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At night, Anders sleeps sandwiched between Fenris and Hawke.

Hawke thinks that for the sake of balance, it should be Fenris in the middle. He’s the shortest of the three of them, and also the least likely to accidentally knee someone in the groin due to his stiff sleeping posture. In practice, they’ve found that framing Fenris in the middle of them makes the elf irascible and leads to a lot of kicking and hissing. Balance isn’t worth the effort. Hawke thinks that if not Fenris, then he should be in the middle, since the other two are sure to claw each other’s eyes out in the middle of the night. This suggestion is shot down upon proposal, with Anders’ hand on his shoulder and Fenris glowering at him. It would seem he has a tendency to sprawl, and it would be much appreciated if he’d sprawl off the bed instead of onto someone else. Fenris mumbles something about being smothered and Anders eyes the bed nervously. 

Against all odds, it works for them. Anders and Hawke curl up together like proper lovers, the mage tucked against Hawke’s neck in the middle of the bed, using his shoulder as a pillow, with muscled arms loosely around his waist. The sprawl is contained by Anders’ peculiar ability to mold his body over whatever limb invades his space. Fenris sleeps completely independent, back toward them and facing the door, if the bed is so positioned that night. He always sleeps closest to the door. Hawke isn’t sure if this need to wake and escape quickly comes from years on the run or from his time as a slave and the punishments he’d endure for failing to react quickly enough. Given the elf’s ever-fluctuating sleep schedule, varying from a quick few hours to dozing well into the morning, he thinks Fenris must at least be unlearning some of the lessons taught by hardship. He’s not going to fight him for this one last habit.

Unfortunately, Anders snores. There is no getting around it. The mage can deny it all he wants but Hawke and Fenris know the truth. Hawke snores too, so he can’t complain. Fenris does, loudly, and has been known to bodily remove any party too loud from the bed with a rough kick. This is particularly cruel when Anders is the guilty party, since it inevitably means that Hawke will fall out of the bed too. It happens often enough that Hawke thinks maybe he should stop paying for the occasional room and let them all sleep on bedrolls every night instead. At least that way there wouldn’t be such a rough drop waking him up at some horrible hour.

For now though, he’s glad to have a bed. He can’t quite remember the name of the town they’ve stopped in. He knows it’s north enough to still have prominent influences of Tevinter culture in the decor and fashion. Anders is in charge of the map, and as long as they don’t stray too close to Kirkwall, Tevinter, or any of the larger towns, it doesn’t particularly matter where they are. They passed through a section of the Imperial highway that morning, and Anders stared up at the stone arches like they were made by the Maker himself. With how the early pale light shown under the curve of stone, reflected by the slow flowing stream under their feet, Hawke might have believed it. Parts of the highway had crumbled down into the water, so it was impossible to pass over the bridge. By good fortune, the stream had been shallow enough to pass on horseback. The entire way across, Anders stared and kept silent. Maybe he was thinking about what his life could be like in Tevinter, or some dense metaphor for his own crumbling life. It was his doing that led them here in the first place, though no one seems to want to point this out. The burden seems heavy enough on Anders’ shoulders, and even Fenris doesn’t have the heart to goad him about it. That doesn’t mean he makes it easy, but at least no harsh words are shared on that particular subject.

Now settled into the sole inn in this distant and isolated town, Hawke spreads himself across the center of the bed while he listens to the quiet grumblings of his companions. He thinks they may be arguing about who should go down to the kitchen and beg food off of the innkeeper. As hungry as he is, and he always is hungry, he’d rather the two of them get in the bed with him. A mass of exotic mosaic and metal cutout pendant lamps hang above the bed in a makeshift chandelier, though given how dusty and cracked a good number of them are, they were probably all salvaged from a lost trade cart or a lord’s house a some centuries ago. They still serve their purpose, lit with stubby candles, some filled with flower petals or intense to mask the smell of old wood and sweat.

This inn might not be so old as the lamps, but there are signs of rot on the floorboards and walls, and the mattress is distinctly dipped in the middle from what must be decades of use. The sheets may be so old that they are near transparent in some places and certainly aren’t the color they must have been when they were purchased. At least, he hopes no one liked this oxidized brown color enough to buy it. They’d look better in red. He hopes they were red when purchased.

A thick arm, covered in a forest of dark hair, swings up like a lever and down against the sheets with a soft thump. Fenris and Anders quiet and watch as it happens again. Hawke wiggles his toes and Anders laughs. “Hungry?” the mage calls out, and again Hawke wiggles his toes.

“Not that hungry,” which is a lie, “We can get food later.” He swings his arm down, and they start to get the idea. Anders approaches first. He sits on the end of the bed and unbuckles his boots with great care and places them beside Hawke’s. Then comes the coat, which he hooks on one of the bedposts and straightens the lines of the shoulders and sleeves. He seems fond of the coat, and Hawke can understand why. Black and tan, with gold accents, it’s definitely nicer than anything he’d been able to afford in Darktown. These clothes were meant to be his own funeral attire, Hawke thinks. He’s glad they weren’t, or at least haven’t been yet.

The mage flops down face first into the bed, half landing on Hawke. Anders crawls up the bed until he can rest his cheek on Hawke’s shoulder, and curls an arm around the man. His long lanky legs stretch down the bed, the bottoms of his feet pointed upward, revealing weeks’ worth of blisters, both healed and fresh. Even flat on the bed, Hawke can see Fenris’ lip curl in disgust. Apparently he doesn’t get blisters, since he walks around barefoot and must have calluses an inch thick. Anders doesn’t seem to care though; he lets out a contented sigh and pushes the flat of his nose against a roughly bearded jaw. He says something, a term of endearment judging by his soft tone, but Hawke can’t quite make out the words. It’s no matter. He shifts down so his lips can brush against Anders’, the feel of their untrimmed facial hair coarse, but not unwelcome. Now that they’re at an inn again, Anders may take the chance to shave, but Hawke won’t bother. He happens to like the mountain man look he’s got going on now, even if Anders says he looks more Chasind than proper Ferelden these days. 

Fenris, beardless—though Hawke thinks he may see a hint of stubble—with wild white hair sticking up in every direction with sweat and dirt, stands at the far side of the room. He glances at the bed, undoubtedly noticing that Anders has taken the spot closer to the escape route, and then at the door. Anders seems to take note too, and props himself up on his hands, not unlike a cat stretching, and shifts his weight so he can push over to the other side of the bed. Before he can get much further than resting on top of Hawke, Fenris glides across the room and sits on the open stretch of sheets. Anders gapes at him, then drops back into place. Any comment would break the spell, and neither of them wants a black eye. Hawke pats the bed again, his head turned toward Fenris, and he swears he can see those long pointed ears twitch. Didn’t Fenris say they couldn’t move? He wonders if that meant no elf ears move or just his. He wonders if such expressions may be forbidden to slaves.

His thoughts are interrupted when the elf finally falls back into his chest. His armor and gauntlets are still in place, making it a little difficult to get comfortable with him there, but Hawke ignores each poke and scrape of the armor through his tunic until he settles. Fenris’ legs still hang off the side of the bed, and as much as Hawke wants him to relax a little, he knows this is the best he’s going to get. Still, he guides the fingers of his free hand to fit between the thick metal fingers of the gauntlets. This gesture seems to be enough to remind Fenris that he can depend on them to watch his back while he unwinds, and his eyelids drop shut.

Another hand, pale and calloused with tentative long fingers and a smattering of freckles spread across the back, extends over Hawke’s belly to pull a clump of mud from pale strands of hair. A low rumble follows, but the movement meets no immediate violence. Anders does it again, this time pulling a crumpled piece of a leaf free, before casting both it and the mud over his shoulder and onto the ground. If either human has debris in his hair, it is much harder to tell than with the stark white of Fenris’ hair. Judging by the smell though, all three are due for a bath.

Still, bathing can wait. Hawke has something else in mind.

When Hawke wakes, there is a distinct lack of blond hair in his face. No wild knots have worked their way into his mouth, and he’d be grateful if it wasn’t so odd that Anders isn’t there with him. Even if the mage wakes first, he likes to linger until someone else is out of bed. Today, he’s sitting at the foot of the bed hunched over like the weight of years is breaking his back in two. Maybe they really are. Years aren’t kind to Grey Wardens. He tries to be quiet as he pushes himself up off the bed so he can sit beside Anders, but finds there’s no reason for caution. Anders is too fixated on his sedate bending fingers. They’re long and knobby, just like the rest of him. From pinkie to index finger, they roll in order, half curling before extending outward to straighten. He seems mesmerized by them, like they are waves washing up on sand and then retreating back into the sea.

Anders is so distracted that Hawke half crawls down the bed without drawing attention. When the mage doesn’t turn at the sound of shifting sheets, Hawke strokes his fingers through long unbound blond hair. That seems to grab his attention and Anders’ fist clenches shut.

“You’re awake. Do you…” Hawke hopes Anders will offer to get breakfast, or do anything that will make this seem normal, but no words follow. The few spoken hang heavy in the air, rough with emotion Anders seems to be just barely holding in. Only the sound of a long breath fills the silence. There’s something wrong, that much has been clear for days. Months, if Hawke thinks about it. That same something drives the mage ever closer to the abyss, and with him and Fenris tied to him by their heartstrings. Hawke thinks all three of them may fall off the next cliff they come to. It doesn’t matter that everything was done in the name of “justice.” Anders may have been right about the need for a rallying call, but the guilt, the looks of betrayal from their friends, the death and destruction it caused, all threaten to pull him under.

Hawke can’t take away that pain, can’t even claim to condone using the Chantry as tinder for the fires of revolution, but he hopes he can keep Anders’ head above water. His arm, solid from years of fighting gangs in Lowtown, loops around Anders’ waist. He remembers how he clings to his mother’s last touch and hopes what little he can do now is enough to show he won’t let Anders fall.

Some days ago, they were passing through what Anders claimed was northern Orlais but could’t accurately pinpoint on a map. Only the sound of horse hooves against the vague semblance of a path they followed filled the air. Even the usual squabbling between Fenris and the mage had quieted down as they traveled, and only picked up again when they stopped each night. Hawke assumed this meant the two of them were finally getting along, or at least had bigger things to worry about than their unending argument about the best place for mages. Neither of them had given an inch in years, and that wasn’t likely to change in a few weeks on the road. Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from constantly worrying about Anders snapping and using magic on Fenris, or Fenris finally crossing the line and bringing up what happened to the Chantry.

Since fleeing Kirkwall’s destruction, no one had said a thing about it.

The faint lines of the path lead them through a series of mountains folded together. If this was ever a road, it hadn’t been used in years. Tiny white flowers and tall grass grew into the strip of faded dirt that once lead travelers through the area. Anders pointed out clumps of white trees with dark spots and lines crossing over otherwise smooth pale bark. This kind of tree only grows at high elevations, he told them, and is connected together by the roots. They only grow in the mountains in Anderfels and Orlais, while Ferelden is filled with pines and oaks. These mountains were nothing like the massive frigid Frostbacks Hawke had grown up with on the horizon, but all the same provided breathtaking views down into the fertile valley. Here, he could admire the scenery without worrying about freezing to death to being eaten by the what he assumes must literally be billions of bears roaming Ferelden.

When they stopped for a quick lunch, he’d been so confident in their newfound peace that he even thought it safe to leave them alone long enough to sneak into the bushes and relieve himself. He left his companions on a scenic outcrop with the horses tied to some scrubby shrubs growing out of the mountainside. Hawke even thought he might wander down the path a little to see if they’d be leaving the mountains nightfall.

This proved to be a terrible mistake as the sounds to deep voiced screaming echoed down the path. None of the words made any sense to his ears, but as Hawke sprinted back up toward their rest spot, he recognized them as Tevene. The sight that welcomed him back to camp was not unexpected once he recognized Fernis’ enraged voice.

Anders was on the ground, curled on his side with his arms up around his head. Fenris’ heel was pushing into the man’s stomach and his body bent over while harsh phrases seemed to hit the mage like an ogre. Every time the elf would start again, he’d punctuate it with a kick and Anders would flinch with his entire body. Not knowing what could have set him off, Hawke wrenched Fenris away with great effort. Outstandingly strong for an elf, he gave even such a large man as Hawke a difficult time keeping him from killing Anders. At last the elf’s words came out in a language all three of them could understand. 

“You don’t get to be a martyr!” This was punctuated with a sudden jolt of energy rushing through him and he swung his leg at Anders again. The blow didn’t connect, he was too far away to meet his target. It was some wonder he hadn’t hurt himself with his bare feet crashing against Anders’ bony body. They all knew from experience how sharp the mage’s limbs could be against flesh. Fenris’ breath came out in rough pants and his lip curled upward revealing the sharp edges of his crooked teeth. Hawke wondered if he’d try to bite the mage if he let him go. He really did look his namesake then, all bristled and snarling. When he managed to catch his breath again, Fenris lunged toward Anders again, almost breaking free of Hawke’s locked hold. “Your punishment—“ His arm swung out at his captor and collided with Hawke’s pauldron. Metal crashed against metal with a horrible clang. If he hadn’t injured himself kicking Anders, this blow must have at least jammed a finger or two. If it hurt, Fenris didn’t let it show. If anything, he looked even more incensed. “Your punishment is that you have to live. Every agonizing day you live, you atone!”

Realization came rushing through Hawke. Fenris likely hadn’t done anything, but Anders did. He’d try to do the one thing they’d never forgive him for. Renewing his efforts, he dragged the elf back and shoved him toward the horses. Fenris didn’t go of his own volition, but when he saw Hawke crouching over Anders, he seemed to run out of steam. He fell back toward the path, watching from a distance with a furious and heartrendingly hurt expression on his face. Once his assailant was out of range, Anders let his arms fall from his face. He blinked with furrowed brows and didn’t quite look at Hawke. There was a dark line of blood crusted with dirt drawn across his forehead, likely a product of the many rocks on the ground paired with a few fierce kicks to the belly. Hawke shoved an arm under the mage’s armpit and hauled him up. Gloved fingers studied the cut. 

Anders had tried to kill himself and he didn’t know what to say. 

“Your ribs alright?” Hawke asked instead, eyes still trained on the gash. There was elf root growing all along the path, so it would be a simple task to chew a few leaves and press them into the cut. At least this wound would be easily healed.

Anders nodded, his gaze still averted. He seemed to know everything Hawke was thinking, but neither could get the words out. Instead Hawke stared, trying to catch Anders’ eyes, but the mage seemed to be far more interested in a mess of weeds growing not far away. The silence grew and grew, lingering like an unwanted guest. Suicide. He’d seen it before, with Karl at Anders’ hand. This was something else entirely; this was a different kind of pain than Tranquility. If he couldn’t feel anything at all, Anders wouldn’t be here now.

“L’appel du vide.”

That was enough to shock Hawke out of his thoughts and he refocused on the face before him. Anders was staring at his chest now, but it was an improvement. “It’s an Orlesian term. ‘The call of the void.’ I just…got too close, that’s all.” Anders continued. Hawke couldn’t even tell if that was bullshit or not, not with how soft and empty Anders’ voice sounded. He could see it though, Anders wandering too close to the edge of the outcrop, looking too entranced by the void for Fenris’ comfort. Maybe he leaned forward a little too far, and Fenris grabbed him by the collar, absolutely terrified. The elf’s reaction to anything he didn’t like was always anger, so maybe it was that simple. Hawke doubted it though. Nothing about how Anders carried himself now said it was a mistake.

A rock went skidding by them, and Hawke looked over his shoulder to see Fenris kicking at the ground. Another rock went by and he refocused. He brushed his thumb over the scrape on Anders’ forehead and started softly, “You scared him.” Until they were trapped in the Gallows, none of them would have thought it possible for Fenris to be scared for another person. Now he must feel fear just traveling with them. “He shouldn’t have done that, but you…” What could he say? How could he take away Anders’ pain and make this all right? He couldn’t undo the past. Hell, he couldn’t even save his home. Somewhere along the way, maybe he could have done something different and prevented all of this. He failed all of them.

A sudden rush of determination launched him toward Anders. His hands cupped the mage’s cheeks and he pressed their foreheads together. He rocked them with eyes clenched shut and stifled a sob. “You can’t go,” came his rough command. “We need you.” That was the best he could offer. He wanted to joke, say anything to make this situation anything but what it was, but the words wouldn't come out. There might not be any room for forgiveness, but even with this horrible mess, they all had a future still. He couldn’t let Anders give that up, even if it might have been kinder than making him live with himself. Beyond that, there was nothing he could say.

When dawn stretches into morning stretches into day, Hawke finally pulls himself free of Anders and gently calls back to a still dozing Fenris. The elf seems to have worn himself out with last night’s activities, and is sleeping far later than usual. It’s good for him, Hawke thinks. Fenris always has dark bags under his eyes and his grumpiness is only made worse by exhaustion. Still, they’ve got to get a move on at some point. They can’t stay here another night. 

When Hawke calls out again, Fenris sits straight up, but his eyes refuse to open. His hair sticks up, having dried strangely after his bath last night. His laziness must be a sign of trust, if he can recognize his voice and tone and know it is safe not to open his eyes. Above all, Hawke thinks it’s cute. Even completely blind, Fenris knows him well enough to swat away the hand reaching up to pat his cheek. The elf wrinkles his nose and starts to tip back. The smell of bread waving in front of his nose is enough to lure his eyes open to green slits. He grabs the offered slice and gobbles it down greedily while Anders flags down the innkeeper’s daughter out the doorway and asks for whatever food can be spared. She’s paid nicely with a few coins and doesn’t complain as she trots down the stairs.

After a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and stale bread, Anders spreads out the map. He circles the area around Andoral’s reach with his fingertip and explains that they’ll have to steer clear of that region. Things are still too tense, and they can’t risk getting swept up in any lingering conflict at the old fortress. The way Fenris frowns while strapping on his gauntlet suggests he thinks Anders would be perfectly happy to be swept up with the mages, but Fenris is happy to avoid it.

They set out far later in the day than intended, but they were planning to sleep under the stars after they left town anyway. This is likely the only town for miles, and staying in an inn is something of a luxury.

The mage leads them into forest-covered hills and the small town that had sheltered them disappears from sight.

This part of Thedas, wherever they are, is scarcely populated. The roads run wild with weeds and young tree shoots. Some parts of the road vanish entirely, only to pick up some yards away with thinner grass and rocks marking its path. The horses pass through easily enough, despite the occasional lack of path. They follow it up into hills covered with those same white trees they saw in the mountains. The trees sway and groan in the breeze pushing at their leaves.

Hawke hums softly, his eyes upturned watching flat round leaves twirl and turn, tossed by the wind. Odd balls of purple flowers sprout up around the tree trunks, first in little patches, then covering the forest floor with their dark long lean leaves and stalks tipped with a burst of flowers. Saplings peek out between the leaves every now and then, an indication that the plants have been relatively undisturbed for years.

The travelers are so absorbed in thoughts, or in Hawke’s case the sights, that they lose track of the trail. If there ever was a road that continued into the hills, it is buried in overgrowth.

Hours later, there is no knowing where they came from and where they are going. They can only continue forward.

Their pace slows when Fenris’ horse trips over an unseen obstacle on the ground. When the elf climbs down from the saddle to check his horse’s leg, he too stumbles over an ancient stone step hidden in a mess of grass and flowers. When he pushes aside the weeds, he finds a flat stone with ridges of worn design covering its surface.

“Imperium,” he murmurs, running his fingers over the pattern. For a moment, he almost seems nostalgic for his home country, but then his head snaps up and he glances around the area. Another corner appears a few feet away, and Fenris pulls his horse over to it by the reins. Anders and Hawke guide their horses wide of the steps, and lacking anything better to do, follow Fenris as he hops from step to step. Each stone slab is a small victory for the elf, though some are easier to find that others. A few are cracked and broken, fully integrated with the earth. Others seem nearly perfectly preserved under the protection of the trees and weeds. Despite the elf’s very angry and bitter memories associated with Tevinter, he inspects each slab with reverence. The few words he finds carved into the stone are indiscernible, being far too old and unfamiliar to make any sense to him, and he doubts either of his companions can read ancient Tevene. The name of this road and where it leads are both lost to the centuries.

It’s slow going, following the path step by step, with all of their eyes trained to the ground. When Fenris loses the trail, they stop to for lunch. Anders unwraps a chunk of yellow cheese and slices off a piece for each of them while Hawke fishes a few apples from his pack. The elf has an unusual love for apples, perhaps due to the lack of fruit in his diet as a slave. Were he a lesser man, he might actually hum in delight with each crisp bite. He restrains himself instead and savors every mouthful in silence. Anders seems to have a little less respect for quiet, and chatters his way through lunch. He tells them about the magic behind Imperial construction, suggesting that the stones may have even had seals on them at some point. His enthusiasm wanes slightly when Fenris points out that there is nothing magical about slavery, and that the blood of those with no choice fueled the old empire. Hawke pretends he hears none of this old argument and instead wonders aloud what is at the end of the steps. The trees are so tall around them that it is difficult to see beyond them.

When Fenris starts searching for the path again, leaving Anders and Hawke to finish their meals, Hawke looks up into the branches. “It’s almost like the trees are breathing together,” he observes. “You said these are all one big tree, right?”

Anders wraps the cheese in waxed parchment tied together with string and shoves it into his bag. “Well, there are many trees in this forest, but many of them are connected below ground, yes.” He follows Hawke’s gaze upwards. “It’s hard to tell which ones are connected, but in autumn, when they change colors, you can tell them apart by color. All of the trees in one family change the same color at the same time. This group around us,” his hand waves absently, “Might turn red, while another group over there might be yellow.”

“So they look like a quilt from far away.”

Anders laughs. “Yes, like a quilt.”

“Ei!” Fenris calls from a few yards away, effectively ending the conversation. “This way!” Anders’ laugh is cut short with a groan about his chafed thighs and sore feet. Even as Hawke sympathizes, Fenris barks at them to hurry up. 

The further into the forest they travel, the more dense the trees and flowers become. Fenris wades through the vegetation, feeling for the stone steps with his feet. As the trail leads them into a dip between two hills, it straightens and flattens into a proper stone road. It is still hidden beneath the undergrowth, but Fenris no longer worries about tripping over every slab.

This solid path goes on for miles. Fenris ties his horse to Hawke’s and continues on foot, following the cold feel of sandstone under his toes. The same white trees and purple flowers follow them all the while, and even Hawke grows bored of the view. Each passing tree feeds into dull hypnotism, and soon enough he’s lost track of how far they’ve gone and how long they’ve been traveling. Their elvhen leader is dauntless, and they do not rest again until the sun has sunk low enough to cast gold over the forest. It’s nice, Hawke thinks, having somewhere to go now. They might not know where that somewhere is, but at least they’re not wandering aimlessly away from all civilization like they’d been doing before.

When they follow between two massive boulders, likely older than the road itself, they’re nearly blinded by the sudden burst of light breaking through the otherwise shaded forest. Fenris shields his eyes with his gauntlet and squints into the brightness. As all of their eyes adjust, as monumental pillared structure comes into view. The sun shines through massive open windows and the towering arch at the top of the building. Parts of the wall have been taken over delicate winding vines, laced together like scaffolding. The rest is a dull grey sandstone, worn but in tact after centuries of neglect. Its size rivals the Kirkwall Chantry, before it was obliterated. In many ways, it is even more majestic with its intricate spandrel carvings and caryatids fitting in for pillars. A spire peeks out from somewhere beyond the front wall. It occurs to Fenris that they should not be able to see so much of the interior, and he supposes that the part roof must have collapsed at some point. How fitting.

Behind him, a chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” catch his ears and he nearly smiles. The architecture of modern Tevinter is just as impressive, due in part to the nation’s dedication to preservation. Buildings like this could be found in any major city, and would be in infinitely better shape. They all have the same story. Magic may have expedited the process, but dozens of slaves still died for each building, be it for blood magic or by moving stones until exhaustion claimed them. Still, he supposes he can’t blame his companions. Not even the magisters build anything like this anymore, and for this part of Thedas it truly is a breathtaking find.

“It would be wise to camp here. There are likely sound parts of the structure that could provide shelter.” There is little point in mourning the slaves whose backs it was built on ages ago. He’s more interested in the saving the ones still alive. Perhaps once things have calmed down a little and they find somewhere to call home, he will venture out and take up his old hobby of hunting and murdering slavers. 

Anders immediately brightens at the prospect of sleeping somewhere dry and relatively warm again that night, and spurs his horse up the stairway leading into the building. Hawke laughs and chases behind him, leaving Fenris without a horse. The elf frowns and continues on foot. He’s made it this far, there is no reason to stop now.

The inside of the building is just as beautiful as the outside, even with massive pieces of what once was part of the ceiling spread across the ground. Life has found away to move around the destruction, and the entire interior is layered with the bundles of purple flowers. They pop up between every brick and every block. At first glance, they almost seem like a carpet covering the floor. Only the fallen stone and the stairs leading up to a now nonexistent second floor are bare. Any furniture that may have been left behind has long since been eaten by the wilderness, leaving behind a cold skeleton. 

The side hallways seem more intact, though the flowers follow through them as well. After dismounting his horse and leaving it to wander the main room, Anders passes through one and finds what must have been a courtyard once. A stained stone dragon with a trail of green spilling from its mouth sits on a pedestal in a ring lined with suns and stars. The design is rough and angular, an indication of its age. Perhaps it is an Old God. Anders isn’t familiar enough with Tevinter to know which it could be. Due to its stone base, the fountain itself has not filled with flowers, though it is dark and grimy where the water had once been. Dried vines curl up the sides, clutching at where water hand once been held captive after a strong rain.

Hawke and Fenris, sans horses, appear at the end of the hallway after Anders wipes dirt and dust away from one of the many benches spread throughout the open area. He perches at the end and waves them over.

“We could just stay here,” he says lightly when they sit beside him, Fenris at the other end and Hawke in the middle. “It’s beautiful, even if it is a little busted up.” He slouches forward with his elbows on his knees and lets his head tip back. The dwindling light washes over his face and warms him. He hasn’t enjoyed this kind of peace since…he can’t honestly remember when. They’ve been running for so long, but before this, he’d been running on his own. Even in Darktown, in his clinic and in his element, even in Hightown, in Hawke’s mansion, he’d never felt at ease in Kirkwall. Perhaps that was part of the enigma of the place, or perhaps he simply had too much waiting for him. The Templars breathing down his neck certainly didn’t help.

“You can’t stay.” Fenris’ voice is dull and deadpan. He says it like this is the most foolish thing Anders has ever said, like he can’t even begin to list every problem with this plan.

“I know!” Anders snaps, not in the mood for Fenris’ pessimism. They would not be safe here for long. Someone would always find them. Even if they did linger, there would be no access to other people. With no one to trade with, they’d have to rely solely on hunting and gathering, neither of which appears to be bountiful in this area. They’d only seen a few mangy conies all day, with no hint of anything larger. Still, to be so far away from the rest of the world, they might actually be alone here. “I know, but I…It was a nice thought, wasn’t it?” He sighs. All at once he feels all of the exhaustion of their travels bear down on his shoulders. He’s so tired, and there is no end in sight. At this moment, just the thought of getting up and starting again brings bitter tears to his eyes.

Fenris must feel it too, because he says nothing. No one says anything for a long time, not when the sun finally dips behind the back wall and not when the air chills around them.

When the stars brighten above them, Hawke slings an arm around Anders’ hip and Fenris’ shoulders. “It’s still better than Kirkwall,” he murmurs into the night air.

And it is. Nothing is on fire, there is no war, no templar lurking around the corner, no Circle.

But they know they cannot stay.