[ it's getting more difficult to move now. even by pure determination, instinct and electrical impulse. blood is clouding your vision enough that the practicalities of shoving a knife into flesh become difficult just because you cannot see. still, you have been asked a question. you will be accomodating. ]
❚❚❚❚❚❚.
[ hawke doesn't know this name in any universe. you'd never told him.
still you have your memories. and you know this one. there's a whole book, you see. The Tale of the Champion. a storybook hero that has saved a city unworthy of being saved a hundred-fold times over. A wisecracking, foolhardy, handsome leading man who defies the Chantry at every turn. A mage who has found a group of unlikely friends he protects through thick and thin. people who he cares for and stands by at every turn, even through disagreement and strife, he is still stalwart and brave.
except for you.
you think you've always scared him. the violence in your heart and the violence of your love. but you were the betrayer. the knife between the hero's shoulder blades, the one who ruined absolutely everything. it is why it is better you are like this now. someone who burns like the sun will inevitably burn himself out to a hollow pit of ash, and everything around him too. he had put you down once, like a dog. you had always thought something foolish then: that your crime had never been the act of destroying the Chantry itself, but was more not relying on the beautiful hero to save you. to disallow him a chance to stop you. the crime was never hurting kirkwall or innocents or the Grand Cleric, but was always hurting hawke's feelings.
none of that bothers you now. none of it matters. you have been suitably punished for those sins. and now he is free of you, and every wound you have ever inflicted on him.
in a practiced motion, you slide the knife between his ribs, flesh parting. you know how to do this by now. you've done it once, and dreamed of it every night since. ]
This Hawke has never loved an Anders. Or an Andy. This Hawke has no particular feelings about the dead-eyed creep who knocked on his door in the dark of morning, only to start a robotic brawl in his hotel room. He's had fights in hotels before, but nothing so kooky and unprompted as this.
He could have loved an Andy, though. He likes a little fire. He likes a rebellious spirit, even if it's a somewhat pathetic one. And he does love a blond, especially a tall one. It's ships in the night here, and it's really too bad, because when you took out the Chantry, Kirkwall, and the high fantasy morals, when you took out the possession, the knives and the constant heat of battle, maybe it wouldn't have had to be so hard. Maybe it could have been a love you slipped easily into, like other people do. Not smooth sailing, but no executions. No disagreements over political stances, over enslavement and who was wronged more, and you're making a mess of this party, Anders.
They could have hit the town and had a pint, had a roll around, had a damn good time cruising across state lines and falling into each other. Learning new things about love.
Instead, Hawke recognizes the kill shot for what it is, and the mirth starts to crack in his face. He pushes Anders off, bodily. He trips, flopping backwards into the bed, then onto the floor, holding his gut and wheezing.
There's no need to stick around. He'll be dead within minutes. It's done for.]
[ maybe. maybe maybe maybe. things don't always have to be so hard.
but without all of those layers of flesh on bone, without the politics, without the chantry, without the mages, without kirkwall, without a lifetime of violence and fury, without knives and heat and justice, is he anything at all? a healer who can no longer heal, a mind that can never stay still for long enough to settle, a bad joke or two. A fondness for cats. a coward's heart. That's about it. certainly whatever is left after all of that is not worthy of love.
(he had always called hawke the one bright light in kirkwall. but hawke was not the one who had a lit lantern above a healer's door in a place called darktown.)
hawke is done for. whoever is left in this body, the victor's, is alone. if he had any feelings at all, it's that he misses justice. they had promised each other that neither of them would ever be alone again. maybe that's what true love is.
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
no subject
❚❚❚❚❚❚.
[ hawke doesn't know this name in any universe. you'd never told him.
still you have your memories. and you know this one. there's a whole book, you see. The Tale of the Champion. a storybook hero that has saved a city unworthy of being saved a hundred-fold times over. A wisecracking, foolhardy, handsome leading man who defies the Chantry at every turn. A mage who has found a group of unlikely friends he protects through thick and thin. people who he cares for and stands by at every turn, even through disagreement and strife, he is still stalwart and brave.
except for you.
you think you've always scared him. the violence in your heart and the violence of your love. but you were the betrayer. the knife between the hero's shoulder blades, the one who ruined absolutely everything. it is why it is better you are like this now. someone who burns like the sun will inevitably burn himself out to a hollow pit of ash, and everything around him too. he had put you down once, like a dog. you had always thought something foolish then: that your crime had never been the act of destroying the Chantry itself, but was more not relying on the beautiful hero to save you. to disallow him a chance to stop you. the crime was never hurting kirkwall or innocents or the Grand Cleric, but was always hurting hawke's feelings.
none of that bothers you now. none of it matters. you have been suitably punished for those sins. and now he is free of you, and every wound you have ever inflicted on him.
in a practiced motion, you slide the knife between his ribs, flesh parting. you know how to do this by now. you've done it once, and dreamed of it every night since. ]
no subject
This Hawke has never loved an Anders. Or an Andy. This Hawke has no particular feelings about the dead-eyed creep who knocked on his door in the dark of morning, only to start a robotic brawl in his hotel room. He's had fights in hotels before, but nothing so kooky and unprompted as this.
He could have loved an Andy, though. He likes a little fire. He likes a rebellious spirit, even if it's a somewhat pathetic one. And he does love a blond, especially a tall one. It's ships in the night here, and it's really too bad, because when you took out the Chantry, Kirkwall, and the high fantasy morals, when you took out the possession, the knives and the constant heat of battle, maybe it wouldn't have had to be so hard. Maybe it could have been a love you slipped easily into, like other people do. Not smooth sailing, but no executions. No disagreements over political stances, over enslavement and who was wronged more, and you're making a mess of this party, Anders.
They could have hit the town and had a pint, had a roll around, had a damn good time cruising across state lines and falling into each other. Learning new things about love.
Instead, Hawke recognizes the kill shot for what it is, and the mirth starts to crack in his face. He pushes Anders off, bodily. He trips, flopping backwards into the bed, then onto the floor, holding his gut and wheezing.
There's no need to stick around. He'll be dead within minutes. It's done for.]
no subject
but without all of those layers of flesh on bone, without the politics, without the chantry, without the mages, without kirkwall, without a lifetime of violence and fury, without knives and heat and justice, is he anything at all? a healer who can no longer heal, a mind that can never stay still for long enough to settle, a bad joke or two. A fondness for cats. a coward's heart. That's about it. certainly whatever is left after all of that is not worthy of love.
(he had always called hawke the one bright light in kirkwall. but hawke was not the one who had a lit lantern above a healer's door in a place called darktown.)
hawke is done for. whoever is left in this body, the victor's, is alone. if he had any feelings at all, it's that he misses justice. they had promised each other that neither of them would ever be alone again. maybe that's what true love is.
he turns around to head back to the car. ]