Chapter Text
“Be careful, dear,” Leandra says from her plush chair near the hearth, where she’s relaxed since supper. There’s an open book across her lap, and Hawke wonders if it’s one authored by his esteemed dwarven friend.
“Yes, Mother,” Hawke assures her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. He puts his arm around her with a squeeze, looking down at her tired eyes—it seems like no matter how much he provides for her, she’s still pained and burdened by the many losses over the years. “Please get some rest tonight; I’ll only be gone for the evening.”
Though he’s dressed in his casual leathers and fur-lined cloak for a leisurely night of cards at the Hanged Man, Hawke still sheaths his daggers across his back and tucks another knife into his boot. Topside streets should be safe this early in the evening, but it’s the way home that he can’t be sure of. Bandits tend to show their faces after midnight, pickpocketing the drunkards passed out in the alleyways or cornering the poor house servants on their way home from Hightown.
Hawke takes the shortcut to Darktown through the estate’s cellar, entering the sewers near Anders’ clinic. The air is surprisingly chilly for the city’s underground, causing the tips of Hawke’s ears to redden from the biting wind that whips through the city’s poor ventilation. On his way, he notices that more of the homeless refugees have blankets—some stitched together in a patchwork similar to his dear friend’s robes. He smiles, face flushing from personally knowing the source of such needed philanthropy.
He knows from experience that Anders won’t come to play cards unless personally cajoled, though these days it doesn’t take much more than an invitation and a smile for the mage to join him. Near the beginning of their friendship, Anders would often decline such outings unless they were necessary, citing that he had too much work to do. Cleaning cloth bandages, making potions, or preparing ingredients, always keeping himself busy even when the clinic isn’t actively taking patients. The healer’s kindness and generosity knows no bounds, and Hawke can only admire his good deeds from afar—a little too hesitant to let his affections for the mage be known.
‘Anders works too hard,’ Hawke thinks while shoving his cold hands into his cloak’s pockets, ‘ it isn’t good for him.’ Hopefully he can help Anders relax with friends and drink, if only for a few hours. He’d give so much more—a luxurious bed to sleep in, a roof in Hightown over his head, three warm meals a day, anything he could wish for—if only Anders would accept it. Meanwhile, Hawke keeps the clinic’s donation bin well supplied for which he knows Anders is thankful.
The lanterns aren’t lit as Hawke approaches the clinic, which isn’t unusual for this time of day. Most people who need treatment come in the mornings, or afternoon if need be. The worst emergencies tend to come in the middle of the night, so there is a lull for a few hours where Anders can be spared.
However, the clinic’s doors are locked and there’s no light coming from within. He knocks once, twice, thrice but there’s no answer. It’s strange, considering Anders spends most of his time inside the clinic when not accompanying Hawke. At this time of day, the man can usually be found preparing for the following day.
Hawke takes to his knee to pick the locks, just to be certain, but there’s no one inside once he jimmies the door open. The clinic is entirely deserted, even the back storeroom where Anders sleeps. The only light to be seen is that from one of Thedas’ two moons streaming through the high windows, where he can see Sundermount rising from the east, its peak covered in dark swirling clouds.
‘Odd,’ Hawke thinks, not remembering a single time when Anders couldn’t be found in the clinic or storeroom. Perhaps Anders is already at the Hanged Man? Or assisting some Darktown citizen with an emergency? It’s too late for him to be running errands, and not a single merchant would be open this time of the evening.
♦
The warm air of the Hanged Man is a relief from the chill, though also accompanied by the stench of spilt ale and faint vomit. It’s a familiar smell, if not quite on the side of comforting. A few patrons offer up a hearty “Hawke!” when he arrives, and a few other regulars greet him personally on his way back to Varric’s suite.
“You’re just in time for the first round,” Varric says, gesturing to Isabela who skillfully shuffles the cards between her fingertips.
Hawke looks around the table—Varric, Isabela, Merrill, Fenris, even Aveline came to play. But still no sight of Anders, like he had hoped.
“What, didn’t bring Blondie with you this time?” Varric asks, smirking and raising a suggestive but knowing brow. “Rather surprising.”
Hawke frowns, waving off the dwarf’s subtle tease over his crush. “No, I was about to ask. He wasn’t at the clinic. Anyone know where he is?”
“Perhaps he’s doing his shopping!” Merrill suggests, eyes lighting up with the notion.
“It’s nearly nine at night, kitten.”
The young elf deflates, quickly realizing the flaw in her logic. “Oh, well then…”
“He probably has his own business to attend to,” Aveline suggests, not seeming too concerned for their local healer.
Fenris clears his throat, already beginning to pick through his hand of cards. “If we have to start without him, then we shall. Makes no difference.”
“I suppose so,” Hawke relents, lowering himself to the seat to Varric’s right. He can’t help but to feel a little disappointed that he won’t get to enjoy an evening with the man who’s held his attention for years. He had plans to sit beside him and flirt a little, maybe enough to see Anders blush and laugh.
There’s always next time—though he truly does wonder where Anders could be.
The night goes well, though Hawke loses more money than he wins. At least it goes to his friends, and due to the success of the Deep Roads expedition, he has more of it than he knows what to do with. Though the conversations drift anywhere from wild personal stories to collective business dealings, Hawke’s mind always distantly remains on Anders, wishing he were there. Hawke only saw him a few days prior, but already he misses the man’s smile and the timbre of his voice.
A creeping sense of worry grows over the evening, and it’s only when Hawke walks Merrill home that it comes to a head. Neither his friends nor the citizens of Darktown have seen Anders today, and there’s something about that which doesn’t sit right with him.
Before he leaves to walk Merrill back to the alienage, he spots Tomwise near the door, seated with a few fellow merchants.
“Good evening, Tomwise,” Hawke says, nodding his head at the other merchants he can’t quite remember though he does business with just about everyone. Merrill echoes his greeting from his side.
“Likewise, Hawke,” the elf says in return, subtly raising his partially-filled tankard. “Do you need something? I’ll be open late tomorrow morning, as you might predict.”
Hawke chuckles softly, though it dies quickly in his mouth. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to ask if you’ve seen Anders anywhere.”
“Ah, the healer?” Tomwise shakes his head. “Doesn’t come by often. He’s got no need for poison, and doesn’t buy his herbs from me—picks them himself up on the mount. But no, haven’t seen him.”
“Thanks anyway,” Hawke says after letting out a heavy breath, waving goodbye to the table of increasingly intoxicated merchants.
Cold hands shoved in his cloak pockets once more, Hawke accompanies Merrill on her way home. The main streets are thankfully quiet at this time of night, and hopefully just the sight of the polished daggers on his back are enough to warn anyone who might have nefarious ideas.
“Awfully chilly out tonight, isn’t it?” Merrill says, gazing up at the cloudy sky. “It almost makes me consider wearing shoes! Almost…”
“Yeah,” Hawke agrees mindlessly, still worrying about his other mage friend. Merrill has been chattering endlessly since they left the tavern, but thankfully she can carry on a pleasant conversation without too much input.
“Speaking of which, I’d like to ask you a favor,” she continues. “The clan is considering moving further north since it’s been terribly snowy up on Sundermount this winter. There isn’t much to hunt right now, and they can’t harvest enough vegetation with all the snow.”
Hawke hums. “Tomwise doesn’t seem to have any supply issues.”
“No, but he’s got connections for when he can’t do it himself,” Merrill explains, a little wistful. “The Dalish don’t trade with the cities, or at least not when they don’t have to. But with the winters becoming so harsh, I’d just like to visit my clan before they move on after this blizzard—”
Something connects in Hawke’s brain like lightning to a rod. He stops and turns to her, eyes wide. “Merrill, what did you just say?”
“The clan is thinking about moving someplace warmer—”
“No, a what?”
“... A blizzard?” Merrill offers, not quite following Hawke’s sudden change in thought.
Suddenly, Hawke knows where Anders must be, though he desperately hopes he’s wrong. His heart shudders in his chest, his body kickstarting into action as he spins to leave. “I have to go!”
Hawke sprints toward the eastern end of Darktown, down a few crowded alleyways and squeezing through a few shortcuts. He hopes, from the bottom of his heart, to see the clinic’s lanterns finally lit, or light coming from beneath the door at the very least. When neither appears, his lockpick fumbles and slips a few times as he opens the lock once again, slamming the door open.
The clinic looks just as it did the night before, except this time Hawke is scouring the place in search of a single object: Anders’ gathering basket.
But it’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
Hawke’s heart drops in his chest, his eyes drifting across the empty room toward the large window overlooking the sea. He spots the clouded peak, heavily shrouded in the aforementioned snowstorm.
“Oh no.”