Callingcalling

He had to get to his feet. Somehow. Anyhow. Damn it, body, move! He swore inside his spinning brain, but it responded only sluggishly. Desperately, he struggled on hands and knees to rise, or just to turn his head, much as he didn't want to. He knew what he would see if he did; the one thing in the world he would least be able to take. Part of his mind cried out in agony and tried to shy away from the thought, the devastation of it was too much to bear. "I know how I feel about you," he'd said, standing amidst the flames and corpses, "I won't let you die, not when I can do something about it." Her eyes had been soft, and moisture gathered

This was the third day running, the mage silently stewed as he took stock of the situation. He'd asked Hawke to help him locate the ingredients for a…ah, "potion" (inwardly, he winced at the necessary deception) and his fellow mage had naturally obliged. This circumstance meant that he'd been accompanying her these past three days, something of a rare occurrence. But it was understandable that she didn't often ask him to assist on her adventures, pity that it was; two rather well-known mages travelling in company together would be like an open invitation for the bloody templars. But what Anders couldn't understand was why she kept

Spoiler Warning - This ficlet contains some actual dialog from DA2 and details of a major plot point. If you haven't finished the game, read at your own risk. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One of the ubiquitous crates that littered Lowtown had been turned up as a seat for him, and as she walked the few paces back to stand behind him, her steps were leaden, her thoughts chaotic. "There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself," Anders told her as he stared into the middle distance. "Vengeance…took me over. I couldn't stop him." Hawke listened to

Hawke sat nursing a mug of the Hanged Man's "finest" sour, rat-shit flavoured ale. She'd chosen one of the darker corners of the tavern intentionally, not that the choice appeared to have fulfilled its purpose. "I saw what you did back there, Hawke." She raised her eyes the short distance to Varric's—tired, empty eyes. But she put on her usual show of jocularity for her friend's sake. "Spying on me again, Varric?" she asked lightly. "Oh, 'spying' is such a harsh word," the dwarf replied. "I prefer to think of it as looking out for my friends." She raised an incredulous eyebrow at him and he went on more soberly. "Anyway, don't you t

Hawke put a hand to her eyes, stretching the fingers wide to allow her to rub both temples simultaneously. Why was she surrounded by stubborn fools? It had been partly her fault, she supposed. The weather had grown cold of late, the first snowfall had been weeks ago and Kirkwall was heavily blanketed in white. When she'd requested Fenris' blade in aid against Tal'Vashoth lingering along the coast, she should have realized the bloody idiot's loyalty and pride meant he would render it without consideration for his own needs. They'd been days in their hunt on the Wounded Coast, wading knee-deep through snowdrifts, only ever completely dry when

She nestled against Fenris' side, her head resting in the hollow of his neck. One of his arms encircled her loosely as he held the book where they both could see. He no longer needed much help reading, but the current project was a collection of Orlesian ballads and now and again he enlisted Hawke's help in working out the occasional untranslated word in a language neither of them spoke. Their guesses made for amusing scenes. He had realized he knew little of Orlais when it had become apparent how well-known Aveline's namesake was to all but himself, and in this momentary lull of violence he'd resolved to rectify the situation. For Hawke's p