Prompt: Hawke and Anders on the run after Kirkwall and following a trail of lanterns lit in doorways and windows, each one indicating a safe haven for mages
The first few months are the hardest.
Hawke is no stranger to life on the run, of course, but it's been many years since he's spent more than a night’s camping on the Wounded Coast, and it shows. They can't even buy a tent for the first week, making do with cloaks and lean-tos, and things hardly improve once they have one.
“We could try the Avvar,” Hawke offers one night, the two shivering under the shelter of the ratted cloth. Winter’s begun in earnest, and with the templars in close pursuit, they don’t dare risk any fire. “You’ll always have guest-welcome in my hold, if nothing else.”
“They're still weeks of travel from here, love,” Anders tells him, frustratingly reasonable through the bitter chill. “Besides, I'm not looking to hide. I'm looking to act, without getting caught.”
Hawke can’t argue with that. Still-
“We’re going to freeze, Anders,” he says, serious for once. “I know cold, and we’ll need better than this soon.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Anders says, drawing closer. He calls warmth to his hands, just sufficient for the faintest of smoke, and while it’s not nearly enough, Hawke supposes it’ll have to hold for now.
They find a barn three days outside of Ansburg. It’s bolder than they’d usually care to be, but the snow’s nearly up to their knees and their cloaks have become dangerously soaked. So they steal into the small building, Hawke’s hands barely able to even hold the lockpicks, Anders keeping a nervous watch on the cottage, too-near, lantern still lit even at this time of night.
It’s not much better inside, but it’s dry, at least, enough so for them to shed their outer layers, Anders drying them with a wave of the hand. Hawke’s already making a small bed in the hay when the door swings open behind them.
“Shit!” Hawke fumbles for his knives, cursing himself for setting them aside in the first place. He won’t kill some poor farmers, but he’ll scare them as much as it takes to get Anders to safety if he has to.
“What in Andraste’s name is-?” the woman breaks off, seeing the flames in Anders’ hands, the staff discarded against the wall, and Hawke’s heart stops in his chest. The templars. She’ll alert the templars if she runs for it. “Apostates?” she asks in a quiet voice. “I- are you from Kirkwall? Maker, what are you doing out here? Didn’t you see the lantern?”
Hawke and Anders stand, frozen and half-naked, staring at her.
“... what?”
“My oldest was ten when the templars took him.” The cottage is small, but warmer than the fugitives have been in weeks, a roaring fire in the hearth and two bowls of soup neither of them can bring themselves to turn down. “We never got any letters. They didn’t even tell us which Circle they took him to.” She shakes her head.
“It was fifteen years before we saw him again,” her husband continues. “We couldn’t keep him more than a night before the templars started asking questions. But that was when we started.”
“And the templars haven't caught on?” Anders asks.
“Not yet,” the woman says.
“We shouldn't stay too long, though,” Anders says quietly. “To be safe.”
“We need to get to Ostwick anyway,” Hawke adds.
Their hosts glance at each other. “... if you're hoping they'll take in Kirkwallers-” the wife begins at last.
“We aren't,” Anders says meaningfully, and they take his point immediately.
After a moment, the husband just nods. “The Vauses should be safe,” he says. “They're across the river, but if you leave early tomorrow you can make it before nightfall.”
“How will we know them?” Anders asks.
“They'll have the lantern outside the window,” the wife replies. “They always have lanterns.”
“Why?” Hawke asks, and the couple just shrugs.
“To make it easy to find, I suppose?” The husband offers, and Hawke doesn't ask further. “Thank you,” he says simply.
They won't take any of the coin the fugitives have left, but when they walk out the door early next morning, the sun barely above the horizon, the man’s cough is gone, and the woman moves, just for a little while, untroubled by arthritis.
It's something.
Ostwick comes and goes before they know it. There are lanterns sufficient for the worst of the winter, and the thaw is starting to set in by the time they turn their feet towards Orlais. The refuges grow sparser and sparser as they leave the Free Marches behind them, but there are roofs enough to shelter them at least one night a week, and warmth enough to make the rest bearable.
It means they meet more of the other apostates, too. Hawke doesn't really know why so many of them are headed through Orlais, except maybe for the prevalence of secrets and masks that provide the best shelter for apostates.
Hawke does know, though, that most of them aren't even from the Gallows. They come in all ages and from all sorts of Circles, apprentices and enchanters, escaped recently or years past or even born free, from Ostwick and Starkhaven and Antiva and even one or two from Rivain come to join the rebellion.
He's Fereldan, and a few years younger than Hawke, by the rogue’s estimate. And he won't stop staring at Anders, and Hawke understands seconds too late. His hand's on Anders’ arm, not certain of the younger mage’s reactions, but he just says - “It's you, isn’t it? It's really you.”
Anders meets his eyes, and straightens, pulling his arm gently from Hawke's grasp. “Yes.”
“You look so different.”
Anders swallows hard, hands at his side. “Time will do that.”
The younger man nods. “Do you recognize me? I was just a kid, I don't know if you remember.”
Anders shakes his head mutely.
“Well, it doesn't matter.” And then suddenly, he's hugging Anders, arms tight around his chest. “They sent my sister to Starkhaven,” he says. “We're together for the first time in ten years now. Thank you. For everything.”
Their host, ignorant of the context, smiles at the display even so. Hawke, knowing it full well, does too.
They're in Orlais proper now, working their way North. There's been no word from the White Spire in months, but they've caught rumors of a gathering in the Emerald Graves, and they intend to be there for it.
There hasn't been one in weeks when they spot the lantern this time, one cool spring evening, the sky a brilliant orange with the setting sun. It's a small cottage, tucked lonely amongst the hills, and Hawke doubts this way has seen an apostate in weeks. Still, their packs are heavy and they've gold enough to leave a few in secret, and it's been too long since they've seen a roof over their heads.
So the woman lets them in, her dark hair beginning to streak with silver and eyes crinkling with laughter lines.
“What's your story?” Hawke asks over a plate of shepherd's pie, taking in the surrounding cottage. It's rare to see someone living alone at safehouses, especially one without hint of a taken child or sibling.
“‘Story’?” she asks, eyebrow raised.
“How did you start?” Anders asks.
The woman just laughs, quiet, and raises a hand wreathed in flame.
“You're taking quite a risk,” Hawke observes, and she just shrugs.
“Living is a risk.”
Neither of them can argue with that. They finish their supper in silence, gratefully accepting the proffered bed in the corner.
“Where did it come from, by the way?” Hawke asks. The question’s fallen from his lips many times over the past few months, each time unanswered, and he doubts a lone apostate in the Orlesian farmlands knows any better, but he can't help the curiosity.
But it doesn't look like she knows, either, and Hawke supposes his curiosity will have to remain unsated. “I… you know, I have no idea.” But then she frowns in thought, and finally says, “It’s a Marcher thing, I think. It just means… sanctum, I guess. A-”
“A light in the dark,” Anders whispers. “Where no one will be turned away.”
“Yes!” She says. “You know more of it?”
Anders just smiles, and Hawke feels a warmth in his chest like he hasn’t felt in ages.
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branchandroot
For Mikkeneko
Date: 2015-12-19 11:39 pm (UTC)The first few months are the hardest.
Hawke is no stranger to life on the run, of course, but it's been many years since he's spent more than a night’s camping on the Wounded Coast, and it shows. They can't even buy a tent for the first week, making do with cloaks and lean-tos, and things hardly improve once they have one.
“We could try the Avvar,” Hawke offers one night, the two shivering under the shelter of the ratted cloth. Winter’s begun in earnest, and with the templars in close pursuit, they don’t dare risk any fire. “You’ll always have guest-welcome in my hold, if nothing else.”
“They're still weeks of travel from here, love,” Anders tells him, frustratingly reasonable through the bitter chill. “Besides, I'm not looking to hide. I'm looking to act, without getting caught.”
Hawke can’t argue with that. Still-
“We’re going to freeze, Anders,” he says, serious for once. “I know cold, and we’ll need better than this soon.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Anders says, drawing closer. He calls warmth to his hands, just sufficient for the faintest of smoke, and while it’s not nearly enough, Hawke supposes it’ll have to hold for now.
They find a barn three days outside of Ansburg. It’s bolder than they’d usually care to be, but the snow’s nearly up to their knees and their cloaks have become dangerously soaked. So they steal into the small building, Hawke’s hands barely able to even hold the lockpicks, Anders keeping a nervous watch on the cottage, too-near, lantern still lit even at this time of night.
It’s not much better inside, but it’s dry, at least, enough so for them to shed their outer layers, Anders drying them with a wave of the hand. Hawke’s already making a small bed in the hay when the door swings open behind them.
“Shit!” Hawke fumbles for his knives, cursing himself for setting them aside in the first place. He won’t kill some poor farmers, but he’ll scare them as much as it takes to get Anders to safety if he has to.
“What in Andraste’s name is-?” the woman breaks off, seeing the flames in Anders’ hands, the staff discarded against the wall, and Hawke’s heart stops in his chest. The templars. She’ll alert the templars if she runs for it. “Apostates?” she asks in a quiet voice. “I- are you from Kirkwall? Maker, what are you doing out here? Didn’t you see the lantern?”
Hawke and Anders stand, frozen and half-naked, staring at her.
“... what?”
“My oldest was ten when the templars took him.” The cottage is small, but warmer than the fugitives have been in weeks, a roaring fire in the hearth and two bowls of soup neither of them can bring themselves to turn down. “We never got any letters. They didn’t even tell us which Circle they took him to.” She shakes her head.
“It was fifteen years before we saw him again,” her husband continues. “We couldn’t keep him more than a night before the templars started asking questions. But that was when we started.”
“And the templars haven't caught on?” Anders asks.
“Not yet,” the woman says.
“We shouldn't stay too long, though,” Anders says quietly. “To be safe.”
“We need to get to Ostwick anyway,” Hawke adds.
Their hosts glance at each other. “... if you're hoping they'll take in Kirkwallers-” the wife begins at last.
“We aren't,” Anders says meaningfully, and they take his point immediately.
After a moment, the husband just nods. “The Vauses should be safe,” he says. “They're across the river, but if you leave early tomorrow you can make it before nightfall.”
“How will we know them?” Anders asks.
“They'll have the lantern outside the window,” the wife replies. “They always have lanterns.”
“Why?” Hawke asks, and the couple just shrugs.
“To make it easy to find, I suppose?” The husband offers, and Hawke doesn't ask further. “Thank you,” he says simply.
They won't take any of the coin the fugitives have left, but when they walk out the door early next morning, the sun barely above the horizon, the man’s cough is gone, and the woman moves, just for a little while, untroubled by arthritis.
It's something.
Ostwick comes and goes before they know it. There are lanterns sufficient for the worst of the winter, and the thaw is starting to set in by the time they turn their feet towards Orlais. The refuges grow sparser and sparser as they leave the Free Marches behind them, but there are roofs enough to shelter them at least one night a week, and warmth enough to make the rest bearable.
It means they meet more of the other apostates, too. Hawke doesn't really know why so many of them are headed through Orlais, except maybe for the prevalence of secrets and masks that provide the best shelter for apostates.
Hawke does know, though, that most of them aren't even from the Gallows. They come in all ages and from all sorts of Circles, apprentices and enchanters, escaped recently or years past or even born free, from Ostwick and Starkhaven and Antiva and even one or two from Rivain come to join the rebellion.
He's Fereldan, and a few years younger than Hawke, by the rogue’s estimate. And he won't stop staring at Anders, and Hawke understands seconds too late. His hand's on Anders’ arm, not certain of the younger mage’s reactions, but he just says - “It's you, isn’t it? It's really you.”
Anders meets his eyes, and straightens, pulling his arm gently from Hawke's grasp. “Yes.”
“You look so different.”
Anders swallows hard, hands at his side. “Time will do that.”
The younger man nods. “Do you recognize me? I was just a kid, I don't know if you remember.”
Anders shakes his head mutely.
“Well, it doesn't matter.” And then suddenly, he's hugging Anders, arms tight around his chest. “They sent my sister to Starkhaven,” he says. “We're together for the first time in ten years now. Thank you. For everything.”
Their host, ignorant of the context, smiles at the display even so. Hawke, knowing it full well, does too.
They're in Orlais proper now, working their way North. There's been no word from the White Spire in months, but they've caught rumors of a gathering in the Emerald Graves, and they intend to be there for it.
There hasn't been one in weeks when they spot the lantern this time, one cool spring evening, the sky a brilliant orange with the setting sun. It's a small cottage, tucked lonely amongst the hills, and Hawke doubts this way has seen an apostate in weeks. Still, their packs are heavy and they've gold enough to leave a few in secret, and it's been too long since they've seen a roof over their heads.
So the woman lets them in, her dark hair beginning to streak with silver and eyes crinkling with laughter lines.
“What's your story?” Hawke asks over a plate of shepherd's pie, taking in the surrounding cottage. It's rare to see someone living alone at safehouses, especially one without hint of a taken child or sibling.
“‘Story’?” she asks, eyebrow raised.
“How did you start?” Anders asks.
The woman just laughs, quiet, and raises a hand wreathed in flame.
“You're taking quite a risk,” Hawke observes, and she just shrugs.
“Living is a risk.”
Neither of them can argue with that. They finish their supper in silence, gratefully accepting the proffered bed in the corner.
“Where did it come from, by the way?” Hawke asks. The question’s fallen from his lips many times over the past few months, each time unanswered, and he doubts a lone apostate in the Orlesian farmlands knows any better, but he can't help the curiosity.
But it doesn't look like she knows, either, and Hawke supposes his curiosity will have to remain unsated. “I… you know, I have no idea.” But then she frowns in thought, and finally says, “It’s a Marcher thing, I think. It just means… sanctum, I guess. A-”
“A light in the dark,” Anders whispers. “Where no one will be turned away.”
“Yes!” She says. “You know more of it?”
Anders just smiles, and Hawke feels a warmth in his chest like he hasn’t felt in ages.