That was the best word for it. White noise in his ears, the kind that drowned out the worst thoughts if he was lucky enough. It hadn’t been immediate, but damned close. He’d seen Hawke off, despite protests and pleas, despite spending the best part of those last days begging him to stay. Begging that, at the very least, he could come along.
‘Nobody would recognize me.’
Other than, he was reminded more than once, by association. Hawke was nothing if not stubborn; Even with Anders’ constant warnings, his nagging and oft-voiced concerns, this was the first they’d been separated in recent memory. He had, in no uncertain terms, put Hawke in grave danger with this association. Were he a less selfish man, the departure would have come as a relief. He only played at being such a soul however, and his reality, his entire being, depended fully on Hawke by now.
How many days now? He’d taken stone to the wall to count them, the same he’d done that year in solitary. The comparison made him ill. It was the same, really. Maybe not so long, but the days stretched in a new way. However unsafe, uncertain things were for them here, Hawke was walking into the fire. There was promise he would return, but it wasn’t necessarily one he could keep. Anders knew those kinds of promises. He’d made those kinds of promises.
…and yet…
If it weren’t for that promise, Anders was sure he would have simply let himself waste away. Well, the promise and the dog. He’d never been fond of the beast, but he couldn’t say he hadn’t served as one hell of a companion when he had no other. Especially against those templars. There was a surge at his shoulder, a flash of what had happened. He might have considered it more, but suddenly…
a voice. His voice. The dog bolted from where he’d been laying, head in Anders’ lap, offering an occasional huff or whine. His own first instinct was to freeze. His heart lept. He wanted to do the same. Instead, he forced himself to his feet, slow and unsteady. When had he eaten last? He felt dizzy to stand.
"Hawke?" his voice shook more than he’d expected. He hesitated just a moment, brushed a hand through unkempt beard, then back through hair, caked with dirt, probably still stained with blood. He took care to which shadows he clung to, which wall he followed, stumbling in the direction of their little hideout’s entrance. He had to squint against the light, adjust his sight a moment before there was anything more than sillhouette against it. And then, there, in all his glory… he’d actually returned.
"You’re…home…" he repeated, words feeling foreign in his throat. Despite the urge to run, all he seemed able to do was stand. Stare. Pretend there weren’t tears stinging dirty cheeks.
It’s a heartbeat and an eternity in which he forgets to breathe because this is it, this is what coming home is now. A constant dread of the worst since it’s easier to expect that than to let hope be taken away from him. So many years later and he finally has an appreciation of those words Anders had uttered that night by the fire in the privacy of his bedroom. Something always has to happen, that’s the song and dance of his life now.
And it all has to do with that blasted fear demon’s words.
He can’t remove the image of a twisted and mutilated body in his mind, run through by Templars or worse. No amount of rationalizing can banish the whispers that coil within the darkest corners of his mind. Of course that demon knew where to hurt him the most, pouring lies at his feet to feed its nightmare. He’d feel shame for the wild surge of panic when nothing answered him, but at this point he just doesn’t care.
The answer comes, a croak that hardly sounds like the same man he’d left behind, but it’s Anders all the same and suddenly he’s running forward. His feet ache, his legs feel like they’re made of lead, but it’s like he’s twenty-five again with all the energy that came with youth. He’s upon Anders in seconds, staff tossed carelessly aside in favour of dragging the man into his arms, face buried into the crook his neck. He doesn't care of the stench or the tangle of beard or hair or the filth that cakes the man he's holding. This is home and he’s never going to leave again.
He very nearly squeezes the life out of him, but even as he’s holding him, there’s no ignoring that Anders has lost weight again or the dirty clothes or the condition that he’s in. This is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to leave in the first place. There’s no need to question what Anders had done in his absence when he knows him and this is why he’s taken to squatting in a cave rather than being out there trying to play hero.
He closes his eyes, pulls away enough to touch his forehead to Anders’ and takes that moment to steel himself. One sacrifice made for another, but this was fixable or at least what’s on the surface is easy to manage. What’s broken inside… he knows better than to try.
“You really need a bath, love,” he forces the smile and brings his hands up to cradle Anders' face, thumbs brushing smudges of dirt from his cheeks. "And I need food. When was the last time that you ate?"
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