chxmpionofkirkwall-blog

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

“You know, I’m kind of wishing I were the sort to name my weapons. This would’ve been a far more touching reunion if I could say, oh, sweetheart, it’s been so long--but Staff of Parlathan is a mouthful, and I wouldn’t even know what to call it instead. Maybe Jerry?”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

It's—

Her, he thinks, and he feels his heart lift and drop all at once, like he's inhaled all this air but it still isn't enough to fill the space in his lungs. Her. Little sister, sweet Beth, not my baby girl, not like this, Garrett, why didn't you—?

(I'm sorry, I'm sorry; even though I held her hand on so many nights, even though I always promised to keep her safe, even though I swore, over and over again, no templars will get you while I'm here, you trust your big brother, don't you...?)

She did, and he failed her.

She did, and he still watched her die.

She did, and she's... standing in front of him, a little taller, a little sharper, so, so beautiful in all the ways she could've—should've—been, and it's... impossible. It doesn't matter if Hive City is a place of impossibilities, if more natural laws than he can count are being broken on a daily basis. It doesn't matter if this whole place is an experiment, if these scientists managed to break through some thin fabric of time and space, if this whole reality is a twisted little fragment of what should be but isn't.

Bethany Hawke is dead. He watched her die, and saw his mother hold the bloody, broken remains in her arms. He dreamt of that day for years afterwards, always waking up to the sound of her final scream. He's agonized over it, mourned, spent so many nights regretting and apologizing that surely, surely, the Maker would've laughed.

Bethany Hawke is dead.

Bethany Hawke is dead.

Bethany Hawke is dead.

And yet—

"...Bethany..."

Hate isn’t a word Bethany often uses; hate’s a stronger emotion than she’s felt in a decade after years of conditioning to be neutral even when her heart rams against the walls of her chest screaming at her to do something. She’s learned to become the ideal soldier, to separate Warden Bethany from Bethany Hawke.

She really hates this shithole of an “experiment”.

What a bunch of twisted bullshit, she thinks, hoping her thoughts at least are safe from listeners. If not - well, the scientists can deal with their hurt feelings. If they have any.

It’s while Bethany’s contemplating the depths of her hatred for the ones who dragged her from her home - and it’s an impressive level of hate, rivaled only by the taste of squirrel chased down by conscription ale - that she runs into someone on the sidewalk.

“Maker - oh, I’m sorry for-,” she starts before her jaw freezes and refuses to work.

Can it -?

Is it - ?

“….Garret?” Bethany manages to get out in a strained whisper, working against the sudden tightness in her throat.

@chxmpionofkirkwall

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

“Hah! No offense to Ferelden, but all the crap over there’s definitely one of the many things I don’t miss. The food would be the second thing, though I’ll admit that I do have my occasional off days when I really crave that chunky meat and potato stew. Don’t know how they did it, but my mother and sister really knew how to fix that thing up to make it halfway decent. Hawke family recipe or something, I guess.”

Not that he’d know, really. Hawke has always done what he can as the eldest son, but the kitchen has never quite been his domain.

“But it’s good to hear--about Vincent, I mean. It’s one thing to be forgotten by people, but Mabari? Perish the thought! I’d die from heartbreak right here and now if you told me otherwise.” He pauses, then, and with an almost sheepish smile, amends, “Err, though I guess it wouldn’t matter much here. Keel over and die, and you’ll just be brought back within a few days. Those are still the rules, right?”

Their conversations always seem to be serious. Hawke is normally a comedic man yet something slips when they are around each other. Not that it’s completely devoid of humour, but those jokes feel more like just filling in the gaps.

Daylen’s thoughts once again go to Anders and if he should mention the man. At least now would get it out of the way, but he can’t predict his cousins’ reaction. They were in Kirkwall during the Chantry explosion after all. Bringing back some bad memories doesn’t see pleasant right now.

“Perhaps in the future that could change. I wouldn’t mind living in peace and quiet. But we take what we can get. At least here there’s less dog shit on the streets.”

Looking after Mabari was always worthwhile. Cleaning up after them however? Sometimes a man just had to question what he was doing.

“Vincent does remember you. That or he just has a good idea for facial markings. Sorry but I can’t give him to you all the time. Rather it be my having to put up with his ideas of a good walk than anyone else.

Just please don’t feed him too many treats this time. He’s greedy enough without expecting any more favors. Like before, you are welcome to visit the mansion if you need it.”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

“Woah there--!”

It’s with an easy laugh that he returns her embrace, habitual in how one hand moves automatically to stroke her hair. (It’s been so many years, but he still remembers. Before he was Champion, he was little more than a brother and a son.)

“I missed you too, Merrill. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here, of all places, but considering how long it’s been, I’m not going to be too picky for when and where we have our nice little reunion. You’ve been taking care of yourself, right?”

According to Varric, she has--but it’s always best to hear directly from the source, and Merrill is potted plants and sweet smiles and peek of sunlight after a rainy day. It might not be good to have her here, but it’s good to have her back.

“...Well, maybe that’s a stupid question, considering I found you on the ground over here. No one hurt you, did they? Or sweet-talked their way into your wallet?”

As soon as his voice reached her ears, the rambling stopped.

It was shock, mostly- was this some sort of dream, or hallucination? She knew this city was meant to test reactions to various situations… Was this some cruel experiment, praying on what she missed? But soon enough he was by her side, hand on her head, and those worries melted away. If this Hawke was a fake, he was a damn good one.

She pushed herself off the ground carefully, then turned and embraced the other in a tight bear hug.

Creators, how she’d missed him! It had been far too long since they’d seen each other, and she’d missed that silly mage to bits. He had always been there for her, always trusted her, always helped…

Oh, no. Now she was crying.

“Oh, I’m fine! I’m fine, really.” she hiccuped into his shoulder. “Creators, Hawke, I missed you!”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

(whispers hawke doing the nose smear thing to yuan)

i’m yellin a little bc that’s really cute,, a sign that yuan is accepted as a part of his world (or what’s left of it), a sign that says you’re here for me as much as it does i’m here for you, anD NOW IM JUST

hawke laughs, but it’s a softer sound, quieter; it’s a laugh that’s between only them, and it speaks more of joy than it does ridicule. “it looks good on you,” he says. for such simple words, they carry the weight of doubts and regrets left smoldering in the ashes of a home forcibly abandoned.

“you’ve proven your questionable taste enough times for me to doubt that,” is yuan’s reply, but he doesn’t reach to wipe it away. it feels like a rite of passage, somehow, to a part of hawke left in the ruins of a church. the walls are cracked and they crumble, but they do not fall–and it speaks for a resilience that is both impressive and sad.

(but that’s the thing with hawke, really; that’s the one thing he does best. he survives, and all is never truly lost.)

“well,” hawke grins, “it brings out the blue of your hair, at least. i mean–more than usual. it’s a good thing, i promise.”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

It's... hard. This is hard. This, all of this, all the things both here and not. It's hard.

But you have to do something about it, he tells himself, because that’s what he’s always told himself, that’s what he’s always sworn. You have to do something about it, because if you don’t, no one will. (Because if you don’t, then you’ll see the strained, exhausted weight on mother’s smile, the tremble on Carver’s lips; the fresh tears in Bethany’s eyes, the unspeakable terror in Orana’s face, and an entire city burning and burning, save us, save us, you’re the Champion, aren’t you?)

(I am, I am. It is what you made me.)

(No, that is what you’ve made yourself. This is the cost of having a home: thousands of searching eyes that find you in a crowded room, thousands of mouths that speak your name. You are the sun, and they need you. Do not fear what lies beyond the abyss.)

“Anders,” Hawke begins, but the name is too heavy on his tongue. Speaking doesn’t feel right, and each syllable feels awkward, sharp--like he’s playing with glass shards in his mouth, feeling them prick and burn in each dry crevice. It would be easier to have someone with him, to have Varric’s steady hand against his back, Merrill’s mercy, Isabela’s understanding, even Fenris’ rage. Anything to steady him, to remind him of what he’s lost and what Anders was regardless of it all.

“...Stop that.” Please. “Just--stop that!”

He doesn’t mean to yell, but he isn’t perfect. He is tired and he is desperate and he is angry, so angry, at the war and Corypheus and the fool who thought he could so easily kill a god.

Did you think you ever mattered, Hawke, the Nightmare had asked, and with every wave of his staff, Hawke had thought--yes. Yes, because I had to. Yes, because it would mean all of this was for nothing. (Yes, because I know it meant nothing, that I saved a city only to let it burn.

Some nights, I feel like that demon was right.)

“Do you honestly think that after all this--” and here, he sweeps his hand out in a wide arc, gesturing to the city around them. It is Hive City, but in his mind, he sees Kirkwall--dirty in some places, clean in others, familiar and memorable and burning, burning, burning, “--I’d just be able to kill you? Cut off your head, maybe blast you a couple times with some spells, end your life for a few nights and just be done with it? You--!”

Idiot. You selfish, careless, thoughtless, thrice-damned idiot.

With gritted teeth, Hawke balls his hands into fists, tight enough for blunt nails to dig deep into calloused palms. It isn’t to strike Anders, definitely not, but he’s frustrated and angry and sad above all.

You were my friend, a part of him thinks, a part of him remembers. And if Anders had just asked, if Anders had just waited, if Anders had been Anders instead of AndersJusticeAnders, maybe there could’ve been a resolution without revolution.

...It’s a selfish thought. It’s a greedy thought. Hawke knows, but he still wishes, he still thinks, and he still wonders, each and every day, if there was something he could’ve done differently. 

It doesn’t change a thing.

“People are dying, Anders. Back in Thedas, back in our home. Part of it is your fault. Part of it is mine. Part of it is something way over our heads, and neither of us can fix a fucking hole in the sky even if we tried. But there are things we can do regardless of where we are, and let me tell you--none of it just includes bowing your damn head and asking me,” me, he says, as his voice cracks, as he feels the strain in his throat, as he feels nail pierce through skin and make him bleed in crescents on his palm, “to kill you. I won’t. You should--you should fucking know I won’t!”

The touch startles him and he pulls back from it, instinctively, expecting pain where there is none, years of Templar-taught lessons coming back to the surface as he feels like little more than a chastised twelve year old - the fear and the emptiness are visible in his eyes, the way it’s clear he’s looking without seeing, as if he’s hollowed himself out to make way for the disappointment of yet another person.

And maybe he has. Maybe he’s had to, maybe he’s had to stop being Anders for the moment and revert to the sort of learned helplessness that always made beatings end sooner.

He’s shaking - it’s minute, really, and not something you’d notice unless you’re paying close attention to the way his hands curl (never clench - never like a fist, never like he means to fight) and uncurl. His breath is shaky, each inhale, each exhale, and memories of Loghain and that late night call are what pushes him into action.

He steps forward, legs trembling, and hits his knees. His hands are locked behind his back (don’t fight back; don’t struggle, be good, be still, they will get bored) and it could seem like he stumbled - or perhaps seem sexually suggestive, in a dark way - except for the way his back is straight and his gaze turned upward, over Hawke’s head, throat bared. He swallows, and at this angle the movement of his Adam’s apple is obvious.

“Death… it isn’t permanent here. You come back, the next day - like nothing happened. It isn’t the easy way out, here. It will hurt. It will be agony. My healing is - it’s limited, I won’t use it on myself. The - I work as a healer. They deserve it.”

It would be so much easier if his gaze were defiant, testing, taunting Hawke, calling him weak for it, or if his gaze were pleading, cajoling, wanting an end he could never provide himself. But it’s neither. It’s a sort of cool acceptance, an indifference, the air of whether Hawke kills him or leaves him here, disgusted, he will have gotten what he deserves, a lack of concern for his own life.

“So do it. Do it and still hate me tomorrow and know that, that I’ll have suffered even a fraction as much as you, as Kirkwall, as the innocent mages in Ferelden and Orlais who were forced into action. Every day I try to put some good back into this world - but you have no reason to believe me, and why would you? So what I have is this. There is no war to fight, no battle to run off to. I don’t intend to fight back - or struggle, or plead. I have no right to those. Do what you will. What you deserve. And tomorrow, I will continue my atonement, no worse the wear.”

Maybe even this could be less disturbing if he sounded confrontational, daring, but he doesn’t. Like his eyes, there is only a soft acceptance, a resignation, a total belief in what he’s saying. He wants to close his eyes but doesn’t; he tries to keep his eyes fixed over Hawke’s head.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

It takes him a moment for the words to sink in, and when they do, Hawke holds his breath and lets the number repeat. Three months. Three whole months.

“That’s... a lot of months,” is his first reply, not nearly as intelligent and witty as he would’ve liked, but he’s sure that he’s impressed Yuan aplenty with that already.

Or, well. He hopes he did. It’s surprisingly difficult to find people who can truly appreciate his great charm and greater personality, humor and all.

“But to answer your question, it definitely didn’t feel like that long. I mean, to be fair, I was kind of fighting a gigantic demon that was essentially every fear come to life in the Fade both before I came here the first time around and after I was allowed back, but--three months! As much as I’d love to boast about my strength, I don’t think it’s possible for me to fend that thing off for so long.”

...Wow. That’s incredibly chilling to say, isn’t it? Best not think about it.

“...Anyway, why dwell on that dreary topic when we can talk about this! You? Job? Next thing I know, you’re gonna tell me that you’re getting married--which I really hope you aren’t, though I’d be immensely happy for you, of course, because then I’d have to get a suit fitted and my beard trimmed, and...”

There is a pause, and he purses his lips as if in serious thought.

“...You would invite me if that were the case, right? I think I’d die and stay dead of a broken heart if you didn’t.”

      “It’s pay what you can, Hawke,” you deadpan at his retreating back, rolling your eyes yet again. He certainly hasn’t let his absence change him, you think, settling back in to watch over the bar for the rest of your shift. It ends in a little under an hour, which makes you wonder – just how long has he been waiting here for you?

      The time passes uneventfully, though you do occasionally hear a burst of laughter from the direction you sent Hawke in. And just in time, he’s slid back into the stool next to you.

      “I would’ve thought you could keep yourself entertained without me.” He said he wanted someone to snark at him, didn’t he? Well, you’re happy to oblige. “I’ll be out in a minute.” You need to go behind the counter and clock out first. Your boss is more than understanding about you staying for some time longer to talk; you can’t imagine he’d refuse after all the times you stayed behind to help manage the payroll.

      You return and walk right past him towards a booth, jerking your head slightly in a motion to follow. You’re not really interested in tales of peril and woe, per say, but if Hawke is the one telling it, it should be interesting. But first, you have your own questions.

      “You’ve been gone from the city for nearly three months. Did it feel that long to you?”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

i screamed on the inside the whole time i painted this

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

Having a fever just means that you’re turning into a dragon, evidently. I’ve had a cold all weekend, which sucks, but at least I am well on my way in my metamorphosis.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

He recognizes her immediately because she is one of his and he is one of hers--friends, family, a group of misfits bound together through choice and experience. At first, Hawke thinks it to be an illusion; wishful thinking, perhaps, given convincing form through the sheer power of his homesickness. After all, isn’t his whole deal supposed to be, bad luck, some okay luck, and then more bad luck? It’s almost as if he has some big, divine sign on his back that says, kick me--and the Maker loved doing so over and over and over again.

...Not that Hawke can blame ‘em, really. He does have a nice ass--just not in the kickable sort of way.

“You know, even after all these years, I still don’t speak Tired Elvish--but I’m going to go ahead and guess that was more or less a request for help. Would’ve preferred a loud shout of, “Hawke!” or something, though; would’ve made me feel more like a hero, finding you almost passed out here.”

...So he says, but he’s honestly more excited--and concerned, if he’s being honest--than he lets on. It shows in how brightly his eyes shine and how wide his smile grows as he crouches down by his friend’s side, even as he hesitates before reaching out to pat her head.

(And she’s real. He feels her, and she’s real, and she’s here, and... Maker, it’s the closest he’s been to home in a while.)

“You okay, Merrill?”

@chxmpionofkirkwall

Apparently, Merrill’s chronic sense of terrible direction was not limited to Thedas.

This place- Hive City, as she had discovered it was called- was beginning to irk her. Her search for the alpha district had grown increasingly fervent, yet she seemed to only find herself encountering more and more of the strange architecture, and was starting to wonder if she was simply going in circles. Would she ever even manage to find her way out of this one neighborhood of the city? Or was this all some sort of gigantic, identical maze?

She really hoped it wasn’t the maze. She didn’t like the feeling of being a trapped mouse looking for the cheese.

Now rather despondent, Merrill had lain herself face-down on the ground, trying to think positive thoughts. She still had plenty of stamina left (when one spends their entire life as part of a nomadic tribe they learn the art of walking long distances), but she felt mentally drained. Is this what her entire time in this place would be like? A zombified stupor?

“Mmmmgnh bleghhhhh…” she mumbled a stream of nonsense into the ground. She was starting to get hungry. Creators, she wanted a good sweetroll.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

Anders is right. 

Using Garrett instead of Hawke does make the words hit closer and harder than he’ll ever like, but it’s strange how jarring it all is, too. It’s him--of course it’s him, that’s who he’s always been, Garrett Hawke--but he’s gone so long simply being Hawke that anything less (because it is less; Hawke was for himself and the twins and the parents who loved them dearly, Hawke was the family and the legacy and the aspirations of them all) creates a sort of gap between it all.

Garrett.

I know.

With a tired breath, Hawke almost thinks to reach out to try and rub away at the streak of blood left behind on Anders’ skin. It’s going to be a while before he can even consider forgiving the man, and he’s still angry, and he’s still traumatized and betrayed and everything else that should honestly have him firing every spell he has available in Anders’ general direction, but--

But, he doesn’t hate the man.

But, it’s not enough.

“...So what?” Hawke asks, neither quiet nor loud. “So you want me to kill you, let you off easy, help you reach some sort of end so you’ll feel absolved of all your crimes? It doesn’t work that way, Anders.” 

It won’t work that way.

He bites his tongue, grits his teeth, and exhales as slowly as he can to push back whatever venom threatens to poison his words. He has every right to be angry, but that doesn’t mean he has to be cruel.

“...If it’s forgiveness you want,” Hawke says instead, “Or a second chance, or even just one night’s reprieve from all your guilt, then do something about it.”

“I know,” is what Anders says. “I know,” he says again, unsure of what else to say. He knows. He knows what he’s done, what he did, what it means. He knows. He lives with it, every day, and he accepts it.

“I know, Garrett -” he never uses Hawke’s first name, it feels a bit like calling the Maker your mate, but he does it now because he needs him to hear what he’s saying, “I know! I’m not saying you don’t have the right - I’m saying you do and you should be angry and I understand why and I’m saying that I’m trying to - I’m trying to make it easier on you, on everyone!”

His mouth is dry, just from that much - he can’t say anymore, he can’t, and he doesn’t try. He wrings his fingers together (spreading blood from his lip across several of his fingers), swallows thickly, looks away - looks back - looks away.

“I know,” he barely whispers, barely says at all, says it so softly you could think you hallucinated it. “I know, I know, I know,” and for a second, is he speaking to himself, to Justice, to Hawke? A hand smears down his face, blood touched over his forehead, a streak down his chin from his lip.

“I know, Garrett. I do. I know what I’ve done and I know what you think of it and I know - I just know, alright? So - just.”

Just what? Just… he doesn’t know what to say - how to finish this thought. Just make it easier on me, just finish what I started - what you couldn’t, just let me suffer, just let me die.

He tells himself he won’t cry - won’t be that weak - but he feels the heat and pressure behind his eyes.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

“Of course they have; it wouldn’t be an... extremely strange, otherworldly, and chaotic mix of every world both imaginable and not if everything remained nice and quiet.” And that’s honestly the nice way of describing Hive City. Nothing and no one has remained particularly unkind to him, but there will always be something unsettling about being here--a feeling that only grows worse, he knows, because being here means he isn’t back there, and if he’s not back there, it feels too much like he’s running away.

Even if he doesn’t have much choice.

“Anyway, I remember my way just fine, but if you’d like to lend me Vincent for... oh, you know, indefinitely, I’d appreciate it. It gets a little lonely at night, and I don’t know how anyone could ever sleep without the ever so soothing sound of a mabari snoring. Loudly. Speaking of which, he still remembers me, right? I think I’d die right here and now of a broken heart if he doesn’t. I even snuck him a little treat when you weren’t looking, the last time.”

It’s noise, and it’s conversation. It’s a familiarity that speaks of home while remaining distant.

Seeing him again is a surprise. It’s not entirely unwelcome, even if worrying now that Anders is here. Hawke must have saw the explosion of the Chantry first hand. If anything the younger cousin will try to create a calm between the two. At least a stalemate considering Thedas is a long way from here.

He rolls with the punches. At their wave he approaches and brushes off the bad joke. Perhaps awful humour is just an Amell thing. His own don’t seem to get good responses.

“Perhaps, or you’re just seeing what you want to see. It hasn’t been that long since you disappeared although events have happened.” Nothing stays silent in this city. Another mission is to keep his cousin from getting into too much trouble.

It is selfish since the Champion of Kirkwall can clearly handle himself. But as a family member the Arl just wants him safe and well.

“Do you at least remember how to get around? Vincent could show you how otherwise I suppose.” Mabari served as a familiar element so hopefully it served to make this transition a little easier.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

He opens his mouth, and in a rare moment of reconsideration, closes it again.

“...Well, I might’ve considered something utterly awful like, what’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this, but I happen to rather like this particular place, so maybe that wouldn’t be the best thing to say.” It’s a joke. Kind of. There are better things to say to a cute girl than a sloppy line like that. “Anyway, I was gonna ask if you knew what kind of fruits are in season right now, but now I’m second-guessing myself. That’s not too much of an absurdity, is it?”

Lal scoffed. “If an idiot like that has time to flirt, he has time to train.” There was no excuse for anyone to be that weak, a healer would only reinforce that comfort in weakness. On that note, Lal casually studied this one. Muscle on muscle but that never guaranteed ability. “What about you?” She crossed her arms, her eyes locked to the man’s own. “What absurdity are you about to utter?”

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

"Soup won't snark at me and listen to all my tales of peril and woe, though--or buy me a pint to shut me up, if it comes down to that."

Then again, Yuan certainly won't fill him up so he isn't drinking on an empty stomach, so perhaps the suggestion is a sound one. And besides, after waking up to find himself back in this hellhole right when he thought he'd escaped it--and finding himself back in the original hellhole, which is admittedly much more hellish in the gigantic-spider-looking-Fade-demon-trying-to-tear-him-apart kind of way--he kind of deserves it. Warm food, that is.

"But since you're clearly insisting, I'll enjoy a nice bowl or three and tell them to put it on your tab. A good working man like you can afford that for a poor old guy like me, right?" Hawke teases, and claps Yuan on the back before making his way over to the part of the bar his friend has graciously recommended.

The soup isn't too shabby, all things considered, but he's hardly been a picky eater to begin with. Food is food, and he enjoys what he's been given as he waits for Yuan to finish his shift. It isn't long, as promised, but waiting is, quite unfortunately, not one of his many, many talents. By the time his friend is made available, Hawke has talked away one patron and successfully milked a few crisp bills away from a man who thought he could chug a pint of beer faster than the Champion.

(...It's not a title given to him for that reason, but who here would know?)

"For the love of whatever is good in this city, please say you're done with work."

      You don’t dignify that with a response; it’d just encourage him (though your nose wrinkles in disgust and you roll your eyes exaggeratedly). Nothing’s changed, then.

      He remembers you. You’ve heard rumors, mournful stories of people who left only to return with altered or even nonexistent memories. Perhaps they’re true in some cases – the rules of the Hive seem completely arbitrary, as if the scientists make decisions based on whatever whim strikes them. But Hawke remembers you, at least, and he’s talking like he was just off on vacation for a few weeks. That counts for something, though you’re not sure what. 

      “Hm?” You glance at him again, registering the question a few seconds too late to respond right away. “Not much longer. There’s soup at the other side of the bar if you ask. It might keep you quiet until then.”

      Wait. Why did he intend to stick around? Did he have something important to discuss with you? You turn back to watch the room, brows knit.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

I like garrett’s beard. it’s very nice, very pointy

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

And Hawke has to wonder, however briefly, if this makes him a coward--if this makes him weak.

(You need to learn how to say no, Hawke, Varric once told him, but it’d been easy then, so, so easy, to laugh it off and say, and leave our poor, ungrateful citizens defenseless? Have I ever come off as the cruel sort?

Maybe Varric knew, even back then, that it wasn’t about kindness or cruelty; it was about mattering, about being someone, and about leaving a mark that said, look; I was here, I existed, and I lived well.)

“...You destroyed Kirkwall,” Kirkwall, he says, because calling it home makes it hurt that much more, digs that much deeper into wounds that haven’t quite closed, “Everything I--everything we built, everything we protected, everything we made our own. Gone.”

He doesn’t say, because you didn’t trust me enough.

He doesn’t say, because you couldn’t wait.

He doesn’t have to.

“I think I have every right to be more than a little pissed and not give you any sort of warm welcome, but unless you’ve gone and blown up some other Chantry to drag more innocent lives into the crossfire, you’re not an enemy of mine.”

(But it hurts, looking at you.

It hurts, because I know I’ve failed, too.)

Anders is having some severe difficulties, if such a thing weren’t immediately obvious on its own anyway. He shakes his head, violently, more for his own sake than in response to Hawke’s words.

“Knowing I’m here and wanting to be around me are two different things.” And Hawke… Gregarious, friendly Hawke, who always made him laugh, no matter how depressed… Hawke acting like this made it plenty clear that he didn’t want Anders in his life. “You hate me. That much is clear. I’m offering an attempt to be free of me.”

He says it surprisingly calm, except that he picks a new hole in his lip and presses his thumb to it to staunch the bloodflow.

“It’s not turning a blind eye. It’s avoiding an enemy.” His voice cracks the slightest bit on the last word and he hates it, hates it, hates it, but it’s true. He’s Hawke’s enemy, Fenis’ enemy. He will never understand. He will never get it. And for once, Anders wants to stop trying. He wants to be left alone; he wants to be safe and alone but he isn’t.

“You don’t want to see me. You couldn’t be more obvious unless you were out and out saying it, so let’s not pretend.”

He wants to ask, did you ever like me? Or was it all using a spirit healer? A fear of a Tranquil boyfriend? Did you ever enjoy my company just because, without any strings attached? It seems like not.

[chxmpionofkirkwall-blog]

It’s easy to brush off the fleece remark despite how proud he is of his beard, perhaps because of how much confidence Hawke has in how good he looks with it. (Makes you look rugged, Bethany once said to him, and before that, Leandra, laughing--looks like my son is finally growing into a man.)

“Hmm... Shaving’s definitely not an option, but...”

“Red, huh. I’ll admit, I do look pretty damn good in that color, so maybe I will give it a shot. Know anyone that could get that done for me?”

chxmpionofkirkwall:

“Dye that fleece on your face? Don’t risk it. Your hair never comes back the same when you do and then you’ll just have to shave everything off.” Of course, Cain is speaking out of his ass because he’s never grown a beard. And the blue stripe in his hair? Just for shits and giggles. 

“You look like you could rock red, maybe.”