Chapter Text
The trek up Sundermount has always been dangerous, but the swirling snowstorm makes the journey even more treacherous and unpredictable. Hawke’s armored boots provide little traction on the icy path, and in some places, the snow is nearly up to his knees. The only thing working in his favor is that the mountain creatures and nearby raiders have both been driven away by the inclement weather.
“Anders!” Hawke yells out, but his voice doesn’t carry as far through the thick flurry of snow. His fingers are already getting stiff from the cold, made worse by the iron bullseye lantern he’s carrying. Even with his leather gloves and long woolen cloak, he has the growing feeling that he, too, is gravely unprepared for this blizzard. Even Kirkwall gets cold, but never this wet nor windy, and the mirrored lantern can only do so much in this weather at night.
“Annn-ddeerrss!” he tries again, cupping his hand around his mouth before blowing hot breath across his fingertips. Moisture begins to seep through his boots to his woolen stockings, bringing a sense of deep cold that he hasn’t felt since his childhood in Lothering. An even more chilling feeling of hopelessness begins to fill his chest, and a voice in his head tells him to turn back.
But he can’t convince himself to return to Kirkwall. He won’t leave the summit without Anders.
He trudges a bit further, squinting in the light of the lantern dangling from his fist before remembering there was a good spot for embrium just up the path. His heart skips a beat when his eyes settle on a lump in the snow in the middle of the clearing. It’s too small, but he still pushes it tentatively, shaking the snow off.
It’s Anders’ basket, half-full of harvested herbs wilting inside.
‘Thank the fucking Maker .’ He’s in the right place, at least.
Spirits renewed, Hawke desperately searches the area, his voice growing hoarse with how many times he calls Anders’ name. ‘ He can’t be too far from here,’ he thinks, holding the man’s basket in one frozen white-knuckled hand and his lantern in the other.
There! Just there on the other side, a feather sticks out from a vaguely body-sized mound of snow. Hawke lunges toward it, nearly dropping the lantern into the snow as he falls to his knees.
Shoveling through the snow with his hands, Hawke quickly uncovers the mage curled in on himself, wearing no more layers than his usual green robe with a half-empty bottle of lyrium clutched in his hand. Anders’s skin is deathly pale, right down to the slight blue tinge of his lips.
Hawke tears a glove off with his teeth, ignoring how his own beard has frozen and reaching beneath the mage’s collar to feel for a pulse. It’s weak but it’s there, and that fact alone makes him let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Though he made it in time, now he’s tasked with getting them both somewhere safe and out of the harsh conditions. There’s no possible way he can carry Anders all the way down to Kirkwall—not in the knee-deep snow and the midnight darkness with only his lantern to light the way. He’s not even certain if Anders would survive that kind of journey to the city.
No, he needs to find somewhere safe to get the mage warm— now .
Thankfully, like the Wounded Coast, Sundermount is littered with a labyrinth of caverns and caves, and they aren’t terribly far from the nearest one. Hawke slides his glove back over his now wet fingers before snaking his arms underneath Anders, who doesn’t react at all to being jostled.
It’s far too easy to hoist the mage up into his arms—though Anders is tall, he is thin and light like a bird. Hawke frowns, wondering if Anders is getting enough to eat, or if he’s giving his food away like he does with most of his more worldly possessions. If they make it out of this, Hawke vows to arrange regular supply deliveries to the clinic, both for medicine and food.
It’s a difficult climb to the cave, especially with the deep snow and his nearly frozen friend, but he does it. He has to, for both their sakes.
The cave is a welcomed respite from the wind that whips the snowflakes around like knives, though it’s still far too cold for a man who just spent who knows how many hours in the snow. He carefully lays Anders down on a flat of bedrock before retreating further into the cave with his lantern. The Maker must have blessed him today, as he finds a broken barrel—not an abundance of wood, but it’s dry and it’ll burn. He tears it apart with the remains of his strength, stacking the boards up in a small pyramid.
“Come on,” Hawke says, swearing under his breath. He fumbles with the flint he keeps in his pocket, trying again to light the wood. He’s lit a hundred fires in his life! Why is this time, of all times, being so difficult? He glances toward Anders—still unearthly pale, still unmoving—and strikes the steel of his knife on the flint once more. This time the spark catches, and he feels far too much relief for someone whose work has just begun.
Hawke wracks his brain, trying to remember what to do in such a situation. He recalls that one winter in Ferelden, where Carver—Maker rest his soul—stormed off into the woods after they had a childish argument. Hawke and his father spent hours looking everywhere for him, and it was a relief once their father carried his unconscious body through the door of their little homestead.
Gently, he pulls Anders closer to the burgeoning campfire. When the man doesn’t stir, Hawke reaches for his pulse again for reassurance but gets distracted by how the mage’s robe collar is frozen. In fact, all of Anders’ clothes have been soaked through and frozen solid.
Cheeks turning even redder, Hawke realizes what he must do. His hands drop to the clasps that hold Anders’ robes closed. The metal is painful to touch, but Hawke makes his stiff fingers work swiftly, peeling the icy material from the mage. He wrestles the robe off Anders’ shoulders, wary of accidentally hurting him. It’s a relief once he’s tossed it aside, but to his dismay, Anders’ tunic is also wet and cold.
“Hrgh,” Hawke grumbles, reaching for the hem of the long torn tunic. “This wasn’t how I pictured taking your clothes off.”
He strips Anders down to his smalls—mercifully dry—and keeps his eyes trained on Anders’ face the whole time. The last thing he needs is for Anders to wake while disrobing him; Hawke would probably never emotionally recover from it, his raging affections for the man be damned. He lays Anders’ clothes out to dry as close to the campfire as he dares without risking them catching on fire. A naked journey down the mountain wouldn’t bode well for either of them either.
After draping his heavy overcloak over the mage’s body, Hawke checks on Anders’ progress by placing his palm against the man’s face, feeling the clammy skin of his cheek. It troubles him how the fire hasn’t helped like he’d hoped, and he worries he isn’t doing enough to help Anders recover. Hawke considers other ways he could help warm Anders up in the remote mountain cave, but only one way comes to mind. Curse the Maker.
“Please don’t wake up just yet,” Hawke begs, starting to undo the belts and straps of his armor.
He strips down equally, removing his undershirt, trousers, and socks since they’re cold and damp from trudging through the snow. Lying down beside Anders, he hesitates a little before gingerly gathering the mage into his arms and arranging them so Anders is splayed across Hawke’s broad chest, their legs tangling together beneath the heavy cloak. Anders’ bare skin is worryingly cold against his, colder than Hawke’s ever felt on a still-living human being before. He pulls his coat over the two of them, hoping to trap the heat of his own body inside to speed the process along.
With Anders safely tucked against him, Hawke thinks back to when he was a child, when their father put Carver in front of the hearth and fretted over him until he woke. It took hours for him to regain consciousness without knowing any healing magic, and Hawke could recall the uncertainty in Malcolm’s voice when he asked if his brother would be alright. He feels a wave of sympathy for his father now, finally understanding the pain of not knowing if a loved one so frozen would survive.
‘We were lucky,’ Malcolm told him once it was clear Carver was waking, and Hawke can only hope he gets lucky too. But his father sought out tomes of healing magic soon after, and Hawke doesn’t have that luxury.
An hour passes—maybe two, Hawke can’t be sure. It’s still dark outside the cave and the snowstorm’s thick clouds obscure the moons’ position in the sky. Though Anders hasn't stirred, he’s breathing and his pulse is a touch more steady. Hawke counts those things among his blessings from the Maker, but there’s still a chance… still a chance Anders might not make it…
“I didn’t—” Hawke begins, his voice catching on his own words. Anders can’t hear him, so he might as well speak the things on his mind. “I didn’t want to wait this long before telling you.”
Maker, even when Anders isn’t awake to hear him, it’s difficult to confess the feelings he’s kept inside for the past few years. He’s held a torch for the man ever since they met in the Darktown clinic, and it’s a crush that has only grown since that fateful day.
“I suppose it was impossible for me not to fall for you,” Hawke continues, wetting his chapped lips with his tongue. “You’re handsome—strikingly so, might I add—and an ex-Grey Warden of all things.”
He glances down at Anders, pleased to see some color slowly replace the previous icy pallor of his face. “Not only that, but you’re a mage… like my father… like my sister. A healer, too, risking it all to help people, to rescue a past lover.”
He snaps his mouth closed after that statement, hit with a tinge of jealousy followed immediately by immense guilt that they couldn’t get there faster. Anders was so hopeful that Karl could be rescued, and to see his hopes brutally crushed by the hands of the Chantry hurt Hawke more than he could say. He felt for them both, but couldn’t imagine what it was like for Anders to kill the very person he came all the way to Kirkwall for.
“I’m sorry,” Hawke says with a sigh, tipping his head back because he could no longer look at Anders, unconscious or not. “I wish I could have done more to help you, I wish we could have been quicker. We could have saved him—”
‘You could have been happy’ remains unsaid.
Hawke watches the shadows dance across the cave ceiling for a time, pondering not only what has happened but what might happen if he were slightly more courageous in his personal affairs. He can face hordes of darkspawn in the Deep Roads and a dragon in the Bone Pit, but confessing love? If only.
He sets his jaw, gathering the courage it shouldn’t take to give words to what’s been in his heart all this time.
“If you wake,” Hawke begins, trying his best not to consider the alternative, “I’ll ask you on a date. We’ll go for supper at one of those fancy Hightown bistros where they serve different wines with every dish—and I’ll tell you everything: how much I adore you, how I’ve watched you for years be the most selfless man in Kirkwall, how stupid you are to go picking herbs during a blizzard... But most importantly, I’d tell you how I want to take you home and tuck you into my warm bed, but not until I’ve ravished you in every way possible.”
Hawke’s cheeks heat up after he realizes just how brazen he was with his confession. He risks a glance at Anders, who still rests quietly against his chest. His face is less strained, more peaceful like he’s simply dreaming. It’s clearer now that Anders is warming up at a steady pace, that he’s going to make it through to morning. Hawke has to remind himself not to squeeze the man too hard, but he wants to hold him closer than ever before. Anders is a survivor of so many things, strong mentally and physically, and Hawke hopes to grow stronger beside him for many more years.
Morning comes a little while later, less than an hour or so by Hawke’s estimates, and it’s more beautiful than ever. The snowstorm has let up, only a few flakes float to join the undisturbed blanket covering the mountain. The clouds have parted in some places, allowing beams of sunlight to stream through. Sunrise on Sundermount has always been stunning, but today’s is particularly special.
Hawke’s early-morning musing is cut short when Anders stirs, mumbling something incomprehensible against his chest before stretching out like a cat after a long nap. He sighs softly before amber eyes blink open, taking a moment to focus.
Then it strikes both of them of their position—nearly naked, tangled together under Hawke’s winter cloak next to the fire’s smoldering embers.
“Uh,” Hawke starts, a million different things to say coming to mind but settling on one. “How are you feeling?”
Anders glances around the cave for a few moments, taking in the situation he’s suddenly found himself in. “I’m tired,” he says finally, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What happened? Where are we?”
“A cave near the summit of Sundermount; I found you nearly dead in the snow.”
It’s then that Hawke thinks the memories start coming back to Anders, as the man remains quiet and looks away. “You came all the way up here? For me?” Anders asks, the crests of his cheeks dusting pink as he sinks a little below the fur collar of Hawke’s cloak. “How did you know where I was?”
“I put the pieces together,” Hawke replies, leaving out just how long it took him to realize and the time he spent searching both the clinic and the mountain pass for him. “I brought you here, made sure to keep you warm,” he adds, hoping to explain away why their bodies are so close, pressed skin to skin.
“So you saved my life… again.” Anders says quietly, more to himself than to Hawke. “I didn’t know it was going to snow so much, and I suppose I burned myself out of mana trying to keep myself warm.”
The explanation makes sense—both Anders staying alive for so long in such harsh conditions, and the empty lyrium bottle he was found clutching in his frozen hand.
“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Hawke says while pushing himself up, his coat pooling at his waist. He reaches for his trousers, pulling them over his legs before standing up to fasten them. “It looks like the storm’s let up. We should head down while it’s still clear, since the weather could turn for the worse at any moment.”
Anders nods, turning toward his own clothes laid out to dry.
A few minutes later, Hawke stands at the entrance to the cave, adjusting his heavy cloak over his shoulders. Behind him, in the dying warmth of the campfire’s embers, Anders shimmies his robes on. The layers cover his pale skin and thin frame, hopefully enough to keep him somewhat warm on the trek back down to Kirkwall. Hawke wonders if he’ll get to see Anders like that again, under better and more consenting circumstances. Suddenly he’s reminded of the things he said during the night, a blush rising to his face as he battles with himself over the promises he made to an unconscious man.
Anders pushes himself up to stand, wavering slightly before his legs give way beneath him. Hawke is fast enough to catch the mage, tumbling into his arms before he hits the cold stone of the cave floor.
“I guess I’m not quite strong enough yet,” Anders says in a half-laugh, lightly pushing himself away to try again. “Wait, whoa—!”
Hawke hauls Anders into his arms, carrying him like a groom might carry a bride. “Then rely on my strength to get us back.”
Anders blushes but doesn’t argue, instead looping his arms around Hawke’s neck. “I have some blankets and potions back at the clinic.”
“First, a warm bath at the estate,” Hawke says, hoping Anders wouldn’t try to negotiate. He wants nothing more but to see Anders taken care of, warm and fed with a soft bed to rest after such an ordeal. He’s certain the mage can heal himself, but Hawke would gladly provide him anything and everything else. “And a hot meal, if you wouldn’t mind.”
It’s only when they were nearing the Dalish camp that Anders spoke again. “You still owe me that date.”
Hawke nearly loses his footing in the deep snow, staggering to keep them both upright. “Y-you heard that?”
“Yes,” Anders replies with a soft laugh, “and I won’t let you forget it!”
Hawke grins. “I won’t!”