it just for Anders. "Garrett..." he let out in a shaky breath. "I don't know how to thank you."

Hawke leaned against Anders' side, bumping their shoulders together. "Be happy," he said. "At least try. That's how you can thank me."

Watching from the other side of the fire, Fenris made a noise of such profound disgust that the kittens squeaked. "I take it from this that you no longer going to be such ridiculous idiots?" he demanded. "It was bad enough having two pine tragically for each other the first time around, I was not looking forward to a repeat."

"I think we'll be fine, Fenris," Hawke replied, his eyes not leaving Anders.

Fenris stood up, and pulled his sword-belt around with a deliberately overdramatic scrape. "Fine," he growled. "Then *I* am going to go stand watch, so I don't have to sit here and watch you be disgusting at each other."

He stormed off. Anders looked at Hawke. "Think he'd warm up if we named a kitten after him?" he asked.

Hawke laughed. "It's worth a shot, anyway," he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

Maybe it was the prospect of a name, or maybe it was just the added warmth and security of the second body; in his hands, the kitten Anders was holding began to purr.

~the end.

Whatever the secret was, they were clearly all in on it; Merrill was nearly bursting at the seams with excitement, wriggling in her seat and giggling every time she looked in Anders' direction. Isabela, more worryingly, was actually sober for a change -- she kept watching Anders with a weighing, serious look in her eyes that unnerved him. He'd made a weak joke about whether she was calculating up his bounty for turning him over to the Templars, which had gone over like a lead balloon.

And Varric kept trying to get him drunk. Varric ought to *know* better. There were still scraps of bronze dust littering the Chantry courtyard from the last time Justice had indulged on 'mortal poisons.' Varric kept insisting that tonight was a special occasion, yet refused to say what the occasion *was.* "Just a toast, Blondie," Varric had coaxed him. "One or two won't hurt. You've got to keep your tolerance up, you know!"

His friends had been acting strangely ever since his latest blackout. Anders didn't like calling it that, even to himself, but he didn't really have any other word for it. Most of the time, Justice could listen in, occasionally making his opinion on the matter known, lend strength and mana when needed. But when he took control of their shared body, Anders couldn't return the favor; he knew nothing until it was over.

Usually, his friends were happy to fill him in on whatever he'd missed (usually, nothing more interesting than a tedious amount of fighting.) Hawke was especially good about this, understanding on a level that none of the others could the challenges inherent in sharing your body with another, inhuman presence. His casual acceptance and unexpected advice -- Avvar spirituality, passed down to Hawke by his father -- had gone a long way towards easing the integration of Anders and Justice together, turning their shared life from a torment into something almost... comfortable.

But Hawke wasn't here, and nobody else seemed to want to tell him what had happened. Every time he asked, they looked shifty and changed the subject. Anders would have been certain they'd done something terrible, except for the way Merrill kept grinning like a sunrise every time the topic came up.

Then again, knowing Merrill, that didn't *necessarily* let out something shocking.

"Marriage customs in different societies are just so *fascinating,* aren't they?" Merrill blurted out, in an apparent non-sequitur. The next moment she jumped in her seat. "Ow!"

"Sorry about that, kitten," Isabela said insincerely, sliding a bit lower in her chair. "My foot slipped."

"Why do you say that?" Anders asked Merrill.

"What she means, Blondie," Varric insinuated himself into the conversation, "is that Daisy's been learning all about the ways the customs of the city elves are different from the Dalish, as part of her effort to adapt to life in Kirkwall, and different marriage customs are an important part of that. Isn't that right, Daisy?"

"Uh... right," Merrill said, sounding somewhat confused. "Yes, yes that's what I meant."

"Elven marriages are mostly arranged by the parents, aren't they?" Anders said. "I've read a little bit about that."

"I think that's common in most parts of the world," Isabela said, examining her fingernails. "As part of managing property and inheritance. Of course, just because the parents strike a bargain doesn't mean the participants necessarily have to uphold it."

"Dishonoring a sworn bargain?" Varric complained playfully, touching a hand to his chest and spreading open his palm. "You're killing me here, Rivaini. Right in the heart."

"Funny, that's what my first husband said," Isabela purred.

"How do they do it in the Circles?" Merrill asked curiously, and Anders felt his stomach plummet into his shoes. "I mean, I guess the parents aren't there -- do the First Enchanters arrange things? Do they perform the rituals? Ah -- Isabela, your foot is slipping again. Repeatedly. Ow!"

Varric cleared his throat loudly, but apparently even his diplomacy was at a loss to paper over this faux pas. Anders frowned down at the tabletop, tracing his finger over a knot in the wood grain. "Mages in the Circles don't marry," he muttered. "It's not permitted."

"What, ever?" Merrill's green eyes were wide. "That sounds so lonely!"

"Not ever." To hell with Justice; Anders knocked back his drink. "Even affairs are pretty sternly frowned on, although how strictly that's... enforced, I suppose depends on the whims of the Knight-Commander." He grimaced, as much at memory as at the bitter taste of the whiskey.

"But if there are no marriages, then how do you raise children?" Merrill demanded.

"We don't. Children aren't permitted, either. They're taken away from the mother the moment they're born." Anders' mouth twisted. "I always thought that it was part of a plan to keep us from caring too much about any other person. After all, if you've got nothing to care about, then you've got no reason to fight for a better life, now do you? No children, no future."

"You had to get him started," Isabela said to Merrill sotto voce.

Merrill frowned at Isabela. "But that's awful!" she said.

"Yes."

And that wasn't just his voice. The conversation hiccuped, momentarily, as the reverberations echoed around the room and then died. Anders pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, pushing back against the headache.

"But... you're out of the Circle now, aren't you?" Merrill said tentatively. "So you *could* get married now. If you wanted to."

Anders sighed, and decided not to sour the mood further by explaining to Merrill just all the non-Circle complicating factors that would, in all likelihood, make that impossible; not just as a mage but as a Grey Warden, an abomination... spirit friend, Hawke would have insisted firmly on the terminology, and as a revolutionary. "Yes, I suppose so. In theory."

That cheered Merrill right back up again. "Good!" she exclaimed. "Great. That's perfect."

Before Anders could ask her what it was perfect for, there was the sound of a commotion coming from downstairs, in the main room of the tavern. Time for the evening brawl, Anders figured. Isabela sat up alertly, every muscle tense; if she'd been a cat, her ears would have been pricked and her tail lashing.

The commotion came closer, spilling up onto the stairs, and Anders saw Varric gently urging Merrill to scoot her chair back closer to the wall. Isabela slid out of her seat, her daggers appearing like magic in her hands. "Time to get this party started," she murmured.

"Isabela, what's going on?" Anders demanded. "Are you in trouble? Is it Castillon again?"

"Aw, don't worry your pretty head about me, sweet thing," Isabela cooed as she flexed her hands around her daggers. "Mama Isabela's got this covered."

Anders couldn't help the thought that if so, it was pretty much the only thing she had covered, but decided it would be rude to say so aloud. Before he could question further, though, there was a tremendous crash on the landing outside of Varric's suite, and the door burst inwards.

Burst was the word for it; a powerful roundhouse kick send it crashing off the hinges, tearing long wooden splinters from the doorframe. The door bounced off the wall and skidded away, revealing Hawke in the empty frame. He was in full armor, war knives in hand -- no blood on them, thankfully, not yet -- with what Anders recognized as full Avvar war paint on his face, neck, and arms. He looked *magnificent* -- Anders felt his heart stutter a beat, then speed up as though he were already in combat.

"I am Garrett ar Leandra o Hawkeshold!" he announced in a ringing voice, as he strode into the room. "And I have come for my heart."

"It's not yours yet," Isabela said, smirking at him and bouncing on her toes. "Come and claim it if you can, Hawke -- *if* you think you're up for it."

Hawke gave her a pained look. "That's *not* what you say, Isabela," he reproached.

"It's what *I* say," Isabela replied dryly. "Now are we going to fight, or not?"

Apparently they were, because Hawke leaped forward with a piercing war cry, and the two rogues met in a clash of steel. They moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow, darting, leaping and spinning in a blur of dark and light. Curved steel flashed in the candlelight, but the weapons moved too quickly to see more than a blur; Anders could only track them by sound, the ring and ear-shuddering scrape of edge on edge.

Anders was on his feet, wavering on the edge of indecision; only his bewilderment held him back. His first impulse was to leap into the fray, casting haste and barrier and healing auras, but he wasn't honestly sure which of them he was supposed to be supporting.

The familiar sound of Hawke's battle-breathing, harsh growls and grunts, suddenly transmuted into a high-pitched yelp, and Hawke stumbled backwards, holding his jaw and spitting blood. "Oh, 'Bela, that was dirty!" he accused.

"Have you *met* me?" Isabela demanded.

She jumped back into the fray, pushing her momentary advantage, and Anders made up his mind: he couldn't just let the two of them kill each other. He raised one hand, channeling the Fade, until Varric reached up and caught his wrist. "Nuh-uh, Blondie," he said. "Let them fight it out. This is a matter of honor."

"Varric, what is going on here?" he asked pleadingly. "Whose honor?"

"Well... yours, technically," Varric admitted. "There was some talk about having Hawke fight Justice instead, but we all agreed that might be a bit much. So Isabela agreed to stand up for you instead." He grinned. "Honestly I think Isabela was just looking forward to a chance to kick Hawke's ass. Me, I would have offered, but I'd much rather watch."

"Oh, come on!" Varric shouted, as the angry whirlwind of steel and leather crashed into another table, knocking one of the table legs askew and crushing one of the chairs. "First my door, now my furniture? The bill is going to your house, Hawke!"

Anders watched Isabela and Hawke fight, his heart in his mouth. The two rogues might have been only playing, but Isabela played *rough.* At last, though, it was over - Hawke blurred in a feint and Isabela dodged the wrong direction. In an instant he was behind her, kicking her knees out and wrapping an arm around her throat. "Ha!" he crowed, pressing the tip of his blade just lightly to her cheek, below her eye. "I am victorious!"

Isabela rolled her eyes, being very careful not to move an inch. "Yes, yes, you're as astonishing as ever," she said airily. "Just don't tell anyone I went easy on you."

"And ruin my victory? Never." Hawke lifted his blade and stepped back, moving cautiously, as though uncertain as to whether she'd take the opportunity to turn the tables on him again. But Isabela only smiled at him and flapped her hand.

"Well, go on then," she said.

Hawke grinned -- a ferocious expression, between the Avvar war paint striping his face and the blood streaming down his chin from a lacerated lip and bloody nose. He turned and strode over to where Anders was watching from the sidelines, eyes wide and throat dry.

"So do you want me to ta --" Anders started to say, raising a hand to channel a healing spell, but he never got to finish the sentence; Hawke swept him into his arms, knocking him off-balance with one arm and catching him in the crook of the other, and kissed him.

"Whaaammmmph!" Anders protested, although it was thoroughly drowned out by the cheering (and hooting) of their friends. He flailed a bit for balance, managed to get a secure hold on Hawke's shoulders, and kissed him back. Blood or not, Hawke always tasted intoxicating.

They were both out of breath by the time Hawke broke it off, flushed and grinning. He looked like a boy under the mask of warpaint and blood. Anders himself felt like he was glowing bright crimson for all the world to see, and cleared his throat twice before he could manage to speak. "So, uh," he said. "You were looking to impress me, then? I'd say you succeeded, although it wasn't really necessary."

"Oh, it was," Hawke said seriously, and let go of Anders with one arm to rummage around in his satchel with the other. With a triumphant "hah!" he produced a long coil of smooth rope. In a flash, before Anders could get the breath to protest or at least ask what in the Void he was doing, he had it wrapped twice around Anders' wrists.

Anders squeaked, and his blush went up another notch. "Hawke, everybody is watching," he hissed, embarrassed. "Don't you think we should talk about -- aauugh!"

Hawke ducked down, put his shoulder against Anders stomach, and pulled; the breath *whooshed* from Anders' lungs as the world turned upside down. He found himself blinking, astonished, at the sight of the dusty floor beyond Hawke's legs, a few feet away; he was slung upside down over the rogue's shoulder, one arm cradling him and steadying him close. "Hawke, what are you doing!" he demanded, pounding on his hip with his doubled hands.

After a few moments, he stopped struggling and twisted around to look at his friends appealingly. "Isn't anyone going to help me here?" he pleaded.

Merrill was convulsed with giggling, and Varric was laughing almost as hard. "Sorry, Blondie," he said. "Your champion was Isabela, and she lost, so you're on your own."

"He's not," Hawke said, his arm tightening over Anders. "Never again."

That made Anders' breath catch, and his heart clench, so his wriggling stilled for just a moment -- at least until Hawke turned, took three long steps, and jumped out the window.

Anders *may* have screamed like a little girl on the way down, not that he was going to admit it later.

---

Hawke carried Anders all the way back to Hightown, and Anders wavered between being annoyed and impressed by Hawke's upper body strength. He was warm, warm enough for Anders to feel his heat scorching through his heavy coat, and smelled like blood and sweat and paint. He was also, despite the awkwardness of the position, in an excellent position to admire Hawke’s ass through his leather trousers.

Anders had given up on complaining or demanding, either to be put down or for Hawke to explain himself, since neither had borne fruit yet. ("Hawke, put me down! An Avvar barbarian carrying an apostate over his shoulder is going to make a scene! People are staring." "This is Kirkwall, they've seen worse.") He had determined early on that there was going to be no way to squirm out of Hawke's hold that didn't result in him landing on his face on the pavement, so he had resigned himself to going along with it.  

He spent most of the trip, belly-down over Hawke's shoulder, trying to figure out why Justice was not taking exception to this mishandling. Not that Anders minded a little mishandling -- at least by the right people -- but Justice usually had absolutely no sense of nuance to anything he perceived as a threat. If nothing else, the stomach-plummeting drop from the second story of the Hanged Man ought to have brought him out in a fury; instead, he was quiet and calm in the back of Anders' mind, even under Anders' wordless prodding for an explanation. Instead of worried or outraged, Justice seemed... pleased? Smug? Satisfied.

If only Anders shared his certainty.

Hawke and Justice must have planned this out beforehand -- Anders felt the usual pang of jealousy, that Hawke could talk to Justice so easily when *he* couldn't, not any more. This must account for the missing time, the hours that nobody wanted to tell him about -- they'd all been in on it, conspiring together. If only Anders had any idea what the conspiracy was *for.* Only the fact that Justice was willing to cooperate kept Anders from working himself into a panic -- Justice wouldn't let him be hurt, or humiliated, not even by his friends.

But that still meant that as soon as they got where they were going, Hawke was going to have some serious explaining to do.

'Where they were going' turned out to be the Amell estate, unsurprisingly -- the house was dark and quiet when Hawke let himself in the front door, no sign of Orana or the Feddic family. Hawke closed the door carefully behind them, then shifted his weight and leaned, setting Anders back down on his feet.

Anders opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but something in Hawke's expression stopped him; under the paint and the cocky grin, there was something... vulnerable, something hopeful and scared. "Come on," Hawke said softly, taking him by the cord still wrapped around his hands and tugging.

He led Anders up the stairs, into a room in the back -- next to Hawke's own bedroom, which Anders knew well, into another room he'd never seen. It was scraped bare and scrubbed clean, wide and empty except for the large fireplace in the back, a huge and heavy fur rug in front of it, and an array of materials piled on the rug. Stones, wood, coal, tinder, colored cord... Anders couldn't even identify them all at a glance, let alone guess what they were for.

"Ta-da!" Hawke presented it with a flourish, nervous and expectant. Anders took a step into the room, then slowly turned around, shaking his head.

"What is this, Hawke?" he asked.

Hawke looked away, studying the floor by his feet nervously as he explained, "It's for you. It's your hearth. This will be yours, this whole house will be yours once you claim ownership of it. If... if you want it."

"Is... is this an Avvar thing?" Anders asked hesitantly. It seemed a fair bet, between Hawke's clothing and decoration and the strange wildness of the whole experience, but Anders didn't know as much about the Avvar as he should -- back in the Circle he'd not cared, and once he came to Kirkwall and had learned reason to care, the books and scrolls of the Circle were worlds away. All he knew, he knew from things Hawke and Varric had explained -- but none of them had covered kidnappings.

"Yes." Hawke took a deep breath. "My father taught it to me. When a warrior of the Avvar finds a... a person they want to make a home with, they must first prove their strength to her -- to the other's clan. They have to sneak into the other's hold, fight their way past their clan-brothers, and steal them away. Then, they take their chosen br... partner to a new hold, which will be theirs together. If sh -- if they accept, then they build a hearth and light it, and it's done."

Anders wasn't very learned about the Avvar, but he wasn't stupid; he caught the barely edited words for 'she, her, bride' and the pieces began to slowly fall into place. The shape they made was wonderful -- and terrible. "What is this, Hawke?" he asked again, barely a whisper.

He saw Hawke's throat move as he swallowed, and his voice was unsteady. "This is -- the Avvar marriage ceremony," he said in a rush. "I love you, Anders, and I want it to be right. I want to do everything right with you. I want you to stay with me, and build a hold with me. I finally have a house of my own, a life of my own, but what is that worth without you to share it with me?"

For a moment, Anders' heart swelled, and he felt like he was floating, soaring. He opened his mouth and took a breath to say 'yes' but --

But then the moment passed, and reality came crashing back down, crushing him, crushing the fleeting moment of hope. He couldn't. He just couldn't. It was one thing to love Hawke, to follow him and flirt with him and share his body with him -- but that was all he could share. He wasn't fit to share a home, or a life. He was a dead man walking, had been ever since he'd taken the Joining; coming to Kirkwall had just sped up the clock. The Gallows loomed always in his mind, oppressive, unbearable. He had to break that vision, even if he knew well it might cost him his life to do so. He had a mission, and the mission owned all that he could be. For an hour, for a day, for a month he could put it aside and pretend it wasn't so; but for a lifetime?

He couldn't. And he couldn't promise what he couldn't give.

"I can't." The first two words were scratchy and rough, and his throat only filled in more the longer he tried to talk. "I'm so sorry, Hawke. Maker, you don't know how much I want it... how much I want you. You don't know how much it means to me that you -- that you chose *me.*"  To be chosen. To be wanted. To be worth it. That was all he had ever dreamed of, back then. And now it was being offered up to him on a silver platter, and he couldn't take it. Fate had a horrible sense of humor. "But I can't."

Hawke grabbed Anders' arms, pulling him around to look him in the face. The designs stood out in stark contrast to his skin, suddenly, pale and bloodless under the paint. "Why?" he begged. "Anders, please -- please tell me why. If it's about Justice -- you know I don't care, I understand, I've talked to him about --"

Anders shook his head. "It's not that," he said. "It's just that -- I can't promise you forever. You deserve that, but I can't. My -- line of work is dangerous, you know that. Even more dangerous than just being a mage in Kirkwall. Sooner or later I'll... I'll have to leave." He wanted to be true to Hawke, to be honest, but some truths were just too cruel. "And I can't ask you to come with me when that happens. I can't give you always, Hawke. I don't have it myself."

Hawke let his breath out slowly, in a sigh. He slid his hands down Anders' arms until he cupped the mage's still-bound hands between his own. "Anders," he said, and licked his lips. "Do you know what... what the knots in the rope mean?"

Bewildered, Anders shook his head.

"They're part of the ritual, too. When the hearth is lit, the bride and the groom are supposed to kneel on a rug before it -- then she sings a song, a hymn, while the groom tries to undo the knots. However many he manages to get through before the song ends, that's how many years the marriage lasts. At the end of it, the couple can choose to go their separate ways -- or they can choose each other, again and again.

"The Avvar don't deal in 'always,' Anders. Everything ends -- seasons, lives, marriages, and songs. What matters is how you live your life in the meantime. However many years you are here, I want to be with you. I don't care whether or not it's forever. If I walk out of this house tomorrow and keel over from a heart attack, it would still be worth it for tonight."

Anders couldn't find any words for that. Instead, he leaned into Hawke, a blurry outline now against the tears, and kissed him.

Hawke's arms went around him with a shaky gasp, hugging him tight. Anders tried to slide his arms around Hawke in turn, but with his wrists still tied in front of him, it was impossible; he raised his hands to Hawke's face instead and cupped his jaw, rubbing his thumbs against the bristle of his skin as he kissed him. This kiss was different from the one at the Hanged Man, where Hawke had been high on excitement, victory and anticipation. This was softer, sweeter, a brush and touch of tongue against teeth, an open-mouthed sharing of breath. This was something closer to holy.

At last Anders pulled back, and tried to wipe the tears off his face with his bound hands. Hawke helpfully leaned in and ran his thumb over Anders' cheekbones, dashing the moisture away. "So that's a yes, right?" Hawke said hopefully, broken.

Anders laughed through the last of his tears. "Yes, that's a yes. Maker, Hawke, how do you always know just what to say?"

Hawke's face broke out in a huge bright grin. "I can't help it if I'm brilliant as well as handsome," he said, the relief clear in his laughter.

"Yes, you're such a catch," Anders said dryly. "Now come on. This hearth I'm supposed to build -- how does one go about that, exactly? I don't think I've ever done anything quite like this before."

Hawke huffed out something that sounded like "I should *hope*  not" before he led the way over the the bare fireplace.

It didn't take long, and soon the hearth was built, a little house of stone for the fire to live in. Anders took a deep breath, and lit it with a spell from his hand before he thought to ask it maybe it was inappropriate. Well, if magefire was good enough to light the fires in Andraste's chapel, it should be good enough for this,  he consoled himself. Hawke didn't seem to mind. Hawke was grinning too hard to look like he would ever mind anything ever again.

"And now?" Anders said, his heart lumping in his throat. It wasn't as though he and Hawke had never had sex before, but this... this was different. More. Better. 

Hawke guided him to kneel on the rug, the crackling fire growing in light and heat beside them. "Now comes the fun part," he said wryly. "I get to undo the knots, and you sing. It can be any song you like... usually a hymn to the Lady of the Skies, but I don't imagine you know any of those. Also, not a lady."

"It can be any song?" Anders said with a frown.

"Short or long, it's your choice," he said, trying to sound casual about it. A flash of nervousness peaked through, however, as he tugged at the length of knotted cord. "Though I'm just saying, I'd appreciate long. These knots are going to be a bloody pain in the neck."

"Oh, are those Isabela's knots?" Anders peered forward, only noticing the ropework for the first time (in his defense, he'd had other things to worry about while being hauled upside-down through Hightown.) "She does know her way around a rope, for certain."

Hawke sputtered. "I'm not even going to ask where you've had a chance to see Isabela's knotwork up close before," he said, and Anders smirked. "She wouldn't let me tie my own. Said I'd put in a hundred slipknots and pull them all loose before you got through a single chorus, and that you deserved better."

Anders laughed. "Remind me to thank her," he said, and then stopped to reconsider the evening. Clan-brothers, Hawke had said; and apparently Isabela had volunteered to stand in. "For a lot of things, actually."

He settled down on the ludicrously plush fur, clearing his throat and trying to clear his mind. Honestly, Anders didn't *know*  very many songs. Musical theory was not really a focus of study at the Circle. He'd learned several very dirty pub songs in his time at Vigil's Keep, courtesy of Oghren, but that didn't seem right. Not for something as important to Hawke as this clearly was. Besides, they're all short.

"Would you mind if..." he said hesitantly. "Would it be okay if I sang something from the Chant? I mean, I know it's not exactly right for an Avvar ritual but..."

Hawke's eyes lit up. "Of course, if you want to," he said quickly. "I mean, you're not Avvar, so it should be something that means something to you."

"Okay." Anders closed his eyes for a moment, going over the verses in his head. O Maker, know my heart; take from me a life of sorrow; lift me from a world of pain...

He took a breath, raised his voice, and began to sing.

For years afterwards, Anders would always vividly remember that night: kneeling on the fur with Hawke in front of him, head bent, the tips of his fingers brushing through dark hair as Hawke worked studiously away at the cord.

"This is hardly the time, mortal," the glowing fade-spirit snarled, stretching out his arm and sending a gout of unearthly fire into a crowd of revenants. "We must dispatch the demons back to whence they came and seal the breach before more escape into this world!"

Hawke's my best friend, but I couldn't help but think that Glowy had a point. It was a nasty mess we were in, with wave after wave of ravenous zombies piling up out of a crack in the ground. Bianca was humming, Daisy was smashing everything in sight, Rivaini and Hawke were slicing and dicing like professionals, and we were still barely managing to hold our position. It had gotten bad enough that Blondie was down and out, and Glowy had tagged in his place, and to be honest we were pretty glad to have him.

"But I hardly ever get to see you, and this is -- " Hawke vanished from sight in a flurry of smoke, then reappeared a few yards away behind a slavering hulk of a corpse with his daggers buried between its shoulder blades. " -- really kind of important."

Another knot of demon-possessed corpses appeared in the breach, and Hawke pulled out one of his stun grenades from who-knows where and kicked it into the group. They stopped in place, stunned, and that was enough for Daisy and Rivaini to descend on them while Hawke took advantage of the momentary lull in fighting to turn to face Glowy head-on. "I don't know when I'll be able to speak to you face-to-face again, and I don't want to wait any longer," he said.

Glowy looked at him, his expression blank and stern as ever. "What is it that is of greater importance than eliminating evil, then?" he asked, voice deep and reverberating.

"I need to ask for your approval to court Anders," Hawke said.

"What?" Glowy said.

*"What?"* Rivaini repeated, incredulous.

"Oooh," Daisy sighed. "That is so sweet!"

"Why would you need to ask me such a thing?" Glowy asked incredulously. "Anders' choices are his own to make. I do not intend to interfere."

Hawke shrugged. "But it's not just about not interfering," he said. "Anders, well, he doesn't have any of his family left. And it's not like I can go marching up to the Circle in Ferelden to demand to talk to the First Enchanter for permission to kidnap him. The boat's kind of already sailed on that one. So as his spirit guardian, you're the closest thing he has left to clan."

"You're kidding me," Rivaini said.

Daisy let out another gusty sigh. "That is so *sweet!*"

Me, I was just entertained by watching Glowy's expression change through this whole conversation. Shocked, confused, disbelieving; I'd never seen him look so close to human. "Your words make no sense, mortal," Glowy said after a moment. "I am no kin to Anders. He is human; I am not."

"Who said anything about kin?" Hawke replied, pulling back his arm and letting fly with one of his knives, which sliced through the air and buried itself in the eye-socket of another revenant. "I said you were his *clan.*"

After that things got busy for a while, and there was less time for talking in between demolishing, destroying and decapitating one demon-possessed corpse after another. Not that that stopped Hawke -- it never did -- but I have to admit I only heard a few snatches of his monologue as he ducked and weaved and hamstrung his way between enemies. " -- long enough to be sure," he was saying, as he took the head off one corpse. "But with Anders, it feels right. I want to do things properly. I want to build a home with him, to have him lay a hearth --"

He got too far from me to hear, on the far side of the crowd, and the screeching and yowling of revenants overwhelmed his voice for a time. A few minutes later he reappeared, shanking a revenant in the back and saying " -- to panic him by waking him up in the middle of the night in his clinic, seems like it could end badly, you know?"

"I am unclear on why you are so set on 'stealing' him in the first place," Glowy replied. "To force him to comply with your wishes seems unjust. I do not approve."

Rivaini snorted. "Sounds like the story of how I got my first boat," she said.

"It's not really kidnapping, Glowy," I cut in, before things could go downhill. No matter how long he lived in Kirkwall, Hawke still sometimes didn't get why other people found his clan's customs weird. "It's an Avvar custom. It's how the men of their clans choose their brides. It doesn't go anywhere if she doesn't consent to it. There's no actual force involved, it's just a formality."

"I think it sounds romantic," Daisy put in helpfully. "You should say yes, Justice! I'm sure Hawke will make Anders very happy!"

"I still do not see why you require my assent for a matter which is between you and Anders," Glowy insisted. "I do not own him. I do not control him. It is Anders' consent that you must gain, not mine."

"But you're his spirit teacher," Hawke said plaintively. "You're his friend. Any hold I build with him, you would be the guardian of that clan. I can't do that without you."

Glowy fell silent at that, chewing on the matter. The battle was picking up again, in what I dearly hoped would be the last wave -- I was almost out of bolts, and Bianca's a beauty but she can't run on good wishes. The ground beneath us began to tremble -- not like an earthquake but in muffled, rhythmic impacts. Something big was coming. I loaded up the last of my incendiaries, Daisy swathed herself in stone and enthusiastic determination, and Rivaini and Hawke took a hurried moment to share out their last poison bottle for their daggers.

"Now is not the time for such matters," Glowy said at last. "I will consider... your proposal. We will speak of it later. All of your intentions will be to no avail if you are both eaten by demons before they can come to pass."

A few seconds afterwards a giant, demon-possessed ogre burst from the underground chasm, and the rest of the conversation consisted of yelled tactics, shouted warnings and panicked screaming. We... well, we killed in the end, of course, or I wouldn't be here telling you this story, would I? I'll spare you the gory details.

And that was pretty much that. The monsters were dead, the hole in the world was closed, and when Blondie came to he had absolutely no idea what had gone on without him.

Before he went under, Glowy promised that he would come and find Hawke that night -- or maybe the next night, I've noticed that Glowy isn't very good with precise notions of time -- to 'further discuss your proposal.' I've got the feeling that Hawke will be sitting up waiting for him if it takes a week.

I'm looking forward to it. As a dwarf, I don't have much use for all that magic-and-spirity stuff. But I do dearly enjoy a good love story.

~~~

"Anders! You're awake," a familiar voice said from nearby, and the world dipped and lurched as the other man sat up in the bed. There was a clink of glassware nearby, and then a cool glass was pressed against Anders' lips. "Here, drink this, you don't look at all well."

"I don't feel at all well," Anders mumbled, drinking the cool liquid gratefully. Water, spiked with elfroot and spindleweed, thank Andraste. The astringent taste cleared his head enough that he was able to take the empty glass, struggle upright and put it on the bedside table. "What happened? The last thing I remember was going to root out that cabal of blood mages on the Wounded Coast. I saw -- I thought I saw..." Coruscating lights, the sharp smell of ozone, and a sound that had no earthly equivalent -- but that every mage knew. "Did the Veil tear?"

"Yes, it very much did tear. We were up to our asses in demons," Hawke said, sounding relentlessly cheerful about it. "At least they had the courtesy to eat the maleficars first but I tell you, for a while there I was pretty scared. And, apparently, so were you, because we had an unexpected addition to the party."

"Oh, no." Anders' stomach did a slow roll of dread. "Did Justice...?"

"Made an appearance, yes, and cleaned up handily," Hawke grinned. "Don't worry, he was the perfect gentleman. Had no trouble discerning friend from foe, or even  Carver from foe."

"But then what happened after the fight?" Anders put a hand to his head. He'd been in trouble, but he didn't remember taking a hit to the head. "I don't remember..."

"Well," Hawke drawled out the word. "The fighting was finished and Justice was still there. Showed no signs of you reappearing. So Varric invited him down to the Hanged Man with us to celebrate."

Anders' eyes widened. "And here I thought Varric was the sensible one."

"You know Varric, can't resist the possibility of something interesting to put in his next book." Hawke shrugged. "Honestly I think he just wanted to ask him a few questions, you know, about the Fade and other spirit-y things. It was Isabela's idea to try Justice out on Corff's whiskey."

"She did what?" Anders did a double-take.

"I think she thought it would be funny," Hawke offered

Anders stared at his lover. "And you didn't stop her?!"

Hawke at least had the grace to look shamefaced, although he didn't quite make it all the way to sincere. "Well..."

"I see. You also thought it would be funny," Anders said dryly. "And?"

"Well, at first Justice refused. Said there was no point, that 'mortal poisons' didn't work on him."

"They don't." Anders shook his head. "Or, well, they didn't. Oghren managed to badger him into drinking with us a few times back at Vigil's Keep, but it didn't do anything for him." Which was to be expected, really, since Kristoff's body had been dead,  so there was nothing for the alcohol to work on.

Anders'  body, on the other hand...

"Isabela kept after him to try, and eventually he gave in," Hawke continued. "So he went for a few rounds of whiskey with us..."

"Oh, Maker..." Anders moaned.

"And nothing really happened," Hawke said, putting his hands up peaceably. "Isabela tried to get dirty details about our sex life out of him, but he wasn't interested in talking about it. Mostly he just sat and drank and talked forcefully about injustice, the evils of Templars and slavers and darkspawn and so on."

"...So no real change, then." 

"Isabela was pretty disappointed," Hawke said. "By the time she gave up and went up to her room, Justice had drunk an awful lot. We didn't realize until he stood up and tried to walk in a straight line that it *had* affected him after all."

"Oh Maker!" Anders winced.

"It was pretty funny!" Hawke grinned, showing as always his incredibly inappropriate sense of humor. "Except the problem with getting a Fade warrior spirit too drunk to walk in a straight line, as it turns out, is that when said spirit meets walls, the wall loses."

"Oh, Maker." Anders buried his head in his hands.

"So we *may* owe the Hanged Man a new door," Hawke concluded.

Anders spoke around his hands, voice muffled. "Please tell me that was all and that you brought him back here to sleep it off."

"Well... I tried," Hawke defended himself. "Have you ever tried to tell a drunken Fade spirit where to go? I'm pretty proud of myself for getting him pointed up in the direction of Hightown at all. He kept stopping to give lectures about injustice to trees."

"In broad daylight?!" Anders demanded. "Didn't anybody see him?"

"Oh yes, people saw him," Hawke said. "In fact, one of the Wild Roses tried to proposition him."

"She must have been desperate," Anders said glumly. The Wild Roses -- street-walkers, homeless counterparts to the women at the Blooming Rose -- never propositioned him. 

Hawke leered. "Oh, she was desperate all right."

Anders decided not to think too hard about that. "But I mean... the guards? Didn't anybody wonder why he -- why I was glowing?"

"Don't worry about it," Hawke reassured him. "I told them we'd just been clearing bioluminescent jellyfish out of the tunnels under the docks and hadn't had a chance to wash up yet."

"And they believed you?"

Hawke chuckled. "This is Kirkwall, love."

Garrett, Anders thought, had a point. The city was such a hotspot for weird happenings of all kind, both natural and (more often) unnatural, that there was very little its citizens weren't prepared (or resigned) to accept. "So you got him home without any other trouble, right?"

"Well... mostly." Hawke was hedging. "Remember that big bronze statue of Knight-Commander Meredith that used to be up in the Hightown market square?"

Anders scowled. "Of course I know that ugly --" He broke off. "Wait a minute, what do you mean 'used to be' ?"

"Well, Justice got into a bit of an argument with it."

"Oh, Maker." Anders muttered.

"It was... something," Hawke agreed. "I couldn't stop him."

"Did you actually try?"

"Well -- no."

Anders sighed. Hawke continued. "Anyway, after headbutting ten tons of bronze into submission --"

"Somehow this is the only part of this story that is not surprising at all." Anders interrupted, raising a hand to feel across his wincing forehead.

"-- he ended up being -- how else? -- violently  ill over the, ah, remains." Hawke smirked, apparently finding the desecration of the city's premier military authority far more amusing than Anders did.

"Oh, Maker." This time it was a prayer.

Hawke tsked in disapproval. "I swear, Anders, he didn't even have *that* much whiskey. You're kind of a lightweight, did you know?"

"I haven't touched a drop of alcohol for three years," Anders snapped back waspishly. "Thank you for the vivid demonstration of why that is."

Hawke shrugged apology, or at least agreement. "So anyway I had to help him the rest of the way back to the house. By this point he was getting pretty weepy --"

"Justice? Weepy?  Are we talking about the same spirit?"

"Oh yeah, he was going on and on about the unappreciated beauty of the material world," Hawke said. "A few times I think he was trying to recite poetry, except none of the rhymes actually rhymed. It was kind of sweet, really. But!" he added hastily. "I got him home and put him to bed without any trouble after that!"

"...I see." Anders thought back to his first confused moments on waking. Hawke had already been there; not only that, but Hawke's tunic had been tangled in Anders' hands, in a grip that had not looked easy to escape from. Either Anders had woken up when Hawke came to bed later  and didn't remember it, or... "And yourself to bed with him?"

"Well, he wouldn't let me leave." Hawke glanced away, looking slightly embarrassed. "It was like sharing a bed with an octopus. Of steel."

Anders sighed, settling back against the pillows. The elfroot draught was taking effect, and the throbbing pain of his headache was easing off. "Well, all in all I guess it could have been worse," he said. At least no one had gotten hurt -- at least, not counting the Hanged Man's walls -- although they would probably have to come up with some way to apologize to Meredith for assaulting her statue.

For some of them, that's been years of just-one-more-jobs. Take Aveline, who's been here for the start: they signed on the ship together, pooling the last of their money and the meager scraps of their good credit in order to secure the then-junker that was the least-bad option out of the salvage yard. They hadn't had much choice; fleeing together from the wreckage of Felderan, with the Reaver horde eating up the cities behind them: Ostagar, Lothering, Denerim...

The ship would be the first image to pop up when researching the description of "totaled," but it still flew. It flew them out of there, leaving behind mangled cities and blood-soaked ground and too much grief between them. So many who hadn't made it out, except in memories; Hawke's parents, his siblings, Aveline's husband, her children. With the walls of the ship creaking around them every time they changed accelerations, they jokingly christened it The Hanged Man: dead already, but still twitching.

Aveline has a new beau now, that they like to take turns teasing her about him: Donnic, the space traffic controller at Kirkwall Station. She keeps talking about retiring there, picking up the settled domestic life again, yet somehow she never does. After all, if she left, then who would be there to guard Hawke's back the next time he's on the run from the customs police from another deal gone bad?

--

It's thanks to Merril, mostly, that the ship ever really became spaceworthy at all. Merril too talks about getting off at the next station, but Hawke's not worried; she loves ships, she loves this ship, too much to leave, no matter how wistfully she talks about the feel of bare earth on her toes. Dalish women aren't supposed to be engineers, she admitted to Hawke once in a very small voice; she was laughed out of one mechanics shop after another until she finally found Hawke, whose engine had been smoking green  for the last five days and who would take anyone who knew one end of a polarity from the other.

She's yet to find another berth, or a school that will take her, one that can overlook her gender and her coloring and her criminal record to see the genius who can make something  out of a pile of rusted scraps and electronic refuse. In the meantime she grows little potted flowers in her room that drop leaves and petals all over the friction matting, watches each new blue and green planet they approach with hungry eyes, and stays.

--

Fenris swears every time they dock that he's not spending another fucking day in this rust-bucket. It's not that he has somewhere he wants to return to -- Fenris just hates space. He really, really hates space. He's the only elf Hawke has ever met who actually gets motionsick in a steadily accelerating spacecraft. He hates the ship, ugly and baremetal and constantly near to breaking down; he hates the cramped, windowless quarters in which he makes his nest; he hates the taste of the recycled water ("you guys know you're drinking your own piss, right?") and he hates the tasteless, processed food. Most of all, Fenris insists quite vocally, he hates all of the rest of them more than anything.

Yet every port they come to, the moment any local bruiser tries to pick on Merril or talk shit to Hawke, Fenris is there to bend the offending hand back at the wrist until bones snap and the police are called, and the debacle ends with yet another port at which Fenris has been blacklisted.

He'll grumpily say, afterwards, that he hates the ship and everyone on it, but so far the rest of the ports are just too stupid to bear.

--

The only one who's managed to get blacklisted from more ports than Fenris is Isabela, and that's only because she had a head start. Unlike Fenris, she doesn't hate space -- she lives for space. She had a ship of her own, once, and she never passes up an opportunity to remind you that she'll have one again. With every new job she talks about how this will be the one, that the cut of her profits from this haul will finally be enough to make a down payment on a ship of her own and then sayonara, suckers.

Yet as every station shrinks in the rearview portscreen she's still on board somehow, and claims she lost her share at cards, or buying new toys, or drinking all night, and if you try to question her too closely she'll claim a hangover and threaten to throw up on your shoes. (She'll do it, too. Fenris found out.)

Hawke is glad to have her, because where else can he find a pilot who can safely navigate them through an asteroid field? ("Hawke, the asteroids in the densest part of the belt are still two thousand kilometers apart." "EVEN SO!")

--

Truth be told, they'd probably be blacklisted from every port if not for Varric's presence on the ship. Of the lot of them, he's the only one with any kind of a modicum of respectability -- the author of a bestselling series of exotic erotica, including 'Hard in High Lab' and 'The Sirens of Zeta Centauri' -- and thus the only one actually welcomed in regular society.

For the last two years he's been on a book tour promoting his latest novel, 'The Conquistadors of Uranus' ("But there's nobody living on Uranus... it's a gas giant!" "We know, Merrill." "Oh... I missed something dirty again, didn't I?") but everyone knows that he could be traveling in style on the finest cruise ship the solar system has to offer, if he chose. He claims that the trouble this lot get into give him more inspiration than endless bland hotels ever could, and he plans to go back home and write it all up in a new book someday soon.

So far, someday has never arrived.

--

And then there's Anders.

Anders constantly talks about leaving, too (never shuts up about it, to be honest) but not because there's somewhere else he'd rather be -- quite the opposite. He knows -- they all know -- that it's Anders' presence on the Hanged Man that draws a giant crosshairs on their hull with every Chantry planet they visit, one of the most-wanted men in the inner solar system. He talks about leaving because his very presence on the ship puts them all at risk, and he can’t stand it.

Anders grew up in the inner Hub on Calenhad -- screened early on for his talents, he was taken into the Circle Academy and trained there. Sheltered, protected, guarded (but never free,) Anders grew to be the most brilliant healer Calenhad had ever seen, and they made good use of his talents in developing medical technology the likes of which the outer worlds could never dream of.

But that all ended when Anders was assigned to an experimental project -- so secret and classified that when he entered it, his entire record was wiped out of existence. In that experiment, he met something else -- something the Chantry had discovered, captured, and brought back to study and exploit. A revolutionary new AI, or a spark of alien intelligence transcending the very bonds of matter -- nobody is quite sure, because the entire lab and all its records were obliterated in a flash of soundless plasma on the day Anders made his escape.

He brought something with him -- someone, to be more accurate, because even if the rest of the crew aren't sure what 'Justice' is, none of them can deny that he is real, he is alive, and he -- just like the rest of them -- deserves to be free. And if the closest he can come to freedom is living double in Anders' head while he flees across the galaxy from their pursuers, well, nobody ever said the world was perfect.

Every time a Chantry ship crosses their viewscreen, Anders gets nervous and quiet and huddles into himself, and then begins talking (again) about how he'll leave at the next port. And every time, Hawke manages to convince him that they need him too much for him to leave -- their only doctor, in a lifestyle that's far too dangerous to go without one, and what would they do the next time the coolant line breaks and covers the living quarters with freon burns?

And Merrill protests that her engineering work could never be that shoddy, and Fenris  shudders and glares at the thought, and Isabela laughs and brags that her ship never had this problem. And they pull Anders back for another round of Asteroids, another mug of synthetic alcohol, another night crowded into the single bed in the Captain's cabin, and Anders stays another day.

--

They'll leave someday, Hawke knows. Nothing is forever, not in the world they live in. Everything is in a constant state of change -- every second, another isotope ticks away, spending its energy in a hopeless heat exchange while it slowly decays into dull inertness. Flowers grow, bloom, wither; even stars burn out eventually.

But not today.