drabble under the cut 😌
Anders watched Hawke pace the Skyhold courtyard restlessly, alternating between tugging at his hair and beard and scratching at his arms.
He looked terrible. Greasy hair, untrimmed beard, sunken eyes, the works. Though Anders couldn’t see much more of him with how many layers Hawke was clothed in. Almost every inch of Hawke was covered in some sort of fabric or leather, from his boots to his high collared doublet. The only parts of him Anders could see were his face, neck, and hands and Anders got the distinct impression he’d have covered those too if he could.
Unkindly, the thought crossed Anders’ mind that whatever was left of Hawke under there mustn’t be very pretty.
Still, Anders might have dismissed it for anxiety, had it not been for the muttering.
Hawke tread the courtyard spastically, cutting across the dirt path with jerky motions, kicking rocks and talking to himself. From what Anders could tell, he would alternate between talking aloud and signing. The signing, Anders could almost make out. It had been a while since he’d used it and though he was a little rusty, he could still pick out a few gibberish words. It was possible Anders was missing important context clues between the muttering and the signs he couldn’t catch, but what he could make out, coupled with his overall behavior, made it seem like it was nothing but nonsense.
Around him, the rest of his mercenary group lounged in the grass, completely unconcerned. They were laughing and talking animatedly about something Anders couldn’t make out, and didn’t seem to even register Hawke or his episode.
Anders furrowed his brow, trying to read Hawke’s lips on his twentieth pass back toward the keep.
“What’s he saying?” Anders finally asked, tearing his gaze away from Hawke with some effort and turning his attention to the mercenary group’s commander. A hulking Qunari with horns as wide as his shoulders were broad.
The Qunari, Metal Bill or something, shrugged in answer, eyes — eye— fixed on a point somewhere over Anders’ shoulder right, presumably where Amell or Nate or Oghren were no doubt watching him back.
Despite the obvious tension in the room, the large commander appeared relaxed. He leaned heavily on a support beam Anders wasn’t sure was going to hold out much longer, thumbs hooked over the lip of his belt and legs crossed at the ankle. For all intents and purposes, his posture was nonchalant — friendly, even — but something in his expression was off enough that Anders didn’t feel comfortable letting his guard down.
Anders cleared his throat to get the Qunari’s— Maker, what was his damn name? — attention.
“Well?” Bill asked, “We heard you guys knew how to fix this.” — He said as he gestured vaguely through the large window — “We’ll contract our services out for a cure.”
“A cure?” Anders asked, bewildered. “Who told you we had a cure?”
“It’s the talk of the countryside. Some miracle in Kirkwall, blessings in the Hinterlands, a smattering of marvels at the coast.”
“Miracle in—” Anders snorted. “I don’t think they’d call it that.”
“Don’t care what they call it if it works.”
“It’s not that simple,” Anders said, shooting another nervous glance out the window to Hawke. He was still in the courtyard. Still pacing. Still far away from Anders.
“Some of my men are infected,” the commander pressed. And that, at least, wasn’t a surprise. When Anders had last seen Hawke, he had been more lyrium crystal than man. And now he wasn’t. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
Just being in the proximity of red lyrium was enough to corrupt a person. These men had not only carved Hawke out of his initial rock prison, but been sleeping next to an activated plague for who knows how long. It was a wonder all of them weren’t infected.
“We got one who’s out of it, but the others aren’t far along,” the Quanri continued. “No one is glowing or growing yet.”
“... That makes it a little more simple,” Anders relented. It was true, if the corruption hadn’t begun manifesting physically yet, Anders might still be able to cleanse it. There was always a chance it would come back anyway, but it was a smaller one with new cases.
“What if we ain’t want your blighted men?” Oghren said somewhere behind Anders.
“Then we’ll pay,” The Qunari said.
“We would never charge—” Josephine started from somewhere else in the room.
“Nugshit we ain’t chargin’! They’re gonna bring that motherhumper round here and we ain’t get to put a few spears in ‘em, then we better get somethin’ else for it!”
“Oghren,” Nate chided at the same time Amell said “He’s right.”
That surprised Anders enough to drag his attention from the courtyard and into the room. It was one of the few that had been cleared out so far. Ancient, rotting banners still clung to the walls and much of the debris had just been pushed to the corners or tossed into the hall, but it was the closest thing they had to an assembly room so far.
Amell stood with Oghren and Nate at the doorway to the Great Hall, Josephine had taken a position at a desk near the front of the room, Cullen was leaning against the remains of a fireplace and Bethany stood with him, her arms crossed uncertainly over her stomach and her eyes on the floor. Leliana stood primly in the corner opposite Anders. The tension in the room felt like a physical weight on Anders’ chest, but he tried to ignore it.
“What?” Anders ask, looking to Amell. “What do you mean?”
“He’s right,” Amell repeated in the same inscrutable tone. “Hawke shouldn’t be here.”
“Shouldn’t be above ground, if ya ask me,” Oghren huffed.
No one disagreed. It had been years since anyone had seen Hawke, but not long enough for anyone to forget about him. Kirkwall was still in shambles and the relief efforts weren’t making enough progress to see the city returned to itself for years still to come. Some of that was Anders’ fault. Most of it was Hawke’s.
Now to find out Hawke had been slumming it with some second-rate swords for hire? Poisoning them too? It was almost laughable.
“Floor?” The Qunari asked when no one responded.
“Floor?” Anders said, melancholy giving way to confused. “What about it?”
“Florian,” the commander said. “Twitchy guy you have your archers trained on? Hard to catch, easy to knock down? Floor. Think he said his surname was Hawke once.”
“Florian…” Anders repeated slowly, rolling the name across his tongue like he was tasting it for the first time. “It’s Hawke. Garrett Florian Hawke.”
The Qunari shrugged. Like he didn’t know. Like he didn’t care to know. Like the name didn’t mean anything to him. Anders felt a swell of anger blossom in his chest.
“The Champion of Kirkwall?” Anders said a little too fiercely. “Mad Viscount of the Blighted City? Host of the Red Nightmare? The bloody Dark Sun Saint? That Hawke?” Anders yelled, feeling his veins split and blood run hot.
“The one who tore an entire port city apart? Put it on lockdown for a year? Poisoned his own people’s water supply? Strung men up in the streets like cured meat? The one who burned an alienage to the ground? Who hunted apostates like game? Who turned his people to cannibalism before he would surrender to a siege? Who fled the city to escape justice when it was finally overcome? That Garret Florian Hawke?”
Justice’s voice echoed through Anders’ vocal cords with their shared rage, their skin tearing with veilfire and ripples of chaotic magic pulsing threateningly throughout the room, but the Qunari didn’t so much as blink.
“Could be. Didn’t ask.”
